Chapter Text
Shen Song didn’t make a sound. The hall held its breath, waiting, almost hungry, for the spectacle that should have followed.
The trembling lip of a discarded omega. The collapse to his knees. The helpless sobbing. The desperate hands reaching toward the alpha who had just cast him aside.
Even the emperor paused mid-gesture, eyes glittering with amusement, anticipation, cruelty.
But Shen Song only lowered his gaze once, a slow, controlled sweep downward, as if acknowledging nothing more consequential than a passing breeze.
And then he lifted his head again. No tears. No trembling. No breaking.
The calm on his face was so absolute, it felt like a slap to those watching. The silence he carried with him was heavier than any outburst, suffocating in its dignity. Courtiers shifted uneasily, whispers faltering. They had come ready to savor a tragedy; instead, they were met with an unyielding stillness that robbed them of their satisfaction.
Even Huo Ying, who had prepared himself for anything but this, flinched.
Shen Song did not look at him. Not when the decree was announced. Not when the final seal was pressed with a sharp, echoing crack that marked the official end of their marriage. Not when the scandalized murmurs burst like wildfire around them.
He kept his eyes lowered, serene, disturbingly composed, as though this was nothing more than a minor administrative adjustment to his life, rather than the moment it shattered.
He bowed perfectly. Graceful. Precise. Untouched.
Then he turned.
Huo Ying did not follow. He did not speak. He did not offer even the smallest gesture of acknowledgment, no explanation, no apology, just the cowardice of avoiding Shen Song’s gaze through guilt.
He simply stood there like a statue carved in shame and obligation, while Shen Song walked away with the soft rustle of silk.
The world saw a proud alpha discarding a now-useless omega.
And Shen Song let them believe it.
He allowed them to think him unwanted, abandoned, humiliated, because any truth he might have spoken would have been far more devastating than silence.
He chose silence, because silence was the only thing he had left that still belonged entirely to him.
Xiao Shu He hurried to his side the moment the court was dismissed.
“Song’er...” he began, voice soft, careful.
“I must make my pack, Majesty,” Shen Song said gently, bowing.
The words sounds strangely polite.
Shu He froze mid-step.
“Majesty…?” His voice cracked. “What? Why are you calling me that?”
Shen Song did not answer. He simply walked away.
They walked together back to the manor in near silence. Servants rushed out with trembling hands, expecting a storm, but Shen Song only nodded, entered his chambers, and began folding his robe sleeves with steady fingers. Xiao Shu He helped him, smoothing creases, tying bundles, placing his belongings in a small box.
He didn’t ask what happened. Shen Song didn’t offer anything.
His movements were controlled, efficient. He packed only what belonged to him, the books he treasured, a few garments, a small carved wooden bird Huo Ying once gave him. His hand paused on that last one… but only for a moment.
Then he set it aside. Not taking it. Not destroying it. Leaving it.
Some things needed to be left behind.
When the last item was packed, Shen Song smoothed his sleeves, straightened, and exhaled a soft, almost invisible breath.
“It’s done.”
Shu He swallowed, throat tight. “Song’er… will you go home?”
Shen Song shook his head, movements small and controlled.
“No. Not now. The gossip would swarm around my family before I even reached the gates. I won’t make them bear that.”
“Then… where?” Shu He’s fingers curled as if bracing for the answer.
For the first time since leaving the court, Shen Song looked at him.
The exhaustion in his eyes was not loud. Not dramatic.
“Your palace,” he said softly. “If… you’ll have me, Shu He.”
Shu He didn’t hesitate, didn’t blink.
“Always,” he whispered.
And so Shen Song stepped out of the manor. The gates closed behind him with a soft thud, final, cold. Like the closing of a chapter he hadn’t wanted to write but had no choice but to finish.
The days after the divorce settled into a quiet ache, one that made no sound, yet filled every corner of Shen Song’s life.
Silence had followed him out of Huo Ying’s manor and into Xiao Shu He’s palace. It clung to him like a second skin, settling behind his ribs, pooling beneath his tongue, heavy and patient.
No matter how many herbs he crushed into powder, no matter how many bundles he sorted, no matter how many wounds he sutured with meticulous, practiced care, the silence remained.
It became his companion.
At first, the rumors circled like vultures, delighting in what little carrion they thought they had.
A divorced omega was spectacle enough.
A divorced omega rejected by the empire’s most beloved general was better than theatre.
The palace whispered. The market whispered.
Even some of Shu He’s servants whispered, though more cautiously.
But Shen Song did not lower his head or break under their eyes.
He simply continued forward, quiet as falling snow.
Shu He kept him close, and Duan Zi’ang hovered at his shoulder like a loyal guard dog, one who looked ready to maul anyone who so much as breathed too loudly near Shen Song.
And because Shen Song never reacted, because he gave the gossips nothing to feast on, after several days the rumors began to starve and die.
But the glances lived on.
People still stared when he crossed the market street to buy herbs.
Some with sympathy, too heavy to bear. Some with curiosity, sharp as needles.
A few with that sour disdain reserved for omegas who did not stay in their place.
Shen Song kept his gaze lowered, not from shame, but from exhaustion. Pity weighed more heavily than hatred, and he didn’t have the strength to carry either.
He filled his days the only way he knew how: with work.
Rational work.
He treated soldiers returning from skirmishes in the north, their blood freezing on their armor before he warmed it away.
He mixed tonics for a fever ripping through the lower districts, stitched wounds so deep even Duan Zi’ang had to turn his face aside.
His hands never trembled. His voice never cracked.
Patients whispered about the quiet doctor with calm eyes and a broken heart they were too afraid to mention aloud.
At night, he slept in a small side chamber of Shu He’s palace.
Not the large, airy rooms prepared for honored guests, just a modest chamber near his worktable, where the scent of herbs and boiling water clung to the air.
It suited him. He did not need comfort. Only space to breathe.
During this same period, the emperor behaved as though Shen Song had vanished from the world entirely. No summons. No questions. Not even the petty cruelty of attention.
He told himself that often enough that it almost sounded true.
No spies lingered near Shu He’s palace. No officials asked after him with thinly veiled curiosity.
It was as if he had vanished from the world he once occupied, as if the court had neatly erased the omega.
But Huo Ying did not vanish, his presence in the capital grew heavier.
Everyone whispered that the emperor had tightened the reins.
Shen Song had heard enough in the infirmary to know that Huo Ying appeared at court with a rigid posture, tense shoulders, bloodless knuckles, as if he lived half the day chained.
Shen Song never asked about him. Never let Shu He speak of him.
He had set rigid boundaries around his world, but fate, predictably, respected none of them.
It happened at the market once.
Shen Song was selecting herbs, sleeves carefully tied above his wrists, basket beside him. Duan Zi'ang was near him, silent but attentive. The air smelled of vegetables, ink, and wood smoke.
And then he felt it. A slight shiver down his neck.
A change in the breathing of the crowd. The unmistakable presence of an alpha whose scent he once knew better than the beating of his own heart.
A gap between the people, a brief clearing, and their eyes almost met…
Almost.
Because Shen Song turned his head at the last instant. Huo Ying looked.
Shen Song squeezed the basket tightly until the straw left deep red marks on his palms.
He didn't bow. He didn't acknowledge him. He didn't allow himself a single lingering glance.
And the instant they left the market square behind, he said to Duan Zi’ang:
“Let’s hurry. We have work to do.”
As if the work could heal what had broken inside him.
As if silence alone could protect him from the only person whose presence still undid him with a single sigh.