Vermilion String

Chapter 8: The Physician’s Oath

The fever came first.

Wen Shuyan woke to it. Alone.

Not cold stone this time. Hot. Burning. His back was wet again. Not blood. Something worse.

Infection.

He pressed his forehead to the floor. The stone wasn’t cold anymore. Or maybe he was too hot to feel it. Eight lashes. That’s what the Dowager ordered. Eight lashes and three days in the Cold Palace. Day one had almost killed him. Day two was trying to finish it.

He didn’t hear the footsteps. Not until the bolt scraped.

Then silence.

Then..... tap.

Once.

Shuyan’s eyes snapped open. He knew that sound. The Dowager’s cane.

Tap.

Twice.

The bolt scraped again. Sliding open for her.

But it wasn’t the Dowager who entered.

It was a man in dark blue. No armor. No court robes. Just simple physician’s clothes, sleeves tied back. A medicine box in one hand. Twenty-eight. Hair tied plain. No ornaments. Face calm, beautiful like a carved jade angel, the kind temple painters couldn’t get right. Eyes sharp, tired. He wasn’t a man who talked much. With others, he spoke only what was needed. But with Shuyan, the words came.

He didn’t bow. Didn’t announce himself. He just looked at Shuyan on the floor. At the blood. At the sweat. At the way Shuyan was shaking.

“Wen Shuyan,” he said. Not a question.

Shuyan tried to sit up. Failed. His arms gave out. He hit the stone again with a gasp.

“Don’t.” The man was beside him in two steps. Kneeling. Cold hands on Shuyan’s forehead, then his neck, then his back. Shuyan flinched when fingers brushed the torn bandages. “Fever. High. You’re infected.”

“Who.....” Shuyan’s voice cracked. The rope burn still hadn’t healed. “Who are you?”

“Li Shen.” He opened the medicine box. No preamble. “Imperial physician. The Dowager sent me.”

Of course she did. Not mercy. Precaution. Can’t kill me if I die of fever first.

Li Shen cut the bandages. Cleaned the wounds. Water. Herbs. Something that burned worse than the lashes. Shuyan bit down on his own lip. Tasted blood. Again.

“You’re quiet,” Li Shen said. “Most scream.”

“Would it help?” Shuyan rasped.

“No.”

“Then no point.”

Li Shen tied off a fresh bandage. Clean. Tight. “I’ll be back tonight. If the fever breaks, you live.”

He left. The bolt scraped shut.

Night came.

The bolt scraped. Li Shen again, with broth and salve. The fever was breaking.

“Good,” Li Shen said. “You’re stubborn.”

“Had to be,” Shuyan whispered.

Li Shen sat on the stone. Pulled out a jar. “For the rope burn.”

Shuyan took it. Their fingers brushed. “Thank you.”

Li Shen studied him. “What do you want, Wen Shuyan?”

The question knocked the air out of him. No one asked that. Not the Dowager. Not even Yichen.

“I want.....” Shuyan’s voice failed. “I want to not be cold.”

Li Shen nodded. “Then we start there.”

The bolt slid back again.

Both of them looked up.

No tap, tap. No Dowager.

A man in black armor. Tall. Broad. Sword at his hip, but not drawn. Twenty-three years old, dust on his boots. He’d ridden hard from the Northern Garrison. Young for a General, but his eyes were older. War lived in them.

His eyes found Shuyan. Then Li Shen. Then the bandages.

“Doctor,” the General said. Voice like gravel. “Report.”

Li Shen stood. “General Fu. He’ll live. Fever broke. Eight lashes. Infected, but cleaned.”

General Fu Zhao stepped in. The cell felt smaller. He looked at Shuyan. Really looked.

“Wen Shuyan,” he said. Not a question.

Shuyan pushed himself up. “You know me.”

“I know who Yichen tears the palace apart for.” Fu Zhao’s jaw ticked. “He’s locked in the East Palace. Ten lashes. Under guard. He can’t get here. So he sent me.”

Shuyan’s breath caught. “He’s.....”

“Alive. Breaking furniture.” A pause. “He said: Don’t look away. He’s coming.”

Shuyan’s eyes burned. “Tell him..... tell him I’m not cold. Not anymore.”

Fu Zhao stared. Then nodded once. “I will.”

He turned. Left without another word.

The bolt scraped shut.

Li Shen exhaled. “That’s Fu Zhao. Yichen’s sworn brother. If he’s here, the Crown Prince is already planning something.”

Shuyan looked at his wrist. At the vermilion string. Still cold. But his back was clean. His stomach was full. And for the first time, someone asked what he wanted.

Yichen was gone from the cell. But the Cold Palace wasn’t empty anymore.

Mine to keep. Yours to rest.

Even separated, the string still burned.