The footsteps against the frost-jade stairs were steady, measured, and completely unhurried.
Ten thousand banquet guests watched in frozen, bewildered quiet as Lin Mo ascended the thirty-six steps. He did not look at the roaring dragon-braziers. He did not look at Holy Son Ye Chen. He did not glance at Fairy Bai Lian’s wine-stained silk dress.
He walked directly over to the puddle of spilled purple wine and shattered wood where Mu Qing was propped up on her bleeding forearms.
Lin Mo crouched down on one knee, his trousers brushing the cold, wet flagstones.
Gently, with slow and deliberate care, he draped his eight-million-stone Immortal Cloud-Silk Overcoat over Mu Qing’s thin, shivering shoulders.
The heavy, warm starlight-silk settled around her like a protective shield. The pure white ermine collar brushed against her cold neck, radiating soothing, constant warmth that instantly melted the frost on her skin. The terrible, gnawing chill that had lived inside her bones for six months vanished in half a heartbeat.
Mu Qing blinked through tears of pain and shock, looking up at Lin Mo.
Her voice was barely a raspy whisper, trembling with confusion. “Why are you doing this? I am a broken servant. My hands are covered in sewer filth and horse blood.”
