Chapter 116: The Festival

Softly at first. So softly it almost didn’t count as a kiss, just the warm press of his mouth against hers.

Bai Yue’s hands flattened against his chest, not pushing exactly, but not welcoming either.

It had been so long since anyone had touched her like this. Not since before the baby. Not since her body had become someone else’s home, then someone else’s food source, then someone else’s entire world.

She felt strange. Not bad strange. Just…..unfamiliar. Like her skin had forgotten how to be anything other than tired.

Zhāo Yàn pulled back half an inch. Just enough to speak against her lips.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered.

“I’m not.”

A small smile curved his mouth. “You are.”

She exhaled shakily. “It’s the water. It’s hot.”

“It’s me,” he corrected gently. “And it’s been too long.”

One of his hands slid up her spine, slow, careful, like he was mapping territory he hadn’t been allowed to visit in months. His fingertips brushed the nape of her neck and she shivered again, harder this time.

“Zhāo Yàn…” Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. “We shouldn’t. Not here. Not like—”

He kissed the protest right off her tongue. Still gentle. Still patient. But this time he lingered longer, coaxing her lips apart with the softest pressure until she sighed into his mouth and her fingers curled against his chest instead of lying flat.

When he drew back again his eyes were molten.

“How much longer must you torture me, Bai Yue?” he murmured. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “I am still a beastman. My nature does not forget what it wants. And what it wants—” he pressed his forehead to hers “—is you. Just you. For five minutes. For five hours. For however long you will let me have.”

Bai Yue closed her eyes. The steam was thick. His heartbeat thumped steadily against her palm.

“I feel… strange,” she admitted, barely audible. “It’s been so long I don’t even know if my body still remembers how.”

His laugh was quiet, fond. “Then we remind it. Slowly.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, but never rushed. His tongue brushed hers in a slow, lazy stroke that made heat bloom low in her belly. Then he began to wander.

Kisses along her jaw. Down the column of her throat. Over the sensitive place where neck met shoulder that always made her breath hitch.

He kissed the hollow of her throat. Her breath caught. His lips curved against her skin.

“Your heart is racing,” he observed.

“Your fault.”

“Completely.”

He kissed his way back up, trailing fire along her collarbone, the base of her neck, the sensitive spot behind her ear that made her knees weak. By the time he reached her lips again, Bai Yue was gripping his shoulders like he was the only solid thing in the world.

“Zhāo Yàn,” she breathed.

He hummed against her mouth. “Yes?”

She didn’t have words. She didn’t have anything except the heat of his skin and the steam of the water and the slow, patient way he was taking her apart.

He pulled back. Just enough to look at her.

Her hair was wet. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and dark.

Zhāo Yàn thought to himself before speaking. “I think we should wait.”

Bai Yue blinked. “What?”

“Until after the festival.” His hands were still on her waist, still warm, still distracting. But his voice was steady. “Tonight. When the dancing is done. When the grandmothers have worn themselves out. When the baby is asleep.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “When I can have you properly.”

A whimper escaped her lips.

Zhāo Yàn’s smile widened.

“Was that a whine?”

“It was not a whine.”

“That was absolutely a whine.”

“Zhāo Yàn—”

He kissed her again.

“Tonight,” he promised against her lips. “I’ll find you. After the last dance.”

By the time Bai Yue opened her eyes, he was gone.

She stood there for a long moment, her skin tingling, her heart pounding, her lips still warm from his.

“Stupid fox,” she muttered to the empty cave.

~

The Festival of Falling Stars took place in the Grand Celestial Plaza, a massive platform of polished obsidian that jutted out from the highest peak like a frozen wave.

Bai Yue had never seen anything like it.

Dragons filled the plaza. Hundreds of them. In human form mostly, their scales hidden beneath silks and jewels, but every so often someone would laugh or gesture and a flash of color would betray them, gold, silver, copper, bronze, the deep blue of storm clouds, the pale green of new leaves.

They were beautiful. All of them. And they were staring.

Bai Yue smoothed her skirt for the fifth time. Wēn Jìng had made it for her, something soft and flowing in deep purple that caught the light and held it. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever worn. She felt like an imposter wearing it.

“You’re fidgeting,” Han Shān said from beside her.

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“You’ve smoothed your skirt four times in the last minute.”

“Five times,” Zhāo Yàn corrected, appearing at her other side. He had changed into robes of deep crimson that matched his eyes. He looked infuriatingly handsome.

Bai Yue glared at him. He smiled back, serene and utterly unrepentant.

“The dragons are staring,” Bai Yue muttered.

“Let them stare,” Han Shān said. His hand found the small of her back. “You’re worth staring at.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She was saved by Yàn Shū appearing through the crowd, his glasses slightly askew, his face flushed with excitement.

“The architecture!” he breathed. “The way the light moves through the crystals—it’s not random, it’s orchestrated, there are patterns in it, ancient patterns, I’ve never seen anything like—” He stopped, took a breath. “You look beautiful.”

Bai Yue smiled. “Thank you.”

“Where are the cubs?” Hán Shān asked.

Yàn Shū gestured vaguely toward the center of the plaza. “With Cāng Jì. He promised them the best view. And sweets. He promised them sweets. Multiple sweets. I’m not sure how many.”

“A mistake,” Zhāo Yàn murmured.

“A disaster,” Han Shān agreed.

They made no move to retrieve them.

Bai Yue was about to point this out when a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

“I STILL HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN ABOUT MY SOUP!”

Cāng Yáo appeared, dressed in robes of gold and amber, her hair piled high on her head, her jewels chiming with every step. She swept through the crowd like a warship through calm waters, dragons parting before her with expressions of mingled respect and terror.

She stopped in front of Bai Yue. Looked her up and down. Nodded once, sharply.

“You look acceptable.”

“Thank you?”

“The soup. You promised. When you came to the peaks. You promised soup.”

“I promised spicy soup.”

“The spiciest soup. The soup that makes my mouth feel like it’s being attacked by fire demons. The soup that—”

“I remember,” Bai Yue said. “I’ll make it. Before we leave. I promise.”

Cāng Yáo’s eyes narrowed. “You said that last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You said that last time too.”

“Cāng Yáo.”

The dragon princess’s expression flickered. “Fine. But I’m holding you to it.” She said before walking away.

The crowd shifted. The murmuring changed. Something was happening.

The Burning Sky was descending.

He came down the grand staircase at the far end of the plaza, his human form as imposing as his dragon. Dark robes. Eyes like molten gold. And in his arms, nestled against his chest, wrapped in silk that matched Bai Yue’s dress—

The baby was awake. Her amethyst eyes were wide, taking in the lights, the crystals, the hundreds of dragons who had gone very, very still. Her tiny hand was pressed against the Dragon King’s chest. Her face was peaceful.

A dragon near the front of the crowd made a sound. It might have been a scoff. It might have been disgust.

“A lowlander infant,” someone muttered. “At the Festival of Falling Stars. The Burning Sky has lost his—”

Dà Jiāo Huǒ stopped.

The plaza went silent.

He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. When the oldest dragon in existence turned his golden eyes on you, you felt it in your bones.

“Does someone have something to say?”

The dragon who had spoken went very pale. His scales, a pale, watery blue, seemed to fade further. “I—no—I only meant—”

“You only meant,” Dà Jiāo Huǒ said, and his voice was soft, “to question my judgment. In front of my guests. In front of my court. In front of my granddaughter.”

The word landed like a stone in still water.

Granddaughter.

The pale dragon bowed, so low his forehead nearly touched the obsidian floor. “I meant no disrespect, Your Majesty. I was—uninformed.”

“You are now informed.” Dà Jiāo Huǒ’s gaze swept the crowd. “This child chose me. I did not choose her. In all my years, I have learned that such choices are not made lightly. She is my family. She is under my protection. Anyone who has a problem with that—” His eyes lingered on the pale dragon, on the others who had been whispering, on the entire gathered court. “—is welcome to leave. Permanently.”

No one moved.

The Burning Sky smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Good. Then let us celebrate.”

He raised one hand. The floating waterfalls blazed brighter, the crystals pulsed with light, and somewhere above them, the first of the falling stars began to drift down through the sky like snow made of fire.

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