Past—

Avoidance was a fickle fiend. Especially when the man who Qian Meng wanted to skirt around was excellent at finding him. They'd interacted with each other for little more than a month, and yet Lei Hua seemed to know the prince just as well, if not better, than he knew himself. It was a strange realization, mostly because it was not unwelcome, instead filling his chest with steady warmth.

But even the cultivator could not find the prince when he spider-monkeyed to the roof of the palace and sat atop the tallest spire. The wind was whipping this afternoon. Capturing and tossing Qian Meng's dark as sin hair away from his face. He squinted, eyes watering at the corners with every powerful gust. His weight shifted, toes straining where they curled to keep him in a crouch several hundred feet in the air. The prince had spent most of the afternoon up here, and his muscles were growing tired.

But he didn't want to leave just yet, because below him was the entire world. Or, at the very least, his entire world. The Pondlightian Empire was mostly wildlife and spirit grass farms glittering stark silver in the afternoon sun. He could see them for miles and miles. Along with the stonework most middle-class family residences were built upon, chimneys puffing smoke. If he focused, Qian Meng swore he could see the faint, glittering glow of Achak Temple high in the Dolsomin Mountains.

"Second prince!" An iron voice called. "Where is that boy? When I get my hands on him, I swear. . ."

The rest of the general's angry rant was lost to the sea of voices below him. He sighed, letting go of the spire to drop onto the curved roof, sliding to the edge to sit there, dangling his feet to sway with the lanterns. The center courtyard was thriving with palace servants. Tables lined the cobblestone set with embroidered ivory linens, fine porcelain dining ware with flecks of gold, and centerpieces overflowing with pale pink peonies and branches of plum blossoms. It was all very immaculate, and he almost couldn't believe he'd been invited to dine with his family this evening to celebrate the Clear and Bright of spring.

If he didn't know better, he'd assume Lei Hua had something to do with the gruff invitation he received two days ago. But he didn't really know because Qian Meng had refused to speak to him, even train or meditate with him, for over a week now. He was holding firm on his belief that this was entirely inappropriate, whatever shimmered between them. Lei Hua might've embarrassed him with his sudden confession of enjoying Qian Meng's company, but it did little to change his mind. Well, mostly. He wasn't sure why he'd told the man he would think about it. The words had slipped from his mouth that night in a panic, his entire body bleating to get away.

"Cretin, come out!" The general roared, tilting his face toward the sky.

The force of it rattled the delicate crystal glassware swaying on the tables, and several servants pleaded for him to be careful. Pan Feng shook them off, glaring, and when one man fell to the ground in a heap, the prince couldn't stand by and watch any longer. He pushed himself off the roof, falling to slam into the tiles on the next ridge. They clattered beneath his boots, and he rushed across them, flashing a smile at a scandalized woman on her balcony. Pan Feng heard the commotion, ruddy gaze snapping to the prince and narrowing.

"Get down here now," he snapped.

"Of course, general," Qian Meng replied, hopping from one story to the next with practiced ease.

When his body was in peak shape—as it finally was now after weeks of recovery and harsh training—he was a force to be reckoned with. No one in the castle could best him in a spare, and not a single arrow could beat his in flying to the target. It was why men like Pan Feng resented him, and why his father forbade him from training with his brother any longer. Qian Zihao detested second place—for which he fell into an awful lot against his twin. Because if there was one thing the prince would never allow, it was for others to trample over his talent. That was something that belonged to him alone.

He landed on the gravel right in front of Pan Feng with a dip of his chin. "What is required of me?"

The general crossed his arms over his chest. "His Highness demands to speak with you. He is in the great hall. Go now."

Qian Meng slowly straightened up. His father only ever called on him when he wished to terrorize his second son. And by the wicked glint in the general's eyes, the man knew just as well. But the prince only nodded, turning on his heel and striding away with shoulders squared. He would not give them the satisfaction of witnessing his shivering fear.

The great hall was three inner buildings away, and he'd have to go through the barracks to get there. Either that or walk down the gilded halls of the palace, and that was a terrible idea. His father beat into him long ago that his feet were too dirty to walk upon marble floors unless strictly told to. Echoing metal on metal rang louder the closer he came to the sparring grounds, and his chest ached to join them. This morning he'd been so busy avoiding everyone who tried to capture him that there was no time for anything else. Now, his body was buzzing with nervous energy that would surely make sitting through a three-hour banquet later in the day unbearable.

Qian Meng paused beneath the arch leading into the barracks, hovering and watching the soldiers exchange blows. Lei Changming was there, arms crossed over his chest as he regarded their form with steely eyes. The prince shifted from foot to foot, and it seemed to snag the older cultivator's attention. His crimson gaze snapped to Qian Meng and stuck. With one crooked finger, the cultivator beckoned the prince forward. He went without hesitation, knowing just how uncompromising the man was. If he wished to speak with Qian Meng, he would, whether or not the prince wanted it. Very similar to his brother, except Lei Hua didn't use force. Only waited and showed his face as if waiting for the prince to fall into a honey trap.

He didn't know why it almost always worked.

"Cultivator Lei," Qin Meng demurred, bowing low.

The man hummed, kicking out the foot of the nearest soldier with a scoff. "I told you three times to widen your stance. Are you deaf or simply dumb?"

The man blushed furiously, shaking his head and doing as he was told, arms shivering. Qian Meng almost felt bad for the guy. It was only recently the king requested his soldiers be trained by one of the cultivators who'd taken up residence in his palace. And while he didn't claim it to be done in return for free lodging, it was implied, and the prince knew it offended the head of Zephyr for the man had been raging around ever since. And by raging around, Qian Meng meant striding with elegant purpose and a slight downward tilt to his haughty lips.

"What is wrong?" Lei Changming asked, surprising him.

The words were clipped with annoyance, yet the man didn't turn back toward him, wholly focused on his task. Qian Meng didn't know what to say at first. Out of everything the stoic cultivator could have said, he never expected the man's worry. He didn't even know if Lei Hua was so fortunate to have witnessed it before. But there was no way he could tell the truth. The prince's face wasn't thick enough to admit just how much he enjoyed Lei Hua's company and how terrified he was of losing it—to where he'd cut it out altogether. Even the thought made his palms grow sweaty, and he rubbed them down the front of his tunic.

"There is nothing wrong."

Crimson eyes snapped to him, narrowing. "Incorrect. Try again."

Qian Meng stiffened. The man was treating this like one of his many tests. As if there was a right or wrong answer about his feelings and Lei Changming would continue to needle him until he admitted whatever he wished to hear. Damn Zephyr Cultivators and their obsession with honesty, the prince thought. He squared his shoulders, returning the look with one of his own many people feared. But of course, the cultivator was unmoved, raising his brows.

"It is not incorrect," he assured.

Lei Changming snorted. "Not according to my brother."

Qian Meng did his best not to wince as he broke eye contact, turning his face away. "Well, he is worrying for nothing. I've been busy as of late, that's all. If there's nothing else, I must take my leave. His Highness awaits in the great hall."

"I will let you go, but this is not the end of our conversation."

Qian Meng gulped, adding Lei Changming to the growing list of people he'd have to avoid from now on. "Of course," he lied.

The cultivator watched him for a moment before nodding his assent. With a flick of his robes, the man turned back to the training soldiers. Qian Meng heaved out a sigh of relief as he left, fingers shaking from having to lie so consistently. He wasn't cut out for such things as honesty had always been easier for him than lying. The prince calmed himself as he strode up to the palace doors, nodding at a servant who slipped inside to inform the king of his arrival. The ornate cherry wood doors opened a moment later, inviting him in. He kept his gaze on the marble floor, walking halfway down the hall before kneeling as he'd done so many times before.

The silence stretched, but he knew without a doubt that his father sat on his throne, staring down at him. He could feel Qian Wei's gaze slowly peeling the skin from his bones. Tearing out his flesh to replace it with air and sewing it back up to leave him empty. He didn't dare lift his head, barely breathing as he waited.

"What?" The king finally mused, voice flat. "Nothing to say?"

Qian Meng wet his dry lips and croaked, "No, my king."

He heard the man stand, ornate robes swishing down his legs in heavy drapes of fabric and precious beaded jewelry. His footsteps were light and sure as the king made his way down the grand stairs to stand before his second son. Still, the prince kept his eyes on the floor, not even glancing at his father's gilded boots.

"Are you aware of why I invited you to the banquet this evening?" Qian Meng shook his head. "Speak."

The king's voice lashed out like a whip, face set in a sneer of distaste. One might think his son committed a grave, irreparable sin for all the animosity Qian Wei bore toward him. The prince slumped his shoulders, curling in on himself.

"No, my king."

Qian Wei hummed, turning on his heel to pace. "Of course not. You have no knowledge of etiquette or political maneuvers. But it seems the Lei family has taken a liking to you. Do you know anything about that?"

It took every ounce of inner strength Qian Meng possessed to keep himself from reacting to such probing words. There was no doubt in his mind that his father already knew exactly why the cultivators would show a preference for him. And that reason went directly against his family's wishes for him to keep his distance. Ice formed in his veins, turning his blood sluggish and quickening his breath.

"They offered to spar with me. That is all."

Without warning, Qian Wei's hang lashed out, the back of it striking across his cheek with such force the prince's head whipped to the left. The pain barely registered, and he didn't cry out or make a single sound. Only stayed in that position with a curtain of hair covering his expression. It was a good thing too, for it was hard for him to hide his indignation, lips twitching.

"And what have you been told to say in such instances?" The king hissed.

Qian Meng had to swallow his anger in order to speak. "That I have no time for it, and my duty to the Pondlightian Empire comes first."

His father's open palm clenched into a fist, the rings adorning his fingers cutting into the skin and turning it bright white. The prince stared at it through his hair, stared for so long through the silence that he heard a dull buzz between his ears.

"It seems you have not forgotten," Qian Wei replied, turning away with a flick of his robes. "And if that is the case, you have blatantly disregarded a mandate from your king."

He shivered, dropping his head to his chest, fingers clenching in his lap so hard he might've drawn blood from his palms. Qian Meng knew exactly what such a phrase meant. He remained silent, his anger curdling into fear at the bottom of his stomach. With slow, deliberate movements, the king reached into the folds of his sleeve, pulling out a familiar leather whip stained dark on the tip with blood. It unfurled to coil at his feet like a snake waiting to strike, and the prince's mouth went dry. Qian Wei walked leisurely to stand behind him, leaning in to move the prince's hair away from his spine. Qian Meng shivered, repulsed by his father's fingers on his skin, a slick sheen of sweat coating the length of his arms and legs.

"Do you understand and accept your punishment?"

Qian Meng closed his eyes. "Yes, my king."

"Ten lashes to the backs of your legs, then. You must still appear at dinner, but I don't wish you to be comfortable. I want you to think of your wrongdoing for the duration. Get on your hands and knees and remain there. Fall, and we start again."

With a nod, the prince did as he was told, humiliation at the pose filling his stomach and making it swirl. His only warning was the high whistling of the leather whip before it struck across his calves. Qian Meng hissed, sucking in a breath and locking his elbows against the pain.

"One," the king boomed. "Repeat after me."

Another crack of the whip, this time across his thighs. Qian Meng bit his lower lip.

"Two. You are nothing."

"I am nothing," Qian Meng murmured.

Two more strikes in quick succession, slamming into his ankles so hard he felt the bones groan and red welts raise. His arms shivered, and sweat beaded and dripped from his forehead. He held firm, curling his hands into fists. Then it came again.

"That's five. Take a breath," his father commanded. "You are powerless."

He did, knowing it was a mercy. "I am powerless."

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

His entire body bowed as if pressed in by a two-ton boulder. Qian Meng panted against the dizzying pain. Wondered if he was bleeding or not. He could not tell for the life of him if the wetness he felt was sweat or blood. The tile beneath his hands grew slippery, begging for him to fail—to fall and start it all over. He refused.

The final two blows struck across his ass, and he bit back a yelp of surprise more than anything else. His father had hit him in many places, but that wasn't usually one of them.

"Your punishment has concluded," Qian Wei rumbled, walking to stand before him again.

Qian Meng remained on his hands and knees, tears blurring the view of his clenched hands in and out of focus. From the pain or sweat, he didn't quite know. But he prided himself on keeping silent, for he knew how much his prick of a father loved to hear him scream. The man stood there for a moment, waiting, before he sighed and turned back to the dais, waving a hand.

"Go. You bore me these days."

The prince lifted his head, lips twisting.

I bore you? He almost shouted. Let me show you just how entertaining I can be, then.

He panted as he stared at his father's retreating spine, wishing he could lash out with those words more than anything all while knowing it was suicide to do so. With a sigh, he did his best to rise. It took him three tries to stagger to his feet, not daring to glance at the backs of his legs as he stumbled toward freedom. The walls closed in, suffocating him, but he forced one foot in front of the other. Over and over until he was out of the great hall and stumbling into a pillar just beyond it.

The doors closed with a resounding bang! And only then did he peek at his legs. To his surprise, there was no torn cloth or skin. It seemed his father had indeed been merciful this time around if he was satisfied with leaving nothing but angry welts behind. Qian Meng knew it was better than the alternative. He had to get out of here, though. If people saw him in this state just after leaving his father's presence he'd no doubt receive another scolding.

Heaving his body upright, Qian Meng limped down the hall toward the barracks. Miss Mao had returned and would surely have a hot bath ready for him. The idea sounded heavenly, and it wasn't a far walk. His vision swam the longer he forced his body to move instead of rest and recover, but he pushed onward. Ignoring the wild beating of his heart and the groan of pain itching on his tongue.

He rounded the last corner, and the Heavens smiled upon him for once—no one was left in the training yard but him. At least a shi had passed, if not longer. Time blurred when Qian Meng was writhing on the floor in pain. He straightened at the thought, a sardonic laugh escaping him.

"Fuck," he mumbled, pressing his hands into his lower back and stretching. It made him see stars, but he held it anyway.

"Meng'er," someone called softly.

The prince stiffened, eyes fluttering closed. Perhaps the Heavens were not, in fact, smiling upon him.

"Don't call me that," he replied, voice sounding just as tired as he felt.

He pushed himself to glide forward, and it took almost too much effort to keep himself from slumping or stumbling at the pain shocking through his legs. Lei Hua followed, he felt it, but the man stopped on the threshold of the room Miss Mao and her daughter were in. Waiting patiently for him. The woman glanced up from her knitting basket, a smile basking on her lips at his entrance that immediately slipped when she recognized his stiff shoulders and sweating face. She set aside her things, flying out of her seat toward him.

Qian Meng stopped her with a hand on her arm, murmuring a quick, "Leave us. It was not bad. The skin didn't even break."

The words were soft, but he knew Lei Hua could hear them. Cultivators had such keen senses they might pick up a tree branch cracking underfoot from meters away. Miss Mao looked between the man standing stalk still in the doorway, face drained of color, and Qian Meng's strained expression. Clearly, she didn't want to leave but would accept his wishes if he pushed once more. Yet he didn't have to, for Mao Lin came to pull her mother away, dipping her chin to the both of them on their way out the door. Lei Hua was forced to step closer and let them pass, yet he still hovered by the threshold as if ready to bolt at any moment. Qian Meng eyed him.

"Go or stay, I do not care," he said. "But close the door."

Lei Hua took a moment to move, eyes riveted to Qian Meng's unsteady hands. To the sweat dripping down his temples. The cultivator's fists clenched at his sides so hard the veins popped, but he kicked the door shut, sealing them into the room together. His eyes were almost wild as he stared and stared at the prince. The cultivator didn't know what to do with his hands or his mouth or his feelings. They raged through him like a flood, mounting higher and higher until he felt swept away.

He knew it was shameless, but Qian Meng peeled off his robes without stepping behind the privacy screen. One layer to the next with his back facing the room so Lei Hua could see the strips of red, raised flesh left by his father's cruelty. He dropped the final robe, and it left him naked, revealing every damn scar he had. Qian Meng was almost certain he had more scars than unblemished skin. Even his hands were covered in them, and the thought made him clench them as he bit the inside of his cheek. The prince knew he should feel ashamed of them, and that he should hide them from the perfect cultivator, but he couldn't bring himself to do so.

Lei Hua inhaled sharply from behind him, and it was so loud in the silence. Yet Qian Meng forced himself to stand there—forced Lei Hua to look at him. He wanted the man to know why they couldn't associate with one another anymore. And if the cultivator's impeccable reputation didn't matter to him, then Qian Meng would force him to see reason with his bruised body.

"Who did this?" Lei Hua ground out; words spoken through clenched teeth.

Qian Meng, satisfied with the outcome, allowed himself to step into the steaming water with a hiss. It burned against his injured legs but in the best way possible. The feeling of it silenced all other terrible thoughts in his head, bringing him peace. He loved the feeling, craved it probably more than he should. With a sigh, he slumped against the side of the tub and closed his eyes as he undid his hair from the topknot. It slid down his shoulders and chest to float across the surface of the water like tendrils of ink. From the side, he heard Lei Hua move closer. Perhaps seat himself on the stool Mao Lin often used when cleaning his wounds.

"I asked who did this to you," Lei Hua snapped.

The cultivator's patience was worn thin by the prince's almost nonchalant attitude about being hit yet again, and he almost couldn't take it. Couldn't take how obviously bruised and battered this perfect, dark man before him was. It tore him apart. Made him wish he had come here sooner if only to stop this madness before it even began. But that was a fool's desire, and one that bred a useless sort of guilt and pity he knew Qian Meng wouldn't appreciate in the slightest.

"Why are you so angry? What? Will you storm into their room and hand out an equal punishment?" The prince asked.

The stool he'd been sitting on slammed into the wall, shattering, and it was made worse when the prince didn't even flinch. Lei Hua swallowed hard, feeling so out of control that he wasn't surprised when his voice burst free of its own accord, telling the bitter truth.

"I'd like to do worse than that!"

Qian Meng couldn't help but let out a dry chuckle, waving a hand at him. "It was my father. What do you say to that? Go on and give him the beating of his life. I'm sure you'd overpower him in two moves flat."

Wicked silence filled the room, eerie in its intensity. No one, not even the son of a king, should dare to say such things. But the prince was not a prince, not really. He was barely a son. If Qian Wei had his way, he would've smothered him the moment he left his mother's womb. Qian Meng thought that gave him a pass to insult and berate his father whenever he wished.

"Your father did this?" Lei Hua murmured.

His tone was off, urging the prince to pop one eye open and glance his way. The cultivator was still seething, shoulders rising and falling with every breath and fists clenched at his sides. He rumbled with power, robes fluttering in a nonexistent wind as if he couldn't help the echoes of his magical power from escaping.

"He did," Qian Meng replied, warily.

Lei Hua searched his face fervently, crimson eyes brighter than he'd ever seen them. "And the rest of the scars? The torn flesh from a few weeks ago?"

An uncomfortable feeling built in the prince's chest, his heart fluttering when he found he couldn't tear his eyes from the cultivator even if he tried. There was no choice but honesty when drowning in that gaze. The words flowed from his tight lips like water breaking through a dam.

"Some are from my father. Most others are from the general or servants or that woman you met a few days ago."

"Even the concubine hit you?" Lei Hua choked out, face flushing. "And you just watched me be gracious with her?"

Qian Meng tilted his head, confused. "What should I have done?"

The cultivator paced, throwing his hands around. "Tell me to get away from her, to stop letting her touch me! I don't know! Anything but let me smile at her. I feel sick now, sick—"

Qian Meng cut him off. "There is no need."

Lei Hua stopped by the open window, hands clenching the sill. "What?"

The prince hesitated, hearing the edge of incredulity that had crept into his voice. As if, with one more unpredictable answer, Lei Hau would rush over to the tub and start shaking Qian Meng by the shoulders.

"There's no need to be so angry. It is norm—"

It was Lei Hau's turn to cut him off, whirling. "Do not dare to finish that sentence."

His eyes flared a bitter crimson so bright it cast an eerie glow across the wood floor. Qian Meng withered before it, his body instinctively rearing into the back of the tub as far as it could go. The power roiling off the cultivator was of epic proportions. Like he could level a mountain with one strong flick of his fingers, and tear the entire world apart with his bare hands should it please him. The prince's throat closed up, no words daring to make an escape when Lei Hua pinned him with a gaze like that. As if realizing he had Qian Meng trapped, the cultivator strode forward until he hovered over the tub, hands flexing at his sides.

Lei Hua stared down at the shivering man before him, hands twitching to pull him into his chest. To soothe the prince's terrible past into something manageable. And if he couldn't do that, he wanted to storm out of this room and kill every single person who'd ever wronged him. Tear their heads from their bodies and hold them out as favors of conquest. But he swallowed both compulsions, leaning in and gripping either side of the tub. It brought their faces within inches of each other, and he heard the prince's breath catch in his throat, his dark eyes burning.

"Repeat after me, Meng'er. Alright?" He whispered.

The prince said nothing for a moment, chest rising and falling like a startled hummingbird. Only when Lei Hua's fingers came forward, brushing a lock of damp hair behind his ear to make it burn, was the prince startled into speaking.

"A-alright," he gasped.

Lei Hua brought himself as close to Qian Meng's face as he could get without touching him. The loose braid his hair was in slipped forward to splash into the water, and it was the only sound in the room. Seeming to echo between them the longer the silence stretched.

"You are worthy," Lei Hua breathed, voice a midnight caress.

Qian Meng stiffened, and the complicated feeling in his chest grew in size. Pushing away the resentment and terrible agony. He wanted to grasp onto it but was so very terrified. So afraid of losing it when he finally mounted the courage it took to allow himself this one thing. Because maybe his father was right. Maybe he didn't deserve life or power or love.

Lei Hua said it again.

"You are worthy."

Qian Meng flinched.

"No," he blurted.

The cultivator gave him a patient smile. "You are worthy."

"No, no, I—"

"You are worthy."

The water splashed as he tried to rise, but his legs weren't working right, and Lei Hua's arms were still caged around him. It only served to get the man's robes soaked, splashing his face and chest with rose water. The cultivator didn't even notice, one hand coming up to cup Qian Meng's naked shoulder to ease him back into the tub. Eyes never straying from the prince's devastated expression.

"No," he croaked hoarsely, hating that his lower lip wobbled.

The man's large hand didn't leave his shoulder. Instead, his calloused thumb grazed his collarbone again and again. Sending tendrils of spiritual energy through his entire body, forcing his meridians to cool. Qian Meng hadn't noticed just how agitated he'd become. Riling up not only his broken body but also the new, powerful part of him waking from its slumber at the warning bells peeling in his mind. Rising to protect him should he need it to. It was a surreal feeling, and it brought him down from space as he turned his wild eyes on Lei Hua.

"You are worthy," the man repeated, expectantly.

"I, I don't know if I can say that," Qian Meng admitted, voice small.

The cultivator's soft smile tightened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Then I will say it for you until you can muster it yourself. Again and again, for a lifetime—for two or three if that's what it takes."

Qian Meng looked shocked senseless, but Lei Hua found himself meaning every word more than he'd meant anything in his entire life. He wanted this man to be happy, wished for with an aching need so frenzied the cultivator might raze the entire world should the prince ask for it. He didn't know what he'd do when it was time for them to part ways. Lei Hua had spent so much time alone. His family didn't count, for they loved him unconditionally. Qian Meng was the first to enjoy his company for exactly who he was, and it was an intoxicating feeling. One that made the cultivator unsure of whether he could even attempt to live without it.

The prince, much to Lei Hua's shock, lifted one shaking hand to cup his face. Water dripped between them, each splash a shock to the senses that made him want to flinch. The air was charged with his expectation, which he knew, but the cultivator could do nothing to stop it. He held his breath.

"Do you promise?" Qian Meng uttered, sounding younger than he ever had.

Lei Hua's eyelids shuttered, his terrible anger and sickening dread over just how hurt his cultivation partner had been before he came to him a living beast tearing at his chest. Crawling up his ribcage and gnawing at the bones. But he pushed it aside in favor of giving the prince his best smile.

"I promise on my life," he vowed.

Their faces hovered together, and Lei Hua almost keeled over when Qian Meng's dark gaze dropped to his wide lips. He couldn't read the man's blank expression.

"I'll hold you to that," he finally murmured, looking away with a flush climbing up his neck. "Now let me bathe. Then we will speak properly before the banquet."

Lei Hua straightened, running his lithe fingers through his mussed hair, not at all sorry for its disarray. "Of course. I will wait on the bench."

Qian Meng watched closely—he couldn't help it—as the cultivator glided to the spot Miss Mao had vacated, budding aside her basket to sit. Qian Meng felt himself reaching for the soap, cleaning himself, but it was a distant thing as Lei Hua stared back at him. Their eyes were locked the entire time, only breaking when was forced to dip his head beneath the water. And with every passing second in that comfortable silence, Qian Meng felt himself settle. His mouth was still dry, fingers still shaking, but his chest was warm. And, for the first time in his life, he felt. . .

Safe.

Cared for.