The battlefield was quiet now. The smoke had thinned, the bodies had been
carried away, but the pain still lingered in the air.
Sky refused to leave.
For hours — no, days — he circled above the spot where Li Xian and Ren Xu
had fallen. Soldiers had tried to shoo him away. None succeeded.
Even Crown Prince Zhao Wen stood at a distance, his armor dulled by grief,
watching the bird that refused to move.
> "She fought to the end," the Prince murmured to General Yuwen. "And
still... even now, he waits."
Sky perched on a burnt bannerpole, staring down at the fresh graves.
Then — gently, quietly — General Yuwen stepped forward.
He held out a gloved hand, not commanding, not coaxing. Just waiting.
> "Come with me, old friend," he whispered. "Live. For her."
Sky stared at him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he fluttered down.
He perched on the general's shoulder — not like a soldier obeying
command, but like a soul choosing a companion.
Crown Prince Zhao Wen gave the order: "Bring him to the palace. Let him
be kept under my seal. He is a legacy of her name."
And so, Sky was carried away, not in a cage, but in honor.
A shrine was built for Li Xian and Ren Xu in the capital, beneath the red
plum tree where petals never stopped falling. Sky perched there every
spring.
He aged.
He quieted.
But he never forgot.
And as years turned to decades, and petals fell, and people stopped visiting
their graves, Sky remained.
Waiting.
Watching.
Until the wind stirred again — carrying something familiar.
A scent. A voice. A name.
Something was coming.
Someone was returning.