Set Lingcai’s side aside for now, like rolling up a scroll and setting it by the window.

The storm swung back to Duke Pulin and Aniel, like a weathervane snapping in a sudden gust.

“R-really? Sh-she… she really said that?” His words stumbled like pebbles skittering down steps.

The news Aniel brought hit Duke Pulin like a basin of ice water, and his whole body went numb like frost on bark.

Aniel sat cold-faced, ladling oil on the fire like a cook stoking a wok.

“Of course. I heard it with my own ears.” Her voice was flat as slate. “Outside’s probably ringed by troops, a steel bramble, maybe two hundred.”

Duke Pulin’s face went pale as paper, a lantern suddenly snuffed.

He couldn’t see where he’d slipped, how Kelor had seized his handle and come to arrest him at his wedding like thunder at a banquet.

“I’ve got an idea.” He came to, flicked Aniel a look like a thrown pebble. “Her Highness didn’t bring many. We grab her as a hostage, then slip out like rats into a drain…”

Aniel cracked his skull with a knuckle, a crisp tap like knocking a gourd.

“You think you’re the only clever one? You think she’s a fool?” Her glare was a drawn blade.

“If she dares to step in, she’s got a net ready, like a spider under leaves.”

“If we spook the snake in the grass now, we might as well shout our guilt from the eaves.”

Duke Pulin took the hit with wounded eyes, like a dog kicked from a porch.

“Madam, we can’t just sit and wait for death like fish on a cutting board.”

Already angry, Aniel’s temper flared like a match; she slapped him again and jabbed his forehead like a spear.

“Do you dare?” Her words pecked like crows. “With courage smaller than a quail’s egg, you haven’t even killed a chicken, and you talk hostages?”

“Apart from money, your brain’s a blank field, no sprouts at all.”

If Duke Pulin got grabbed for selling arms, Aniel as his wife wouldn’t escape, roped to him like a boat to a pier.

Right now the couple were like two grasshoppers on one string, hopping over the same fire.

Even so, a seed had already sprouted in Aniel’s heart, green and sharp as bamboo.

If she could sweet-talk Duke Pulin, she might slip out alive like smoke.

As she spoke, her voice softened like silk after rain, her favorite trick of whip first, candy after.

With that routine, she’d tamed Duke Pulin into a proper henpecked husband, like a bull led by a ring.

“Don’t flinch. At this point we gamble, like throwing dice in a storm. Listen close.”

“Fine, I’m listening.” He covered his head like a turtle tucking in, afraid of catching another blow. “How do we gamble?”

Aniel didn’t hesitate; she laid out the tale like tiles on a path.

“Here’s how. We split up. You hold the scene steady like a stone on a cart. I’ll slip home, pack the valuables, and ready a carriage like a horse at the gate.”

“When the ceremony’s about to start, they’ll find the bride missing, and chaos will bloom like dandelion fluff.”

“In the confusion, you run out. We link up and bolt like deer.”

Duke Pulin stared at Aniel, stunned into fog, his thoughts snagged like a sleeve on thorns.

Something felt off, but he still nodded hard like a bobbing puppet. “Your call, your call, let’s do it.”

He missed a crucial point, a nail in the plank.

Aniel might well go home first to gather gold, but whether she’d wait to rendezvous was a bird in another sky.

As the saying goes, husband and wife are birds of one grove; when wildfire hits the trees, each flies on its own.

Aniel yanked off her white veil like a cloud torn by wind and started unbuttoning to change.

She wouldn’t flee in a wedding dress, bright as a banner and easy to spot like a crane in a flock.

She wiped off her makeup with quick hands, changed into clean light clothes like a breeze in linen, and pulled on a sun hat like a falling shade.

At the door, she listened to the corridor like a cat at a mouse hole; hearing no steps, she dipped her head and slipped out like a fish.

After a moment, as if a thought pricked her, Aniel slid back and warned Duke Pulin again, words like pins.

“Remember! You must stall them! The longer you buy, the better, like rope paying out from a coil!”

“Got it, got it. Th-then… my lady, where do we meet…?”

Aniel acted like she didn’t hear; she turned and vanished in a rush like mist in sun, leaving him alone with her words like crumbs on a plate.

“Huh?” He chewed it over, and the more he chewed, the grittier it felt, like sand in his teeth.

“Why didn’t she tell me where to meet?”

In his white suit, Duke Pulin slumped on the sofa like wilted paper and couldn’t find the snag no matter how long he stared.

As the wedding time neared, he cracked the door and peered left and right like a thief, but Aniel’s shadow never showed.

Leaning on the door, he squinted at the ceiling like a farmer reading clouds and muttered to himself.

“No, no. If she didn’t tell me the spot, how do I find her? M-my lady! My lady! Ma—”

Halfway through the shout, the wrongness hit him like a hammer.

She’d dumped him and bolted, clean as a bird leaving a snare.

She told him to stall for time, but that was selling him and buying her escape, like flipping a coin.

“Guards! Anybody! Guar—”

Two shouts in, he knew he couldn’t drag Aniel back from the wind.

Sold.

The word thudded in his chest like a stone in a well, and he sagged to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

At this pace, Aniel would ride the gap and flee, while he would face a cell or a beheading like a winter blade.

A thought sparked in his mind like fire catching dry straw.

No. If I’m getting caught, I won’t let you have it easy either.

On that thought, he scrambled up, stumbling toward the door like a deer breaking brush, as if after something sharp.

Right then, backstage, the emcee was coaching Lingcai on a bridesmaid’s steps like a conductor tapping time.

“Then go along the right of the stage, hold this bouquet like a bundle of spring, keep to the bride’s side, and when the salutes go off…”

Bang.

The backstage door slammed open like a drum splitting.

A man in a white suit stood in the frame, gaunt and ashen like a ghost in daylight.

Lingcai and Scarlet Leaf didn’t know him, but the emcee saw at a glance it was the groom, Duke Pulin, like a face from a poster.

Seeing him like this, the emcee startled like a bird. “My Lord Duke, what happened? You can’t be here… Where’s your lady?”

Duke Pulin twisted his face, stamped his foot, threw up both hands, and wailed like a siren.

“G-gone! She’s gone! She ran!” His wail pulled his features long like wet clay.

“What? Who ran? Slow down and speak,” the emcee said, fogged up like a window.

“My lady! She ran! She—”

As he hopped in panic, Duke Pulin’s gaze slid to Lingcai, who stood there stunned like a deer.

All he wanted now was to live, and he didn’t even check if this princess was real; he dropped to his knees to Lingcai like a felled tree.

“Your Highness! I’m guilty! I confess! But she can’t wash her hands of it either!”

“I took the job, yes, but she ran the process like a ledger! She sold me out and fled, but please help me catch her too!”

Lingcai had no idea what had happened; she stared at Duke Pulin kneeling to her like thunder from a clear sky.

No head, no tail; what even is this, her thoughts whirled like leaves.

But Scarlet Leaf made out two things.

One was a confession, and one was a runaway bride, like two flags in the wind.

Put together, Scarlet Leaf guessed the contour.

She nudged Lingcai with her elbow like a sparrow pecking.

“See? Told you it’s domestic violence. They’ve bullied the bride into bolting like a hare.”

“Then what guilt is he confessing?” Lingcai asked, still misty as dawn.

“Please. If he had no guilt, would a bride run?” Scarlet Leaf shook her head, leaves rustling.

Lingcai thought again, but something still didn’t line up like misfit tiles.

“That still doesn’t track. Why ask me to drag her back…”

Scarlet Leaf couldn’t be bothered with logic; where there’s bustle, you go watch like moths to lanterns.

“Who cares. Don’t you want to know why she ran? I bet there’s an affair, juicy as pomegranate seeds.”

Seeing her grin, Scarlet Leaf was clearly set on wading into this muddy water like a heron.

A runaway bride and a chase at a wedding—spice like chili on the tongue, once in a lifetime.

“Alright. Let’s move.”