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Shēnléi’s laughter came low and soft, almost hidden beneath his breath, but the sound carried warmth— a deep, steady hum that rippled through his chest and into hers where her head rested. It had been so long since he’d held her like this. Too long. The weight of her against him, real and breathing, undid something inside him that words couldn’t touch.

Mm, he murmured, brushing his chin against the top of her head, you always did find the most inconvenient ways to travel, little lotus. His tone was teasing, but the edges softened by affection. Next time, try to wake up somewhere with less mud. I was starting to think the swamp gods were playing some kind of joke on me.

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a tiredness there— one born not from a lack of rest, but from too many silent nights spent waiting. Her laugh, her voice, even her scolding, it was like sunlight breaking through a fog he’d been walking in for weeks.

When she apologized, his ears tipped back slightly, and he looked at her with that quiet, unreadable sort of patience he’d always had with his daughters. Don’t be sorry, he said gently. The fault isn’t yours. None of this is. He hesitated, then added softer, You came when you could. That’s enough.

His gaze drifted over the murky water as she waded in, his tail flicking once as if to keep himself anchored to the moment. It was strange, seeing her again like this— grown, graceful, and still every bit the bright creature she’d been in the palace halls, but changed too. The air around her felt different now. He wasn’t sure if it was her maturity or the world itself reshaping her.

When she turned to give him that look, the one that said she wasn’t fooled by his easy tone, he let out a small, knowing hum. Ah, my little court adviser, he said with mock solemnity, ever the diplomat. If I remember correctly, half of your ‘advice’ involved lecturing me on my posture during council meetings. His grin widened when she smirked, something boyish and unguarded in it that most hadn’t seen since his youth. I should’ve known your tongue would survive the journey across worlds.

But when she mentioned her mother, his voice softened again. The jest faded from his lips. She will, he agreed quietly, gaze following the shifting reflection of the moon across the pool. Your mother’s too stubborn to stay away from what’s hers. If there’s a path, she’ll find it. You have her fire, after all. She won’t let the world swallow her.

He watched her for a moment longer, the silver light tracing her features, the way the water clung to her fur. A quiet ache threaded through his chest— pride and grief tangled into something bittersweet.

You sound more and more like her, you know, he said, almost to himself. The way you talk about the sun and clouds… Mei used to say things like that when I worried too much. His lips quirked, just barely. Seems I’m outnumbered again.

He shifted closer to the edge of the pool, lowering his head enough that their eyes met— his bright, bronze colored ones softened by something rawer than he meant to show. I meant what I said, Lian, he murmured. The sun hasn’t set on us. It can’t. Not while you’re here by my side to help keep me and your sister in line.

A pause. His gaze lingered on her face, memorizing the way she looked in this world— still radiant, still his daughter, even covered in mud as she was. Come, he said at last, voice lighter again. Finish washing. You can’t have the new world’s first impression of Tianlong’s princess be a swamp rat. Heaven forbid.

A grin, wry and teasing, slipped through. Though, I must admit… for a creature dredged up from the muck, you clean up well.

He didn’t wait for her retort this time— he already knew it would come. Instead, he turned his head toward the dark horizon, his voice quieter when he spoke next.

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