The early wind carried heavy snow, which covered the long green brick street of Jicheng, the capital of the Yan Kingdom.
Shen Qingwu carried Murong Heng on his back and walked staggeringly in the snowy night. The snow particles hit the face like fine ice particles, which cut people painfully. Her cloak had already been soaked by the wind and snow, and the cold and wet cloth stuck to her back, making her teeth chatter with the cold. But she didn't dare to stop. The man's breath on her back was weak, and warm blood was seeping out from his wounds, staining her clothes red, and quickly condensing into ice in the cold wind.
"Qing Wu..." Murong Heng's voice was as breathless as a silkworm, with the hoarseness of a serious injury, "Put me down... You can't walk."
Shen Qingwu bit his lips, which were already numb from the cold, and the smell of blood filled his mouth. She tilted her head slightly, her forehead pressed against his cold temples, her voice was as light as the sound of falling snow, but with unquestionable stubbornness: "Your Highness, I can carry it."
Murong Heng struggled to open his eyes. In the wind and snow, he could only see the girl's slender but straight back, like a green pine that was bent by the snow but never broke. He is the seventh prince of the Yan Kingdom. His mother and concubine died young, and he was shocked every step of the way in the East Palace. Today, he was framed by the prince, and his entire family was massacred. Only he escaped under the cover of Shen Qingwu.
The sound of horse hooves and the cry of killing behind him seemed to still be echoing in his ears, but Shen Qingwu carried him on his back and walked out of the Shura field.
The snowy night is endless and the road is long. Murong Heng's consciousness gradually blurred, and he could feel the girl's footsteps getting heavier and heavier, but she never let go of him. He stretched out his trembling hand, trying to brush away the falling snow from her hair, but his fingertips only touched a piece of ice.
