Zhao Yan froze at the sound of the voice, his hands still gripping the burning wood.
Slowly, almost as if afraid to look, he turned his head.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
Standing a few meters away, Hua Jing was there—alive, disheveled, but very much alive.
In her arms was another maid, unconscious and pale, her body slumped as if she'd succumbed to the smoke.
Zhao Yan's heart clenched. Relief surged through him, but the weight of his earlier fear crushed him all at once.
His grip on the smoldering wood slackened, and it fell from his hands with a dull thud.
His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground.
He didn't even notice the sting of his burned palms.
All he could do was breathe.
She was alive.
Hua Jing's brows furrowed as she took in the sight before her.
She gently laid the maid down onto the snowy ground and rushed toward Zhao Yan.
