Time passed quickly, and in the blink of an eye, it was March. Even though spring was approaching, the snow in the north hadn't melted. The temperatures during the day remained low. With March came stronger winds, and the piercing spring breeze wasn't just an expression—going outside for a round left one chilled to the bone, as if their very skeleton ached with the cold.
Even entering April wouldn't bring much warmth. On the contrary, as the earth thawed, it released a chill in its final moments. Zhulan's heart ached even more for Zhou Shuren, whose hands, only recently recovered, were about to suffer again.
Time flew by, and before long, it was the latter part of March. The carriages and procession for the trip to Pingzhou had been arranged, and they were set to depart for Pingzhou tomorrow.
For this trip to Pingzhou, Zhulan took along Ming Teng, Yushuang, and Xue Han. Staying in Pingzhou for at least a month and a half, Zhulan would have been too lonely on her own.
