V1_Chapter 3: The procession

The procession began at dawn, a serpentine line of black iron and shimmering silk winding away from the warmth of the Crane Valley. Xinyi sat encased within the palanquin, a lacquered box of gold and cedar that felt less like a carriage and more like a rolling reliquary.

Outside, the world was changing. The lush, humid air of her childhood was being replaced by a thin, biting wind that whistled through the curtains. But the most jarring change wasn't the scenery—it was the phantom sensations blooming within her own body.

By the second day, Xinyi felt a rhythmic, pulsing ache in her thighs and lower back. She was sitting perfectly still on silk cushions, yet her muscles screamed as if she had been straddling a beast for an eternity. Through the thin red line on her wrist, she could feel the steady, jarring vibration of a horse’s gallop.

*Jinglin.*

He was riding at the head of the vanguard, refuse to take a carriage despite the status his rank afforded. Xinyi closed her eyes, trying to separate her own physical reality from the ghost-sensations of the Binding. It was impossible. When the wind whipped against his face miles ahead, her own skin broke out in goosebumps. When his grip tightened on the leather reins, her own fingers cramped into involuntary claws.

She felt his exhaustion—a heavy, leaden weight in the bones that spoke of a man who had not slept soundly in years. It was a cold, disciplined weariness. He didn't complain; he simply endured, and because of the Soul-Tether, Xinyi was forced to endure with him.

However, the connection was a two-way mirror.

The palanquin swayed rhythmically, a motion designed for elegance but one that wrought havoc on Xinyi’s Southern constitution. The constant pitching and rolling made her stomach churn. A cold sweat broke out across her brow, ruining the white lead powder of her makeup. She felt a sharp, acidic bile rise in her throat—the classic misery of motion sickness.

Suddenly, the procession lurched to a halt.

Xinyi gasped, clutching her stomach. Through the link, she felt a sudden spike of irritation from the front of the line, followed by a wave of genuine confusion. Jinglin, who had been riding with iron-clad focus, was suddenly hit with a wave of phantom nausea. He didn't have the stomach flu, yet his world was spinning as if he had downed a bottle of cheap rice wine.

The curtain of the palanquin was flicked aside with a sharp, impatient motion.

Lord Jinglin stood there, still mounted on his black stallion, looking down at her. His face was flushed, and for the first time, he looked slightly unsettled. He pressed a hand to his own stomach, his dark eyes narrowing as they landed on Xinyi’s pale, sweat-streaked face.

"You are ill," he stated. It wasn't a question; he could feel her dizziness as if it were his own.

"It is only the motion, My Lord," Xinyi whispered, her voice thin. "I apologize for the... interference."

Jinglin looked toward the horizon, where the jagged, snow-capped teeth of the Northern mountains were beginning to dominate the skyline. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable, though Xinyi felt a flicker of something through the bond—not quite pity, but a recognition of shared suffering.

"The air is thinner here," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Breathe through your nose, slowly. If you do not settle your spirit, neither of us will be able to sit upright by nightfall."

He reached into a pouch at his belt and tossed a small, dried piece of ginger root into her lap.

"Chew on that. And stop apologizing. The talisman does not care for manners."

He snapped the curtain shut and barked a command for the march to resume. As the palanquin began to sway again, Xinyi bit into the spicy, sharp root. She felt Jinglin’s resolve harden at the front of the line—a mental bracing that acted like a stabilizer for her own crumbling composure.

For the next ten hours, they moved in a silent, agonizing dance. She leaned on his physical stamina to keep from fainting, and he, in turn, had to grit his teeth against the phantom waves of nausea that rolled off his bride. They were miles apart, yet as the sun dipped below the frozen peaks, they were more intimately acquainted with each other’s pain than any couple should be after only forty-eight hours of marriage.

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