Chapter Text
Before the war, before the fires that devoured Cloud Recesses, before the banners of Sunshot bloodied the skies—there had been a proposal.
Not from Jin Zixuan.
The Nie heir arrived at Lotus Pier under the first drizzle of spring, armor still bearing the scent of the northern winds. Nie Mingjue was not a man of softness, and yet when Jiang Yanli poured his tea, his hand paused, eyes lingering not on her face but on the quiet steadiness in her movements.
The talk had begun as alliance, as all things did between sects. But beneath the politeness, Jiang Fengmian had seen the flicker of interest—honest, restrained. Yu Ziyuan had seen it too and said nothing, her gaze sharp as lightning above her cup.
Jiang Yanli bowed to Nie Mingjue that night. Her smile was small, proper, gentle. He had thought her fragile then—too delicate for Qinghe’s bitter cold.
He learned quickly that he was wrong.
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The wedding was a brief affair, held before the first call to arms. The Nie banners had been raised already; war had been whispered at every banquet, and blood was a promise on the wind. Jiang Yanli, veiled in pale violet silk, rode north beside her husband with her chin high and her voice clear.
Nie Mingjue watched her in the mirror of his armor, this soft-voiced woman who did not flinch when the snow fell red, who prayed not for peace, but for honor.
By the time they reached Unclean Realm, she was Nie-furen.
And though she spoke gently, every hall she walked through grew quieter, as if the mountain itself listened.
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When war came, it came without mercy.
Lotus Pier burned first. Jiang Yanli received word from a trembling messenger—a letter written in Jiang Cheng’s hurried hand, ink smudged with blood. She did not scream. She did not faint. She stood beside Nie Mingjue as he read it, eyes dry, the only tremor in her body the way her fingers pressed against her palm.
“You will not return,” Nie Mingjue said quietly. It was not a command but a plea. “Qinghe is safe. Jiang Wanyin can handle—”
“He is my brother,” she said simply. “And if Lotus Pier is gone, I will be his home.”
For the first time, Nie Mingjue understood that her gentleness was not weakness—it was faith, tempered like steel.
He could not forbid her.
He could only stand beside her.
So the Nie army rode with the Jiang refugees, their banners side by side, crimson and purple in the smoke.
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That winter, they made camp near Yunmeng’s frozen lakes. Jiang Cheng, younger and wild-eyed, came to her tent each night, torn between pride and grief. She bound his wounds, scolded him for fighting without rest, and listened when he spat curses at the world. When he left, Nie Mingjue entered in silence, armor laid aside, sitting at her side as she brewed medicine by candlelight.
“Nie-furen,” he said one night, his voice low, “you do too much.”
Jiang Yanli smiled faintly. “And you, Da-ge, do too little to rest.”
He chuckled—hoarse, unguarded. “Perhaps we deserve each other.”
Her hand brushed his for a heartbeat before pulling away.
Outside, snow fell quietly over the banners of two sects bound now by something more than oath.