March thirtieth, at the break of dawn.


    A servant hastily ran over and knocked on the Master’s bedroom door, startling Yan Xiaohan inside. Fu Shen seemed to sense that from where he lay sleeping beside him, as he moved as well, only to be gently hugged by the other man. “It’s okay,” he said, voice low, muddled, and husky, “you sleep.”


    He draped a robe over himself and got up, opening the door with a tired look on his face that had been put there from the disturbance. “What is it?”