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Chapter Text

Lan Jingyi didn’t hate Discussion Conferences. He reserved his hate for discipline one hundred and ninety-four (“speak temperately and be economical with your words”), hornets (he didn’t care that they were a thousand times smaller than him, one stung him on the hand when he’d been little and he still had nightmares about it), and that one stuffy merchant in Caiyi who had ratted him out to his father when he’d tried to buy his first jar of wine (the asshole had even taken his money for it before sending word ahead to Cloud Recesses.)

When compared to the list of unfair disciplines, hornets, and blabbermouth wine sellers, sitting around in a room for hours on end being bored and trying to pay attention to every small interaction between sects in case something ended up coming back to them, Discussion Conferences weren’t even that bad.

Or so he told himself about a thousand times on the trip from Gusu to Baling.

Unlike the grandery of places such as Cloud Recesses or Koi Tower, the Baling sect seat was simple but elegant; built up around the thick natural forests in the area, trees spiralling upwards along walkways and weaving around buildings—a setting appropriate for a quiet romance instead of a sweeping epic.

All things considered, it probably explained a lot about his friend Ouyang Zizhen.

Speaking of whom, Lan Jingyi scanned the crowd and spotted him shadowing Sect Leader Ouyang across the room. Lan Jingyi, tailing behind his own father and Zewu-jun as they entered, caught his eye and grinned in a highly indecorous manner until Lan Jingyi’s father hummed in a vaguely chastising manner and Lan Jingyi schooled his face back to an imitation of his family’s vaunted neutrality.

“Zewu-jun, Hanguang-jun, welcome,” Sect Leader Ouyang said once they reached him. The Lan party bowed. Zewu-jun launched into niceties and perfunctory greetings. Lan Jingyi and Ouyang Zizhen strictly avoided looking at one another, the same way they had in class with Shugong during their lectures. Without a mediating influence, they just tended to make one another laugh.

Their eyes met only long enough for them to nod solemnly at one another, as if they were just greeting one another befitting distinguished young masters of their stations, instead of planning to sneak off together as soon as possible.

Lan Jingyi looked across the gathered crowd, frowning when his eyes landed on an unfamiliar group of cultivators. With all the time he’d spent tracing and memorizing sect lineages, he thought he knew (of) at least all the attendees of gatherings such as this one.

“A-Die,” he whispered, once Set Leader Ouyang had left them to greet the next group of arrivals. “Who is that?”

His father glanced across Lan Jingyi’s shoulder. The air around them instantly grew colder. “The Moling Su.”

“Who?” He’d never heard of the Su sect. “Why is their sect leader dressed like you? If, you know, you sort of vaguely described the robes you wanted to an inexperienced tailor. Who was maybe also blind?”

“Su She was once a Lan disciple,” A-Die told him, though not without the smallest tilt to the corner of his mouth. “I have not seen him at a Discussion Conference in many years.”

Su She seemed to notice their eyes upon him and lifted his chin proudly, as though he needed to unblock the air flowing through his sinuses.

"Why hasn't he attended these things before?"

"He came quite frequently," A-Die replied. "He had been formerly distinguished by Jin Guangyao. Since Jin Guangyao’s execution he has lived a life of introspection."

Judging from the nasty way Su She was eyeing up Lan Jingyi’s father, he’d apparently introspected his way to becoming an enormous asshole, assuming he wasn’t one already.

A-Die continued, “He considered himself to be my rival.”

Lan Jingyi snorted loud enough to draw attention to them.

His father remained stoic until the curious eyes turned away from them. “Jing-er,” he murmured in reproof.

Lan Jingyi lowered his eyes, though he couldn’t quite help the sceptical twist to his mouth. His father had no rivals, because there wasn’t a single living cultivator who could aspire to be his equal. Zewu-jun (almost) matched him in skill and dignity, but they never competed against one another.

Ouyang Zizhen caught his eye and Lan Jingyi almost lost it again. He couldn’t wait to tell him about this later.

“Is everything all right?” Zewu-jun asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Lan Jingyi nodded violently. “Yes, Zewu-jun.”

“Jingyi asked about Sect Leader Su,” A-Die told him.

“Ah,” Zewu-jun nodded, though the corners of his mouth twitched. They passed the tables set aside for the Moling Su on their way to their own places near the front of the room, as befitting the dignity of the Lan. “Try to be more temperate, Jingyi.”

He nodded, but if he was being honest he’d heard the same thing pretty much every day since he’d learned how to talk. While he strove every day to improve himself, he was also pretty realistic about his chances.

Proceedings officially began once YunmengJiang arrived. Lan Jingyi never would have called the elegant politicking at events like these boring aloud, even during the first day of congratulatory salutes, toasts, and acknowledgments of people’s achievements, whether or not they’d been accomplished in the last decade. There were only so many times he could hear about how Sect Leader Yao fought a righteous battle during the Sunshot Campaign and, according to Sect Leader Yao, elevated the Yao to the dignity of the other great sects before Lan Jingyi wanted to strangle himself with his own sash.

As they’d silently promised one another, Lan Jingyi and Ouyang Zizhen sought one another out as soon as the opening ceremonies had completed, once everyone was excused for a short recess before dinner.

BalingOuyang had space enough for their disciples and visiting dignitaries, but not much else. Ouyang Zizhen steered him towards one of the backmost courtyards, practically vibrating with excitement.

“There’s going to be a crowd hunt for younger disciples tomorrow,” he finally burst out once they’d sufficiently separated themselves from the rest of the crowd.

“What’s the prey?” Lan Jingyi asked. He’d take a night hunt over sitting around any day.

“No one knows. Just in the past week, there’s been something terrorizing some of the farmers on our southern borders.” Ouyang Zizhen’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “I’ve been trying to find out more, but my father won’t let me see any of his correspondence. He says I romanticize things too much.” That was surprisingly insightful for a man who’s only intellectual equal was Sect Leader Yao, but Lan Jingyi wasn’t about to say as much. Ouyang Zizhen wouldn’t appreciate it, even when said in his defense.

They both came to a halt when they stumbled across another man, a few years their senior, standing under a well-groomed tree in the middle of the courtyard. A whiff of osthmanthus clouded around him, gone as soon as he turned towards them and his heavy golden robes upset the air.

The Jin sect heir, Jin Ziyu, never struck Lan Jingyi as particularly interesting. Nice enough, when he could be cajoled into a conversation, but his cultivation was weak and he got way too uptight whenever called upon to speak in front of more than two or three people. When he'd visited Cloud Recesses as a guest disciple, at Jin Guangshan’s command to help ‘mend the breach’ between their sects, he’d largely kept to himself. While Shugong had muttered once or twice about his lamentable academic achievements, seeing as he didn’t step foot inside their library even once during the visit, no one found any fault with his conduct.

“Pardon us, Jin-gongzi,” Ouyan Zizhen said. They both bowed. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Honestly, Jin Ziyu already looked pretty damn disturbed. His eyes were red, as though he’d been crying. While Lan Jingyi had never seen him looking particularly cheerful, the melancholy downturn of his mouth looked far more tragic than normal.

“Young Masters,” Jin Ziyu whispered. He bowed back to them, probably deeper than anyone in his clan would have appreciated. Especially his father. “It was very noisy in the main hall.”

Lan Jingyi bit down on his lower lip to stop himself from speaking. With Jin Guangshan increasingly ill, Jin Ziyu tended to be the leading Jin clan representative at Discussion Conferences and sect events, which largely meant the Jin went completely overlooked or ignored because of his inability to successfully debate a point. Apparently they hadn’t had anything of real value to say since the execution of Jin Guangyao.

"Do you need anything, Young Master Jin?" Ouyang Zizhen asked, a far more conscientious host than Lan Jingyi would ever naturally be. Zewu-jun and Shugong kept trying to pull it out of him, and every time he kept backsliding into nosier, noisier habits.

“Did someone say something nasty to you?” Lan Jingyi demanded. Seriously, it was like picking on a kid. In the child sense. Also sort of in the baby goat one (he just had such ridiculously enormous eyes).

Jin Ziyu blinked. “I…?”

The thing of it was that if someone had said something awful, it was just as likely to have been a member of his own sect. Everyone knew that Jin Ziyu had been his father's last choice of an heir; his legitimate son died when Lan Jingyi had barely been weaned, his preferred illegitimate son executed after the Lan had uncovered the beginnings of an honestly fucking horribleplot against Sect Leader Nie (Lan Jingyi would know!), and his only living grandson sent into exile with Jin Guangyao's grieving widow. As the eldest remaining bastard, Jin Ziyu had been scooped up and legitimized before his half-brother's corpse had gone cold and no one in Koi Tower really seemed prepared to let him forget it. Especially not Jin Guangshan.

“You’re the sect heir, aren’t you? You can order them whipped.” Ouyang Zizhen turned a surprised eye on Lan Jingyi. “Or something. I don’t know. Make them write lines. Last time I said Lan Yanwei was being a mouldy carrot, I ended up having to copy the code of conduct as it pertained to respect for others.” Although, all things considered, he doubted the Jin of Lanling had any rules about that particular subject. If they did, they probably wouldn’t produce so many assholes.

Jin Ziyu coughed out a watery sound that might’ve been a laugh, maybe, if people could laugh and cry at the same time. “I’m not going to order to have anyone whipped.” His mouth twitched up in a weak approximation of a smile. “But thank you.”

Lan Jingyi crossed his arms. If Jin Ziyu was going to be sect leader, he should get used to ordering punishments for people who disrespected him, but he doubted saying as much would do anything more than make Jin Ziyu even more uncomfortable and awkward.

He could learn, he just sometimes preferred not to.

“Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight, then? My father will be hosting the sect leaders in his private rooms, but I’m certain that we can sneak you away.” Ouyang Zizhen also happened to have the foremost collection of fine wine in all of Baling waiting for them back in his rooms and from the look of things Jin Ziyu definitely needed a jar or five.

Jin Ziyu looked terribly tempted, but as soon as his gaze drifted from Ouyang Zizhen to Lan Jingyi, his face fell. “No. I… I should represent myself as best as I can.” He bowed to them again. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Before either of them could protest, he beat a hasty retreat out one of the side pathways leading back to the main hall.

“He is going to have a rough time as sect leader until he figures out how to straighten his backbone,” Lan Jingyi said.

Ouyang Zizhen nodded solemnly in agreement.

Lan Jingyi wanted it noted—or, would have wanted it noted before he’d gotten separated from the other members of the Lan night-hunting party—that he had done his utmost to prepare for this excursion. He’d packed up all the basics! Extra rations! Premade talismans! A (presumably) unnecessary number of flares (used up, for all the good they’d done him)! All of it gleaned from the Ouyang stores and his own horde of supplies shortly after the hunt was announced.

All now completely useless.

Because he was about to die.

The day started off well. A-Die had been in prime form, levelling literally the entire cultivation world with enough disdain to remind them all how very, very far above their petty concerns he held himself. Zewu-jun’s smile was actually real when he sat down next to Sect Leader Nie. No one even mentioned Jingyi staying out past curfew with Ouyang Zizhen, sampling his wonderfully strong baijiu.

As Ouyang Zizhen had promised, the matter of the disturbance on his borders had been announced by Sect Leader Ouyang first thing that morning, a call to the gathered sects to lend some aid to the investigation. With all the sect leaders and officials so Terribly Busy examining their navels (the Lan contingent notwithstanding, though Lan Jingyi could say with utmost confidence their navels were finer than anyone’s) they decided that a handful of junior disciples could handle the matter.

And it had all gone drastically downhill from there.

Ouyan Zizhen caught Lan Jingyi’s gaze and winced dramatically when his father continued on to say that his own disciples were required to stay behind to assist with hosting duties. Given that Lan Jingyi had been looking forward to spending more much-needed time with the only other person his age he could stand to be around, the night hunt did not hold half as much appeal as it had when Zizhen-xiong had mentioned it the day before.

From there it turned into just the worst sort of grandstanding as every sect insisted that their disciples were the most worthy of the honour until everyone agreed to turn it into some ridiculous crowd hunt and set them all off after some unknown threat which probably didn’t need thirty cultivators after it, even if some of them were more competent than others.

They’d all been sent off to collect the necessities. Lan Jingyi was halfway through the process of packing away aforementioned extras when Jin Ziyu poked his head through his doorway. He’d looked better than he had the day before, but not by much. Lan Jingyi caught himself wondering if the other man actually slept.

“Lan-gongzi,” he murmured in greeting. “You’re going?”

“Yeah,” Lan Jingyi huffed, probably way more informal than he should have been, but whatever. You could only be so formal around someone you’d practically caught bawling his eyes out, in his opinion. Jin Ziyu might’ve been the heir of LanlingJin, but Lan Jingyi was technically the second heir to GusuLan, though he really preferred to avoid thinking about it. “You?”

“I’m supposed to stay here,” he said. He didn’t look too disappointed; probably because he got to hang out with Ouyang Zizhen while Lan Jingyi was stuck with all the fucking eggs. “You… you could stay. You’re nicer than I thought.”

“You thought I wasn’t nice?” Lan Jingyi asked with a frown.

Jin Ziyu shook his head wildly. “It’s just. I thought. You.” He took a breath. “You should stay here.”

Without another word, he scurried off. Lan Jingyi watched him go before shaking his head and returning to packing. While he didn’t necessarily want to go out without Ouyang Zizhen, he also couldn’t see himself happily sitting behind without anything else to do except make increasingly silly faces to see which one of them broke first. Not to mention the shit he’d get from the other disciples if he stayed behind.

And then he’d been shuffled off behind Lan Yanwei, Lan head disciple and perennial pain in Lan Jingyi’s ass.

It became pretty clear right away that none of the gathered cultivators intended to stay together, but with only one road leading to the border towns, they didn’t have much choice. Everyone started trying to muscle their way to the front of the pack the moment the Baling sect hall faded from view.

Which led to another note Lan Jingyi would be presenting for consideration when describing his awful day: the groups from the Jin and Jiang sects were actually impossible to get along with. Not a single one of them had been socialized enough as children (and this was coming from Lan Jingyi, who’d been raised in a sect that did not socialize their children as a point of pride), leaving them all jockeying for position and boasting of their prowess since leaving the Discussion Conference.

(“I just don’t know why we need to have so many mediocre cultivators along for this,” Jin Chan said through his fucking nose, which Lan Jingyi really, really wanted to break, “Obviously the entire thing could be left to proper Jin cultivators.”

“Probably they wanted the matter to be resolved,” snapped Yu Shumiao, the Jiang sect head disciple. Lan Jingyi had spent many confusing years being both attracted to and terrified of her before the terror won. “Which is why they should have assigned it to YunmengJiang.”

Though they usually didn’t get along, Lan Yanwei and Lan Jingyi traded long-suffering looks as the two bickered. At least the Lan knew well enough to keep their tongues behind their teeth while in mixed company.)

Shortly after their arrival in the small town on the very outskirts of Baling, he’d caught the corner of his robes on a loose nail and ripped a palm-sized chunk right out of his left sleeve. When he’d retrieved his spares, he’d discovered he’d grabbed the ones with the obvious burn across the rump from the last time he’d been out of Cloud Recesses. He hadn’t expected anyone to say anything about it, either, therefore Lan Yanwei had immediately decided to demonstrate his immense, impressive character growth since he’d been twelve and an asshole by pointedly apologizing on Lan Jingyi’s behalf to every single person they came across for the next hour.

The final injustice: Lan Jingyi had gone ahead to scout out the area and somehow ended up getting hopelessly lost. He hadn’t even realized it, until muffled grunting and the shrill scream of a predator in pursuit of its prey caught his attention and sent him barrelling through the underbrush to escape the moment he figured out he was the prey in question.

He’d ripped his robes again when he’d turned around to get a look at the thing, which turned out to be a prime example of an enormous murder rat.

So now here he was, alone and stranded in the middle of an unfamiliar forest with the most vicious beast he’d ever seen biting at his heels because Lan Jingyi looked like a particularly delicious snack, which he’d find flattering in any other circumstance. The tight weave of overhead foliage made the surrounding forest night-dark and stopped his last flare from getting through; he’d narrowly avoided setting the forest ablaze by sheer luck when the rat shouldered through the flames without pause and tramped them out beneath its feet.

His legs were getting tired, but every time he slowed for even a moment the hot breath of the beast whipped across his back. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. From the scarce glances he’d caught, it stood taller than his shoulder, roared like a lion, and Lan Jingyi could confidently say he saw flames coming out of its mouth. Definitely not his imagination, nope. His imagination was completely occupied presenting him with a comprehensive list of all the myriad, violent and messy ways in which he would probably soon die.

The trees thinned out up ahead, breaking into a clearing. If he could finally get enough space to turn around and draw his sword it would be his saving grace. Immediately his imagination helpfully supplied a number of alternatives if the tight-knit branches gave way too quickly and the beast caught up with him. They all eventually led to his father finding his ribbon in a giant pile of rat droppings.

As he broke free of the treeline, Lan Jingyi spun, but not nearly quick enough. The rat-beast galloped like a horse behind him, pointy teeth bared and ready to strike. It leapt into the air and Lan Jingyi braced himself, sending a silent apology to his father, great-uncle, Zewu-jun, ancestors and pretty much everyone else he’d failed. A-Die was going to be so disappointed. Probably even disappointed enough to be obvious about it to people outside the family. And although Lan Jingyi would probably be too dead to see it, imagining it was indescribably worse. Fuck, what if this made his father cry?!

A hard jerk of his robes dragged him roughly aside.

The rat’s fangs sheared through the air where his head was moments before and its corpulent body crashed to the ground, skidding across the clearing and tearing up the grass beneath it as it’s claws scrabbled for purchase.

The young man who’d pulled him aside pushed him towards the opposite direction. A cursory look revealed him to be a few years younger than Lan Jingyi himself, wearing plain robes that didn’t suggest any sort of sect affiliation and that he was, possibly-maybe-slightly, a bit taller.

“Run!” he yelled when Lan Jingyi stared at him.

“I was running!” he snapped.

“Then you know how it works!”

They glared at each other.

The rat lumbered to its feet and roared.

They ran.

The clearing marked the edge of the nearly impassable undergrowth, and the woods opened up into slightly-easier-to-navigate terrain. The other boy charged forward like he knew where he was going and. Honestly? Good enough for Lan Jingyi.

The boy yanked Lan Jingyi to the right. “Da-ge!” he shouted into the distance. “We’re heading your way!”

“How many of you are there?” Lan Jingyi demanded.

“Just two. It’s my first night hunt.”

Well, fucking great. While hopefully the other cultivator was older than, like, sixteen, the only ‘da-ge’ that Lan Jingyi could really see being of any use at the moment was Nie Mingjue and they’d left him back at the Discussion Conference drinking wine and making a series of complicatedly besotted faces towards Zewu-jun.

“I’m ready!” a distant voice yelled.

The rat was gaining.

“There’s a plan, right?” Lan Jingyi demanded. His robes caught and tore again, though he didn’t let the grasping reach of the thorny branches slow him down.

The lack of response did not inspire confidence.

“There!” the boy shouted a moment later. Lan Jingyi could see a break between the trees, much larger than the clearing they’d left behind, even though in general he couldn’t even tell if there was much difference between one cluster of plantlife and another.

As he broke free of the treeline, he stumbled to a complete halt at the edge of the most elaborate array he’d ever seen. He stared at it for a moment in shock, before he was once again being hauled about by the back of his robes like an unruly kitten. Instead of sideways, this time he went up, getting a prime viewing spot as the rat stumbled into the array.

Lan Jingyi looked back, surprised when he didn’t see anyone looming behind him. Whoever grabbed him definitely should have been looming. He braced his feet on a tree branch and twisted around. Whoever grabbed his robes released him to the sound of a quick apology.

The ‘whoever’ ended up being another young man about his age, a smallish mole on his cheek and the most soulful eyes Lan Jingyi had ever seen outside of the puppies he (regularly and aggressively) snuck away to cuddle down in Caiyi Town.

The array lit up beneath it. The rat let loose an unholy howl, its formerly quick movements gradually slowing as it struggled against whatever held it in place. It pulled itself forward and rammed its head against the thin trunk of their escape tree. It shook dangerously. Lan Jingyi wrapped his arms around the nearest branch and held on tight.

‘Da-ge’ (still not as impressive as Nie Mingjue, though Lan Jingyi was graciously willing to provide the benefit of the doubt if he actually managed to save their lives) grabbed the back of Lan Jingyi’s robes again to keep him from toppling to the ground when the rat crashed against the tree in a quick succession of aggressive headbutts.

A few harrowing moments later, it finally began to slow down. The rat’s entire body began to calcify, its movements becoming unnaturally jerky, as though the very blood in its veins had started turning to stone, until it stood frozen in place like a horrifying statue.

Not really the sort of home decor anyone would appreciate.

(Well… Nie Mingjue might like it).

‘Da-ge’ gracefully alighted from the tree, landing with nary a whisper of feet upon the ground. Lan Jingyi and his other new friend were less successful in sticking the landing, but given neither of them ended up on their asses, Lan Jingyi decided it counted as a win.

“Young Master Lan,” ‘Da-ge’ said, bowing perfectly. The younger of the two emulated the movement, though less successfully (Shugong would have had a few things to say about the curve of his back). “This one is Song Sizhui, and my cousin Song Ling.”

“Lan Jingyi,” he replied.

Like his cousin’s, Song Sizhui’s robes were relatively plain, though of decent quality and well cared-for. He had a sword tucked into his belt, slim and unembellished compared to Song Ling’s, which could have easily fit in among the ostentatious decoration of the swords used by the Jin.

Of course, what they wore paled when considering, “I’ve never seen an array like this,” Lan Jingyi stated. “It’s amazing!”

Song Sizhui lit up like a lantern. “Thank you. And thank you for your help in trapping the beast.”

“Help?” Song Ling turned a glare on his cousin. “All he did was run around like an idiot.”

Song Sizhui sighed, “A-Ling—”

“Like you did much better!” Lan Jingyi shouted.

“Young Master Lan—”

“I saved your life, didn’t I?” Song Ling sniffed. He crossed his arms and tilted his head up. “You’d be rat shit by now if I hadn’t.”

An unfortunate echo of his earlier fears, but Lan Jingyi wasn’t about to admit it. “Well. Thanks,” Lan Jingyi muttered, trying to be gracious and missing by about a li. Song Ling humphed and nodded, though both of them kept glaring at one another until Song Sizhui interposed himself between them.

“Are you here with others, Lan-gongzi?”

“No. Yes. Sort of? We got separated a few hours ago.” He sighed. A-Die was going to be so angry. He always was when someone he cared about put themselves in danger. If he found out Lan Jingyi had almost been eaten by a giant rat he was going to lose his mind in the same controlled, stoic way he’d subtly lost his mind every other time Lan Jingyi had been an idiot throughout his childhood.

“Should we seek out any potential injured?” Lan Sizhui continued.

“I scouted ahead before that thing found me. If anything, they should be looking for me.” And probably were. Someone must’ve run back to the general Discussion Conference to announce to the world that Lan Jingyi had gone missing. If he hadn’t helped kill the beast, he’d be in for a world of mockery.

Before he could say as much, the sound of something crashing through the underbrush nearby snapped them all to attention.

“Is there another one?” Lan Jingyi yelped.

Song Sizhui and Song Ling looked at each other.

“You reset the array,” Song Sizhui ordered, “I’ll lure it away to give you more time.”

“No way. I’ll be the lure!” Song Ling protested.

“I’m older than you.”

“Only by two years!”

Song Sizhui tilted his eyebrows in a way Hanguang-jun would’ve been proud to see. “Two and a half.”

Song Ling looked as though he wanted to argue the dubious impact of a half year, but the sound of the beast charging towards them distracted him from whatever he had to say. Song Sizhui grabbed a talisman from his sleeve and activated it with a small boost of spiritual power.

“Five minutes,” Song Ling growled.

Gracious in victory, Song Sizhui merely took off into the bush. The sound of the rampage quickly followed.

“Let me help,” Lan Jingyi said, the sounds of the nearby pursuit thrumming like panic in his blood.

Song Ling sprung to action. “Move that thing!” he ordered, gesturing towards the dead beast. Lan Jingyi wrinkled his nose but grabbed for the enormous rodent, still stiff as rock and just as heavy. He dragged it out of the array, leaving a trail of smeared sigils behind.

Song Ling coached Lan Jingyi through correcting some of the complicated inscriptions. He barely kept up with the directions; it was without doubt the craziest array Lan Jingyi had ever laid down. His hand cramped halfway through fixing the most delicate of the characters, and he had to muscle his way through it even as mild agony shot up his arm. He barely finished before Song Ling crossed to grab him and haul him back out of the reach of the lines. They traded a look and both fed in their spiritual power to activate it and then both jumped into the low-hanging branches of the nearest tree.

“Da-ge!” Song Ling yelled.

Song Sizhui tumbled into the clearing, a long scratch on his cheek, and hopped up to join them just in time for the rodent to charge out after him.

The array glowed weakly. Though it contained the thing, it didn’t eliminate it the way it had its buddy.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Song Ling hissed.

“Language,” Song Sizhui reproofed mildly.

Ignoring Song Ling’s ensuing additional profanity, he grabbed a black dizi from his belt and gently lifted it to his lips. His heart lurched as Song Sizhui began to play, a wild melody that suffused the air like a physical presence.

“Why are you playing a dizi right now?” Lan Jingyi demanded. “Are you crazy?”

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then the array brightened like a sunbeam, channelling Song Sizhui’s obviously considerable spiritual power in ways Lan Jingyi had never seen musical cultivation work for anyone untrained in the Lan disciplines.

The rodent screeched out a sound like a serrated blade scraping against rock. Its body calcified like the one before, black smoke pouring out of it in clouds of resentful energy and dispersing into the array: consumed, purified, eliminated.

“Wow,” Lan Jingyi said. He dropped down from the tree, though he carefully avoided stepping into the array. Just in case. Being turned into a statue didn’t strike him as a reasonable life goal.

Song Sizhui eased himself out of the tree with grace Lan Jingyi was beginning to find mildly irritating. Lan disciples worked for years to achieve that sort of effortless elegance and only Zewu-jun and A-Die ever truly managed it. Lan Jingyi had given up somewhere around puberty. There were some disciples who would probably never stop trying. (He’d spotted Lan Yanwei practicing his walking more than once. How unfortunate he didn’t apply similar discipline to acquiring a personality.)

“My father designed it,” Song Sizhui said proudly.

The glow dimmed and died away to nothing, giving Lan Jingyi a chance to check it out with the scrutiny it deserved.

“Da-jiu is really good with this stuff,” Song Ling agreed, hopping down. And then, apparently remembering who he was talking to, rolled his eyes. “Not that you’d understand any of it.”

Lan Jingyi was getting perilously close to kicking this kid’s ass. GusuLan might not specialize in array construction, but he had seen Shugong do amazing things with nothing more than a frown and twitch.

“That’s odd,” Song Sizhui said, ignoring them in favour of examining the rat. “Look here.”

Song Ling jumped to his side, Lan Jingyi close behind. The animal had been petrified, sure, but it hadn’t changed from flesh and bone. Part of its fur had been shaved away to reveal characters tattooed on a patch of bare skin next to its left forehaunch.

“Growth. Aggression. Obedience.” Song Sizhui hummed in thought.

“Someone deliberately created this thing?” Lan Jingyi’s face twisted up in a hard frown.

Before he could say more, a groan torn from a half-rotted throat reached their ears.

"Oh, for… is there another one?!" Song Ling demanded.

"No," Song Sizhui replied immediately. "It's…" His brow furrowed and he reached for his dizi, even as Lan Jingyi unsheathed his sword.

Seconds later, a half-rotted corpse stumbled into the clearing. The array gave the spiritual equivalent of a polite cough before fading away to dust, leaving the three of them watching as the shambling dead slowly made its way towards them.

“The lure’s still active,” Song Ling said, sounding bored.

Song Sizhui lifted his dizi again and this time Lan Jingyi recognized the song. His father’s composition, one he’d played for Lan Jingyi countless times growing up to help him get to sleep. The easy melody softened the corpse’s growls until it staggered to a halt before them.

Song Sizhui began to lower his instrument, stopping when a hand clamped around his wrist. Lan Jingyi turned, and felt his face light up.

“Hanguang-jun!” he chirped. In public, among strangers, A-Die was always Hanguang-jun.

Song Sizhui’s eyes widened and he scrambled as he almost dropped his dizi from suddenly shaking fingers. Hanguang-jun stared at him, expression completely unreadable, even to Lan Jingyi. Considering he’d spent literal years of his life figuring out how to read his father’s subtleties, this caused some mild concern.

The corpse groaned and started forward again.

“Finish,” Hanguang-jun commanded, though he did not release Song Sizhui’s arm.

Song Sizhui nodded and lifted the dizi to his lips once more. A handful of notes and the corpse collapsed, melding into the ground beneath it until the soil covered it completely, suppressed with the power Song Sizhui channelled through his music.

“Is anyone injured?” Hanguang-jun asked, looking between the three of them.

“No, Hanguang-jun,” Lan Jingyi assured him. He inclined his chin. “These two took care of the beasts.” He gestured to what remained of the rats.

“Young Master Lan was a great help,” Song Sizhui insisted. Song Ling snorted. Lan Jingyi indulged himself by firmly planting his elbow in the other boy’s side, ignoring the ensuing outraged squawk. Song Sizhui looked at where Hanguang-jun was still holding him. “You really are Hanguang-jun?”

When he turned, Hanguang-jun finally released him. “To which sect do you belong?” Hanguang-jun asked.

“None,” Song Sizhui responded. “We’re but humble rogue cultivators, Hanguang-jun. I’m supervising my cousin’s first night hunt.” He introduced them by name, including Song Ling’s courtesy name Rulan, though it sat ill on his tongue as though neither of them were used to it.

The tension in Hanguang-jun’s shoulders seemed to ramp up even further, “Thank you for assisting. The other disciples have already returned to the Discussion Conference.”

Lan Jingyi sniffed. Of course they had.

“Your home is nearby?” Hanguang-jun continued to Lan Jingyi’s surprised. His father usually didn’t press people for details about themselves; according to Shugong, it invited others to do so in kind.

“About two days travel by sword,” Song Sizhui stated.

Hanguang-jun considered this carefully. “We will see you safely there.”

“That’s very kind, but unnecessary. My cousin and I are quite capable,” Lan Sizhui said.

Hanguang-jun inclined his head. “I have no doubt.”

Lan Jingyi blinked. Generally, Hanguang-jun’s default was thinking that the world around him subscribed to escalating levels of incompetence. In the entire time Lan Jingyi had known him, he’d never given anyone the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just as impressed with the (still slightly readable, despite the blown-out lines and fucking huge death rat sitting in the middle) array beneath their feet? Or Song Sizhui’s impressive use of musical cultivation? There had to be something that set these two apart.

Song Ling pointed out, “Da-jiu might like meeting the hero of his stories.”

“Your uncle tells stories about me?” Hanguang-jun asked mildly.

Song Ling nodded. “We’ve been raised on stories of Hanguang-jun.” Lan Jingyi nodded in complete understanding; everyone deserved a personal hero like his father. Song Ling leaned in towards Lan Jingyi, any irritation apparently forgotten in favour of embarrassing his cousin. “Da-ge used to tie my mother’s sewing scraps around his forehead pretending to be him.”

“A-Ling,” Song Sizhui chided, flushing with embarrassment. Song Ling shrugged unapologetically.

After recovering from his momentary mortification, Song Sizhui continued. “My father is a great storyteller,” he Sizhui admitted shyly. “One of my first memories is his retelling of how you single-handedly defeated the Xuanwu of Slaughter.”

Hanguang-jun stiffened, obvious enough for even these relative strangers to notice it. To Lan Jingyi he might as well have been screaming. “Not single-handed.”

Song Sizhui blinked and hurriedly bowed. “Please, Hanguang-jun, I’m sure my father did not mean any disrespect. He always speaks of you with nothing but absolute admiration. He frequently tells us you are the greatest of all cultivators, as well as the greatest of men.”

Lan Jingyi couldn’t argue, but still. Song Sizhui didn’t have to gush quite so much. It was going to be really awkward for him when he figured out that Hanguang-jun was just a man.

“I will come and meet your uncle to correct his misunderstanding.”

There was definitely something going on here. Something Lan Jingyi did not recognize and wasn’t sure he appreciated. He decided to wait until he could corner his father before demanding answers. Don’t reveal yourself unnecessarily to outsiders, Shugong would have suggested.

“I am certain my father and my aunt would gladly welcome such a distinguished guest,” Song Sizhui stammered. Lan Jingyi couldn’t tell if he was nervous, excited or some unholy combination of both.

“My mother will be thrilled,” Song Ling agreed with a smirk. “She loves entertaining.”

Hanguang-jun’s face softened and he nodded. “Please.”

When Song Sizhui returned his dizi to his belt and pulled out his sword, Hanguang-jun’s eyes settled on it, and if possible his face became even softer. What was going on??

“Hanguang-jun,” Lan Jingyi said, shuffling closer. He dropped his voice to whisper. “A-Die.” His father turned his attention towards Lan Jingyi. “What?”

Hanguang-jun lowered his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching in his own personal version of a smile. “Jing-er,” he replied gently. It pretty much said everything; a call for Lan Jingyi to trust him (as though he didn’t), a reassurance that everything was well (even though he was acting fucking weird), a promise of an explanation (of indeterminate timeline). All of it packed into the sound of his name on his father’s tongue.

“We should rest for the evening,” Song Sizhui suggested. Dusk had already settled like a blanket in preparation for nightfall, not to mention the substantial amount of energy taken to power the array had exhausted them all.

“Mn,” Hanguang-jun nodded. “Perhaps you can tell us more of your parents.”

Despite the decision not to travel by night, they did leave the dead beasts behind in search of another clearing. Hanguang-jun took the lead, with the rest of them falling obediently into line behind him. Though his father walked with his usual purposeful stride, Lan Jingyi caught him looking over his shoulder more than once, as though making sure they were all still there. Lan Jingyi hadn’t run off in years (today’s adventure notwithstanding) so it had to be the cousins he was keeping a close eye on. He wondered if his father would chase them if they decided to run.

They finally stopped next to a body of water just barely large enough to be called a lake.

“Lan-gongzi,” Song Sizhui said. “My cousin is an accomplished fisherman, if you would care to join him while I set up camp.” He then turned and bowed very deeply to Hanguang-jun. “I would of course be happy to arrange your own accommodations, Hanguang-jun.”

Song Ling huffed out a sigh and rolled his eyes. “I’ll just go catch some fish, then.”

“I will find wood,” Hanguang-jun said, over Song Sizhui’s protests. He disappeared back into the forest, Song Sizhui watching him all the while.

“This is very embarrassing for you, da-ge,” Song Ling said, an obnoxious grin stretched across his face.

“If you ever meet Sandu Shengshou, I will remind you of this,” Song Sizhui promised through his flushed cheeks.

Lan Jingyi scoffed. “Sect Leader Jiang is an asshole. Hanguang-jun is by far the worthiest idol anyone can have.”

“You—!” Song Ling swung out, but Lan Jingyi danced out of the way of his flailing fist.

“What? Did your uncle tell you stories about him, too?” Lan Jingyi demanded.

“My mother did,” Song Ling grumbled. He stormed off to the pond, Lan Jingyi following at a safe distance. “Da-jiu says my father was Sandu Shengshou’s equal."

There was a wealth of meaning behind that. The thought curdled in his stomach as he considered the implications. "Your father…?" he said anyway, because Lan Jingyi had never encountered a situation he couldn't make more awkward.

"Dead," Song Ling said, short. "A good man." It sounded as though he was reciting something as Lan Jingyi did the Lan disciplines. The tone forbade more questions.

“Sorry,” Lan Jingyi offered. He didn’t remember anything of his own birth parents; for years it had been only him and Hanguang-jun.

Song Ling huffed, but bumped their shoulders together by way of acknowledgment. No one from Lan Jingyi’s sect would’ve engaged in such casual touch. It felt… nice. And not unwelcome. He’d have to meditate upon it further.

They caught a few fish in silence and made their way back to where Song Sizhui had set up the tents. He'd set a talisman in the middle of a small circle he'd cleared on the ground. It sputtered and sparked, waiting for kindling.

Hanguang-jun reappeared with a stack of firewood, still managing to look completely at ease hauling a bunch of logs around. He considered the talisman, which appeared to have no other function than starting fires. "Useful," he decided.

"Baba invented it," Song Sizhui said with the same pride as when he'd told them about the array. "He spends a lot of time inventing, when he's not teaching."

Hanguang-jun set the firewood down and began stacking it, waving Lan Jingyi away when he moved to help. "He is a teacher?"

"Mn. The best teacher. He made sure A-Ling and I knew everything we needed to know to become cultivators and works with all the children in our village."

"He must be a powerful cultivator himself," Lan Jingyi mused. Anyone who could design an array the likes of which they'd used to destroy the death rat had to be pretty incredible.

Song Sizhui and Song Ling exchanged rueful looks.

"I think he was, once," Song Sizhui murmured. "He doesn't talk about it much, but he lost his golden core during the Sunshot Campaign."

The deafening crack of breaking wood split the air. They all looked towards Hanguang-jun. The largest of the logs sat halved in his hands as he stared blindly at the ground before him. Lan Jingyi knew the whole host of his father’s nuanced expressions; this one seemed all at once horrified and broken-hearted.

Song Sizhui and Song Ling both turned beseeching eyes towards Lan Jingyi. They needn’t have; he was already on his feet.

"A-Die?" he murmured, in a flagrant breach of etiquette.

"Nevermind, Jing-er," Hanguang-jun replied. His voice shook, but he did not turn his gaze from the broken wood before him, even though splinters pierced his skin. "We should prepare for the evening."

In deference to their clan precepts, Hanguang-jun retired to bed early. Though Lan Jingyi felt exhaustion pulling at him—it had been a fucking day—he stayed up sitting by the fire with Song Sizhui long after Song Ling begrudgingly passed out against his cousin's shoulder.

"There's something going on," Lan Jingyi hummed.

Song Sizhui nodded. "Hanguang-jun knows Baba. Or thinks he knows him, anyway."

"He hasn't asked for your father's name," Lan Jingyi pointed out.

"Maybe he's afraid of the answer."

Lan Jingyi scoffed. "Hanguang-jun isn't afraid of anything." But then, this didn't seem like just anything. He suspected that Song Sizhui was right: somehow, their fathers did know one another. Only he couldn't really conceive of anyone mattering enough to Hanguang-jun (besides him, Zewu-jun and Shugong) to throw him so grandly off his usual equanimity.

Song Ling snored into Song Sizhui's shoulder, and Song Sizhui smiled. He really was very pretty. Lan Jingyi shoved the thought down. Way down. Way, way, way—

"We should retire to bed, Lan-gongzi," Song Sizhui said.

“You might as well call me by name, you know. If we’re going to be travelling together.” Oh no, that was not way down.

Song Sizhui smiled. “All right then, Lan Jingyi. Come on, A-Ling."

Song Ling grumbled, but let himself be nudged to his feet. Song Sizhui steered him to their tent, but paused to cast a small smile over his shoulder.

Lan Jingyi felt like screaming at something. Anything. Because such a thing probably wouldn't go over well, he made his way to his own tent instead.

Two days later they arrived at a village by the sea.

The sun had only passed the midday mark. The town smelled of briny sea air and the fish sold in the market, along with a thousand unidentifiable scents which all screamed about the people and lives milling around them.

Song Sizhui and Song Ling enjoyed obvious popularity; as they passed through the main street, dozens of people called out to them, asking about their trip and offering well-wishes to their parents.

They lived on the southernmost border of the town, at the very edge of usable land before the mountains around them made the soil too rough to use. The home was simple compared to the Cloud Recesses, but well appointed and reclaimed from a sparse gathering of trees and rocks. A decent-sized courtyard welcomed them inside which led to a small main building with rooms to either side.

"Mama!" Song Ling shouted, madly gesturing for them to follow him.

“A-Ling,” Song Sizhui chastised, though not before a feminine voice shouted back a vague greeting from the main hall.

Hanguang-jun paused outside the entrance, his usual unflappable stoicism still firmly in place, or so Lan Jingyi thought until he saw how his father's hand clenched tightly on Bichen's sheath.

"A-Die?" he whispered.

"Go ahead, Jing-er," Hanguang-jun said with a rough voice.

Still more than a little concerned, Lan Jingyi trailed after Song Sizhui, who had fallen back in the face of Song Ling darting forward to throw his arms around a petite woman dressed in simple robes embroidered with pale purple peonies. Song Sizhui barely waited until they'd parted before offering his own embrace, which seemed less energetic, but lasted longer.

She smiled sweetly at them both, and reached out a hand to each of them, cupping their cheeks as she looked them over.

"I'm glad you’re home safe," she whispered.

"We brought guests, Auntie," Song Sizhui said. He turned to face Lan Jingyi, which was when he realized his father had hesitated outside the door. "This is Lan Jingyi. And…"

Lan Jingyi's father finally stepped inside. The world around them fell to utter silence as Madam Song and Hanguang-jun faced one another. The entire universe paused, as though taking a breath, as their eyes met across the room.

"Hanguang-jun," Madam Song finally whispered.

His father bowed. Not in his generally perfunctory, vaguely condescending manner, either. He bowed to her as though she was his valued and honoured equal.

And when he rose, Lan Jingyi stared at the tears beading the corners of his eyes.

Chapter Text

Zixuan was dead.

Jiang Yanli’s grief sat on her shoulders, an unbelievably heavy weight that she could have suffocated beneath, if it weren’t for the child in her arms. A-Ling squalled, demanding and innocent to the terrible new realities of the world around him. The other members of the Jin sect looked upon him with contempt, as though an infant only just past his first month should have been capable of controlling himself.

Zixuan would have understood. He would have glared until everyone scurried away then said something unintentionally awful and blushed and drawn out the tiniest of Jiang Yanli’s smiles, because he was so wonderfully out of his element when speaking to those around him, despite being raised by the best tutors to have the best manners. And in bed, much later, he would have asked her about how he might have conducted himself differently.

But he could not.

Because he was dead.

Her entire life, Jiang Yanli had been told that Zixuan was meant for her. Through his contempt and ignorance and awkward moments of discomfort, she had focused on the bond forged by their mothers. She had looked upon him during Discussion Conferences, when she had lingered behind her father without any sense of gravitas of her own and thought to herself, he is meant to be mine in ways that she had only ever otherwise applied to her brothers. And when he had repudiated her, and spoken to her with contempt, she had thought to herself, I will show him my value. And when he had finally seen her, she had thought to herself, Finally, he knows me.

And now Zixuan was dead.

Her mother-in-law knelt beside her, staring at Zixuan’s memorial with unseeing eyes. Jiang Yanli wondered if she thought herself to be the only one suffering, though she immediately chastised herself for being unkind. Madam Jin had been nothing but good to her, although Jiang Yanli was her mother’s choice, forwarded as a political alliance and a tribute to their longstanding friendship. Madam Jin might not have truly appreciated her as a person, but she never treated her as anything else. She whispered to her, trying to convince her to go. But Jiang Yanli could not. How could she? When her life felt as though it had ended.

“I will get you some food,” Madam Jin finally whispered. Her maids leapt to her side to help her stand. She walked as though she had lived a century in a day, legs buckling beneath the weight of her mighty grief.

As they exited the hall, a great cry went up and Jiang Yanli spun around in time to see A-Xian disappear into the night. Her brother. Her imperfect, terrible, wonderful little brother who had slipped so far into darkness he could no longer see the dawn.

“A-Xian!” she called. He would not have come here if he had no regrets. He must have had regrets.

“Somebody help!” Madam Jin screamed into the night. “Come immediately! Wei Wuxian has snuck into Koi Tower!”

A-Xian stared back at her, his face twisted up in sorrow. Not the face of a murderer, but a little boy who had suffered. Her brother. Her precious didi, who had killed her husband and destroyed the wonderful peace she’d found for herself.

She did not collapse. The women of YunmengJiang did not break. A crowd of cultivators charged up the stairs at Madam Jin’s screams and A-Xian disappeared over the rooftops, into the night. She allowed a sob to follow him before collecting herself and turning back to Zixuan, the weight of her grief almost too much to bear.

She bore it regardless, the way she had bore interminable loss since the fall of Lotus Pier.

In the chaos, one of the maids approached her as A-Ling began struggling in her too-tight embrace. She relinquished him from her numb arms to return and kneel once again before Zixuan.

What do I do? she asked. Pleaded. Demanded.

He could offer her no answers.

Because Zixuan was dead.

Evening deepened to night before she finally managed to stagger to her feet, now alone save for one or two maids who had passed out from exhaustion hours ago without the inertia of sorrow to carry them into the waking hours of the day.

She had seen the grief in her little brother’s eyes. There was enough of him remaining in this Yiling Patriarch to know that no matter his actions, he desperately regretted whatever had transpired. She knew her brother. She knew how he looked when he felt guilty. When that guilt was earned (fighting with A-Cheng) and unearned (sneaking into the kitchen at night because he felt hungry). This seemed a terrible combination of both.

Jiang Yanli blindly walked the hallways and passages of her adopted home, barely aware of where her feet took her. She needed to find her son.

She only stopped when she heard A-Cheng’s voice.

In her stupor, she’d walked all the way across Koi Tower, towards her father-in-law’s private reception chamber. He was hosting the other sect leaders, she remembered numbly. All of them already gathered together for her son’s celebration, now lingering to offer their condolences for the death of her husband.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” she recognized Jin Guangyao’s voice, her brother-in-law speaking sweet poison, “Your love for your brother is admirable, but misguided. How can we confidently say that Wei Wuxian is capable of being redeemed, when he trucks exclusively in resentful energy and relies so heavily on demonic cultivation?”

“Agreed,” Nie Mingjue’s voice rang out, despite his well-known reluctance to support anything Jin Guangyao said. “You know I had deep respect for your brother’s contributions to the Sunshot Campaign, but since then his actions have been inexcusable.”

“If only he would come to Gusu,” Lan Xichen offered, quietly grieved.

“Er-ge, if Hanguang-jun could not convince him to forgo his evil path, what chance does anyone else have?” Jin Guangyao asked.

“Be reasonable, Jiang Cheng! Is it not mercy to put down a rabid hound?” Jin Guangshan demanded.

How. Dare. They. Her brother was not some mad dog, desperately attacking anything that came too close. She had seen him, there, outside the hall in which her husband’s coffin lay. All she saw in his eyes was his humanity and his sorrow. Beasts did not weep.

Jiang Yanli’s hands tightened into fists at her side as she waited for A-Cheng to refute them with all the powerful rage of a son of Yu Ziyuan.

“I only meant that Wei Wuxian might be useful if he lives,” A-Cheng persisted, as though their brother was some sort of tool for the world to exploit. Her cracked heart tumbled down towards her feet before she desperately rallied her optimism. A-Cheng would say anything, wouldn’t he, to save A-Xian’s life? “He has allowed himself to be swayed by evil acts, but he could be rehabilitated. Now that you have eliminated the army he’s been supporting…”

“Ah, but is it enough to see those treacherous Wen dogs dead?” Jin Guangshan demanded, “The real threat is still waiting for us in the Burial Mounds, biding his time until he rises with a thousand thousand corpses at his beck and call?”

“Father, surely with the destruction of his subjects, we cannot expect Wei Wuxian to rise again.” Jin Guangyao protested. Jiang Yanli felt hope rise treacherous and uncertain in her chest. He paused, “Unless—” the hope faltered and wilted in her chest as a flower on a winter-bitten stem, “—He seeks revenge for the deaths of his loyal followers. It would be within his power.”

Jiang Yanli waited for A-Cheng to speak again on A-Xian’s behalf. He had to. She knew, of course she knew, A-Cheng and A-Xian had been at odds, but she couldn’t believe that even the death of her husband could have sundered them entirely. A-Cheng was the leader of the Jiang, in every way as powerful and influential as these other men around him who called for him to do violence against A-Xian. Perhaps the Jiang did not have the martial might they once enjoyed, but she’d never doubted her didi’s ability to build them back up again. And once he publicly reconciled his staged argument with A-Xian, he would be unstoppable, capable of the impossibilities they had been born to pursue.

He just needed to speak his mind, the way their mother would have. A-Niang had never loved A-Xian, but she would not carelessly set aside the obligation she owed a member of the Jiang. Surely A-Cheng would not—

“Very well,” A-Cheng said, his voice barely a whisper. Jiang Yanli could tell the moment he straightened, as his words rang out across the room, because it was the moment a piece of herself died. “Then we march on the Burial Mounds to destroy the Yiling Patriarch.”

Her blood ran cold, but Jiang Yanli refused to give herself away with the smallest whisper of her heartbreak. She crept back along the wall, her steps assiduously silent, all the while grasping at her chest as though she could keep what remained of her heart from rending itself away into nothing.

She finally turned a corner, far enough away from the meeting hall, to speed her steps. She made her way quickly to her rooms, and shut the door tight behind her.

“Shao-furen?”

She looked at the servants—Jin servants, because she had been strongly discouraged from bringing her own people to Koi Tower—and managed to dredge up a sallow smile. “How is our little master?”

“Very well,” The girl picked A-Ling up from his crib and carried him over, easily passing him into Jiang Yanli’s arms. They were not malicious girls, really, but neither were they Jiang.

She looked at her son; her lovely, precious child. The only thing she truly had left of Zixuan. The only part of Koi Tower she did not despise. Would he eventually be corrupted by the poison seeping from the walls? Was she strong enough to ensure he did not grow up selfish and cruel, a lone exception as his father before him? She wanted to believe it, but she also wanted to believe that A-Cheng would not act against A-Xian. How could she hold onto such belief, when every certainty to which she’d ever held crashed down around her?

“You are excused for the evening,” Jiang Yanli said with a kind smile. The girl bowed and showed herself from the room, trailed by a short line of maids.

Jiang Yanli settled herself into a nearby seat and rearranged her robes to feed A-Ling, curving her back to give him better access to her breast as she found her gaze fixing itself on the middle distance. Her mourning robes hung heavily on her shoulders, a physical manifestation of her sorrow. She felt as though she had been in mourning for years; her father, her mother, the Jiang disciples, her husband. Now she would have to mourn her brother as well?

No.

No, she refused.

Once A-Ling finished she tucked him against her shoulder and patted his back until he coughed and settled. A-Cheng made a choice. While she loved him as fiercely as she loved A-Xian, he had a world of privilege and wealth to comfort him. She had reluctantly abandoned A-Xian once in her belief that he’d found a new family to care for him. If she continued neglecting her duty as his sister they would murder him like they had the people who’d cared for him. And no matter what anyone said, she refused to believe he intentionally killed Zixuan, not when he knew how Jiang Yanli loved him.

She stood and calmly set A-Ling into his cradle. A few half-sobs rasped in her chest and choked her for air until she finally managed to fight in a decent heave of breath. The daughter of Madam Yu could not afford to cry instead of taking action.

A-Xian. A-Ling. These had to be her priorities.

Her mourning robes were too obvious; they needed to go. She flung them off, but ignored the gauzy finery which Zixuan and Madam Jin provided her upon her marriage. Instead, she managed to put her hands upon a few simpler pieces which she had brought along from Lotus Pier. Still noticeable, in their own way, but it had been over a year since her marriage and the residents of Koi Tower were accustomed to seeing her in gold. The wrinkled fabric would hopefully make up for the delicate weave of the cloth. She wept as she pulled them on, trying to remember that loyalty to A-Xian was not a betrayal of her husband, for all she should have remained in white for a year or more. She tied her sash, her hands trembling.

She would mourn Zixuan forever. But she would not do it in Koi Tower. If she remained here, she would inevitably drown under poisoned oceans of golden cloth as her grief dragged her beneath the oceans of scorn.

The Jin were wealthier than the Jiang could ever conceive. It took only a work of moments to strip a number of valuable pieces from her room, tucking them into a qiankun pouch along with Suihua. Her husband’s sword would belong to his son.

The maids had provided her with a clever sling to keep A-Ling close and her hands free. Once she’d wrapped it across her body she finished with the black cloak she had used to conceal her wedding clothes on her first and only trip to Yiling. She needed to move quickly, she decided as she tucked A-Ling into the straps across her chest. He slept on, milk-drunk and biddable as she made her way from her room to the stables.

No one attended the stables this late at night save for a single stablehand, passed out in the corner with jars of cheap wine littering the straw around him. She chose two horses; the fastest of Zixuan’s animals. Jiang Yanli had never been much of a rider, but she fancied she could make it to Yiling as they worked out the details of this… Suppression Conference. As long as she made it to the Burial Mounds ahead of them, she could find A-Xian and take him away. She couldn’t guess where they might go, but anywhere was preferable to the world of cultivation determined to see him dead.

Jiang Yanli saddled the horses poorly, though well enough to keep herself mounted. A day and a night to Yiling if she rode hard, though she had little doubt it would take her even longer to make sure A-Ling did not suffer. Two days, then. Enough time for the great leaders of the cultivation world to summon their loyal warriors to them with the intent of killing her little brother, but not enough time for them to organize an effective march. She'd seen enough during the Sunshot Campaign to know how long it took to move people in great numbers.

Let them come. She would make sure by the time they had decided upon a course of action, she and A-Xian would be far and away.

She mounted her horse and froze as she settled in the saddle. If she insisted upon her unconditional love of A-Xian, she would never be able to return to Koi Tower. Zixuan had given her his whole heart, eventually. Their love grew and thrived in this place. And yet, she could help but feel that he had become a good man despite where he had grown.

Silly, stupid, naive; her mother had called her all of these things for choosing to believe the best of the world around her. All Jiang Yanli wanted was the world to live up to her expectations of it.

She also never believed wholeheartedly that it would.

She kicked her horse, and steered it out into the night.

She'd worried, upon reaching the Burial Mounds, that finding A-Xian among all the death and desolation would be impossible. But like her brothers, Jiang Yanli lived by her sect's motto. She would face a battlefield to protect her brothers; a mountain of corpses held no fear.

Fortunately for both of them, A-Xian had never been a subtle person.

"Stop.” A wordless scream and then, “I said stop!"

"A-Xian?" She stepped through a knot of trees, and found herself suddenly facing her little brother. He lay supine before her, tucked into the soil as though waiting for the ground itself to consume him, rotting away like a living corpse. He barely twitched at her approach. "A-Xian!"

Black clouds of resentful energy swirled around them, frosty cold biting into what little of her skin peaked out from beneath her robes. She couldn't be sure if the Burial Mounds themselves were trying to speak, or A-Xian's brand of cultivation called to him in such a way, but she could almost hear the words repeated in the air around them, seeking A-Xian's fealty to their twisted demands.

"Not real," he murmured pathetically. He batted at her hand when she reached for him, freezing when he touched her skin. He turned wild eyes towards her. "Shijie?"

She placed her hand gently on the side of his head. With aching, bone-deep weariness, he slowly inched up onto his knees.

All at once, the wisps of black energy dissipated, fleeing into the night around them. Not gone, she felt, but hiding away from her love.

He burst into messy tears only a moment later. "Shijie, they're all dead. It's my fault, Shijie, I only wanted to help."

How could the great leaders of this flawed world believe him capable of what they accused him? Her little brother had only ever had the best intentions, no matter where they had eventually led.

"It is not your fault," Jiang Yanli insisted. Who could truly control a fierce corpse forever? They had both paid for his inability to keep a handle on Wen Qionglin; her with her husband, A-Xian with the family he had made for himself. "A-Xian, we need to go."

"I can't, Shijie, I deserve to die."

"NO!" Jiang Yanli's shout woke A-Ling and her son began to wail. "No, A-Xian. No. Don't you ever say that." She grabbed his face in her hands. "No matter what you've done, or what has happened, it isn't meant to be at the cost of your life." And if it was, she refused to let him pay it. She would pay it for him a thousand times before she let him die.

A-Xian's shakily covered her hands with his own, his touch like frostbite against her skin. They stared at each other as she willed him to understand her as her touch slowly warmed his palms. Finally, his gaze dropped to her son.

He lowered a trembling hand to A-Ling's forehead and ran his shaky fingers across A-Ling's fine hair. A-Ling gradually calmed. “This is…”

"Your nephew," she told him. "I will not allow him to grow up in a world that believes his da-jiu to be evil."

His hand fell and he curled in on himself. "I've never wanted to do evil things," A-Xian sobbed. "Never, Shijie." He looked up at her, desperation crowding once again into his gaze. "Please believe me."

"I do," she whispered. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear and used her sleeve to mop away his tears, as she had done countless times since he’d come to her as a child and she’d been the only one to offer him any comfort. "Shijie is here now, Xianxian."

"It's too late," he murmured.

"No."

"But Shijie—"

"No," she snapped again. A-Ling, barely mollified from before, began fussing anew. Jiang Yanli awkwardly bounced him against her while keeping an insistent hand on A-Xian. He needed to feel her holding him in a world where everyone else seemed desperate to see him gone.

A-Xian took a deep breath. His eyes flickered red and a whisper of cold wind rose around them. "They deserve to pay for what they've done."

"No more revenge," Jiang Yanli ordered.

"But—"

"Does anyone deserve revenge more than I?" To get A-Xian out of the spiral of his thoughts, she decided, she would say anything.

He looked at her as though she'd struck him. "Shijie."

"No more," she repeated. "If I can forgive you, then you can forgive them."

A-Xian swallowed. "It wants their blood."

"Think of A-Cheng, A-Xian. And your Lan Wangji." His face twisted up. "Your grief is lying to you. Blood will not satisfy it."

He collapsed, hitting the ground as though all his bones had turned to water. Jiang Yanli tucked herself up against him, careful to avoid crushing A-Ling. She ran her fingers through A-Xian's hair as he sobbed into the grass, as though every moment of loss since the sacking of Lotus Pier broke through the floodgates he had built up within himself.

She allowed herself a few tears while he wasn't looking. Her own heartbreak weighed her down, but she had never been at risk of losing herself. Not in the way A-Xian had. Thank goodness she had come in advance of the gathering storm; in his blinding grief, heavens only knew what her brother might do.

Once his tears eventually eased, A-Xian lay tucked against her thigh, bereft.

"I don't know how to fix this," he whispered, voice hoarse.

"We can't fix everything, didi," she murmured.

"But we can't just leave this way."

"Can't we?" A-Xian and A-Cheng had robbed them all of any other alternatives with their fight, staged without asking her advice. "You've been fighting a war since you were seventeen, A-Xian. It's time to put away your sword.” He winced. She regretted the wording. "We're going to go," she continued, "And find somewhere outside of reach, where you can heal."

"Heal?" A-Xian repeated numbly. "…Shijie, do you think I can?"

A-Xian looked painfully thin. His loose robes and sallow skin spoke of long months without a substantial meal. While she had noticed when she came to deliver herself for his inspection, he looked even worse now. She longed to feed him properly. To see life return to his eyes.

She wanted to be allowed to grieve without having to shoulder the burden of her brother's fragility. But she loved him and caring for her family had always been a source of great comfort to her. Helping him might be a means to healing herself as well.

"I will make sure of it. Listen to shijie." She eased an arm beneath him and helped him to stand. Feeling him against her scared her worse than the way his tattered clothes hung off his body. He seemed to weigh less than A-Ling. "Let's get your things."

He looked at his dizi as though it were all he needed. Nevermind food or practicalities. It was so in character, she couldn't help a reedy laugh. "Come. Show me your home. Take a moment to say goodbye."

"Goodbye," he murmured. The resentful energy began gathering around him once more. "I need to say goodbye. They will have hung their bodies from the walls by now."

She grabbed his wrist and squeezed. "We will mourn our fallen together, A-Xian." If he went to see the Wen remnants strung up on display, there would be no pulling him back.

The icy black clouds faded to a mere hint of frost, and he led her through the woods back to where he had made his home this past year.

Even at night, she could see the care which had gone into erecting this small township in an unforgiving land. The buildings were all wretched and cobbled together from inferior materials, but obviously love and determination had been levered into their construction. They passed a small collection of half-dead lotuses. She ached for the boy who’d planted them.

"There’s not much left," A-Xian whispered. "Only radishes and talismans."

It didn’t matter; they could easily survive on what she brought from Koi Tower.

In a grand cave beyond the makeshift village, A-Xian considered his meagre possessions with confusion, lost in his thoughts and unable to evaluate them properly. She swept in behind him and gathered up whatever clothing she could find, along with reams of paper written in his messy scrawl. When he eventually fought his way out of his misery, he would want them.

She paused when she discovered a ream of paper full of notes about demonic cultivation. At a glance she could see they were to a one all brilliant and dangerous. She deliberately chose not to include them alongside the multitudes of benign ideas and scribblings. A-Xian might not forgive her for it but at least it would assuage some of her fears for how it might be part of what had brought him so low.

Then again, could she rightfully leave them here to be discovered? No. Nothing could be left of her brother’s brilliance for others to pervert. They would have to burn everything they left behind.

Buried beneath another nearby stack of paper, Suibian sat on the floor, abandoned. She slipped it into another qiankun pouch, alongside Suihua. As she did, she heard a small whimper, barely louder than a dove's coo. She cast her gaze around, gasping when she spotted the miserable child huddled on the floor, tucked beneath the sagging remains of a stone table.

"A-Xian," she called. He looked up from where he was blindly staring at a generous collection of medical texts. His eyes sharpened in a way that reminded her of the days before Lotus Pier had burned.

"A-Yuan," he gasped. He leapt across the room and drew the child into his arms, rocking him gently, although he barely seemed strong enough to remain upright. "I would have left him, Shijie, I would have—"

"You didn't," she assured him. She knelt down beside them, careful not to jostle A-Ling.

Having the child cuddle against him seemed to return some of his razor focus, "We need to go, you said. They're coming for me?"

She nodded and A-Xian stood. He staggered under the meagre weight of the boy, but she placed a bracing hand on his back. How strange for her to be the strong one for once. This close she felt the heat radiating from A-Yuan’s forehead as he stared blearily up at them.

"They can't have us." His eyes flickered red.

"They won't," Jiang Yanli promised him.

They scoured Wen Qing's collection of medicine for something to help with A-Yuan's fever. By the time they settled the boy into sleep against A-Xian's chest, dawn had begun tilting the sky towards light.

A fire blazed behind them, destroying everything A-Xian left behind. Hopefully they’d think he burned up along with everything else.

A-Xian adjusted the saddles on the horses, easily correcting her rather pathetic attempts one-handed, reluctant to set A-Yuan down for even a moment.

"They will come soon," Jiang Yanli said.

"Let them," he said softly. "They won't find me."

"Us," Jiang Yanli corrected. Let there be no doubt in his mind she had chosen him over the world they'd known.

Together they set off for the south.

They could go south past Baling. Even further. Out of the reach of the great sects, towards lands ungoverned by their politics and squabbling. For her brother, Jiang Yanli would go to the ends of the earth.

As they passed the boundaries of Yiling, she took a moment to think of A-Cheng. What he would suffer in their absence. But he allowed the other sects to convince him that killing A-Xian was necessary. Appropriate retribution for his crimes. And yet even when word had come about Zixuan, she never wanted A-Xian to die for it. It felt hard to forgive A-Cheng for that trespass.

It felt cruel.

It appeared Jiang Yanli was her mother’s daughter after all.

They spent the first month on the road camped out in the wilderness, passing A-Yuan and A-Ling back and forth as they tried to keep the boys safe and comforted. A-Xian moved with absent, empty motions, all the while looking over his shoulder. He barely slept. More than once she woke to find A-Xian standing at the periphery of their camp, repeating the same angry mantra as when she had first found him, eyes glowing with blood red hatred. Jiang Yanli more than once had to coax him back to the small tent they shared, cobbled together from nearly unsalvageable materials they’d scavenged from the Burial Mounds.

A-Yuan's fever burned hot. Once they’d escaped the boundaries of Yiling and deemed themselves far enough away to safely stop for more than a few scant hours of rest, they spent almost a full week next to a glacial stream, wetting and rewetting scraps of cloth with cold water to keep his temperature down. A-Xian had come to her already capable of taking care of himself (to a certain extent), but she vividly remembered A-Cheng being sick as a young boy. Their mother had stayed at his side day and night, singing gently and soothing his fever and body aches with tenderness she never offered once they grew older.

The day A-Yuan’s fever finally broke, he blinked up at her, confused.

"Mama?" he whispered.

"No, child. I am your guma," she replied in the same soft tone. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, relieved when the skin did not burn against her lips.

"His Jiang-ayi," A-Xian said numbly. He mustered up a vacant smile, as though repeating an old refrain, but his relief at seeing A-Yuan awake made itself known in the slump of his shoulders. "He's my son. I gave birth to him."

"It will not be safe for us to be Jiang," Jiang Yanli reminded him.

A-Xian frowned. "You can't dishonour your parents by giving up their name."

‘Your parents’, Jiang Yanli thought mutinously, It should be our parents. If it had been, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe A-Cheng would not have given up on A-Xian despite the pressures bearing down upon him. Perhaps Lotus Pier would not have fallen. Perhaps the gods in the heavens would have descended to personally instruct them on all the roads to immortality.

"Protecting ourselves and their grandchildren will be a tribute to them," she decided.

It placated A-Xian for the moment, though they found themselves in a mild debate as to what to use as a family name.

They continued arguing as they made their way to a small town on the outskirts of Baling, A-Xian still trying to insist that ‘Lan’ might be acceptable, if they used the character for orchid instead of the one for blue. It was the liveliest she’d seen him since her first visit to Yiling.

She'd already argued him down three times and had braced herself for a fourth when they entered the local inn and found themselves before a familiar face.

"Young Master Wei, Lady Jiang."

Song Zichen stood and bowed to them, deep enough it might have drawn attention had there been anyone else in the inn. Even empty of other patrons, the staff still appeared mildly interested.

A-Xian looked seconds away from running, but stilled when Jiang Yanli placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Song Zichen," she bowed. "I am relieved to see you well."

"I am… surprised to see you the same." They withdrew to his table, and he called the waiter over to ask for more substantial fare than tea. "It is circulating throughout the world that Young Master Wei murdered you and your son." He immediately appeared guilty at the assertion. “Before dying in a fire at the Burial Mounds.”

"He would never," Jiang Yanli stated. A-Xian, pale and afraid, did not advocate on his own behalf. That was fine; Jiang Yanli could do it for him.

"I doubted it to be true," Song Zichen agreed. "Having known you both, I could not imagine him capable of harming you, regardless of his forays into demonic cultivation."

Jiang Yanli nodded and settled back to feed A-Ling as A-Xian coaxed some food into A-Yuan. His appetite had slowly returned over the past few days, though he still considered the world around him a source of ongoing confusion.

A-Xian had cried when A-Yuan referred to him as baba instead of ‘Xian-gege’ as had apparently been their custom prior to the flight from the Burial Mounds. Jiang Yanli had not allowed him to argue it, however. The four of them only had each other, now. Who else would be a worthy father to these two precious children?

(Well, for A-Ling, A-Xian would always be da-jiu. A-Ling had a father, who he would come to know through her memories. She vowed to be kinder to Zixuan in death than he had been in life.)

"The sects all besieged the Burial Mounds. When they found it burned they decreed you had murdered Lady Jiang and then immolated yourself in your madness. You have been held up as an example for the world of the dangers of demonic cultivation.” Song Zichen’s brow furrowed. “All the same, it wouldn’t be wise to remain anywhere you might be recognized, if your true intention is to disappear.”

A-Xian looked prepared to hand himself over, and Jiang Yanli reached over to pinch his side. He caught her hand and squeezed her fingers in a painfully familiar motion before settling it down between them. There were moments where she found glimpses of A-Xian before the Sunshot Campaign had irrevocably changed him; she hoped with the distance between them and the rest of the world, he could rediscover himself.

"Then we continue south," Jiang Yanli told him, brooking no argument. A-Xian reluctantly nodded.

"If," Song Zichen hesitated, only continuing when Jiang Yanli nodded encouragingly, "If you continue southeast, towards the sea, there are a number of towns and settlements unprotected by the great sects. You would be welcome, I think, if Young Master Wei were willing to offer services as a rogue cultivator."

A-Xian nodded, though hesitantly, then buried his face in A-Yuan’s hair. He often seemed to shy away from mention of traditional cultivation. Jiang Yanli wondered if his new methods had somehow permanently damaged his golden core as Lan Wangji had once suggested. They would need to address it together; probably sooner rather than later.

"Can you give us directions?" Jiang Yanli asked.

"I will travel with you, if you will have me. My path calls me south as well."

"You would be very welcome," Jiang Yanli assured him when A-Xian declined to speak. She glanced across the table at her brother, who stared at his lap, fists clenched white-knuckle tight. "Shall we leave in the morning?"

They took a room for the night. Jiang Yanli indulged herself with a request for a large tub of heated water to wash off the road and the lingering dried sweat from A-Yuan’s skin. A-Ling didn’t require bathing quite so often as she’d once thought, back when babies were a source of delight who could be passed back to their parents when they became fussy, but she rubbed some oil into his hair to try and soften the flaky dried skin clinging to his scalp and followed with a gentle wash. A-Yuan, with his fever gone, seemed absolutely fascinated by her son and stared at him with uncomplicated adoration; already such a good big brother.

Vacant loss returned to A-Xian’s eyes as soon as the boys fell asleep.

"A-Xian?"

"Do you think Jiang Cheng believes it?" A-Xian whispered. "Do you… do you think Lan Zhan does?"

Why would a person like another person? A-Xian had once asked her. She found it telling that, of all the world they chose to leave behind, those were the only two whose opinion he cared about.

She thought of Lan Xichen's sad acquiescence when the plans to kill him had been made. For A-Xian’s sake, she hoped Lan Wangji would have refused if the question of elimination had been put to him.

"If they do, then we will never know," she told him firmly. She stroked his hair, but A-Xian remained tense as a snake preparing to strike. "I love you, and have always believed the best of you." She hoped it followed for him, then, that if they loved him they would believe the same.

A-Xian had only ever been conscious of the feelings of others when weaponized against him.

"I didn't mean for Jin Zixuan to get hurt," he whispered. Jiang Yanli gasped in a shaky breath. In the weeks since they'd fled, he had not spoken of it. "I promise you, Shijie."

The Yiling Patriarch always hated Young Master Jin, the people at Koi Tower had perniciously whispered, The Yiling Patriarch wanted him dead to take his wife for his own. She shuddered at the idea. For all A-Xian and Zixuan had never enjoyed each other's company, A-Xian had never sought to do him real harm. Put him in his place, perhaps, or avenge Jiang Yanli’s honour when impugned, but nothing more than that.

"I know, A-Xian," she said. She took his elbow and directed him to bed, tucking him in as though Xianxian really was three and needed as much care as the other babies in the room. He fell asleep while staring aimlessly at the wall.

For the moment, he seemed at peace. Jiang Yanli composed herself before opening the door and stepping out into the corridor, where Song Zichen awaited as she knew he would.

"If you are a hostage…" he began, hand on his sword. "I cannot hope to win against him, but I will do my best to keep him at bay long enough for you and the children to escape."

Jiang Yanli almost reached out to stroke his hair the way she might have done to A-Xian or A-Cheng, but remembered his aversion to touch at the last moment. The journey between Yiling and Jinlintai had gained her a true friend, it seemed. She felt better for it.

"My brother needs healing, not more swords brought to bear upon him." She frowned. "They all wanted him dead. I heard them. And so I need to take him beyond their reach."

Song Zichen nodded in understanding, hand easing off his hilt. "I will travel with you, as I said. The energy he cultivates, Lady Jiang, is dangerous to the mind and body. I am sure you are not blind to the differences in him now compared to how he was."

Jiang Yanli nodded. "That is another matter." She leaned towards him, lowering her voice. "In your travels, have you discovered a means of healing the damage caused by the use of resentful energy?"

The black clouds of energy still hummed through the air around A-Xian sometimes. Especially at night, during the rare moments he actually slept. He'd told her, on the road, about the seductive power of it. How it called to his baser instincts and suggested he give into them. For all she understood the hard existence he barely managed to eke out among the Wens in the Burial Mounds, there stood every chance that his body had suffered more than anyone else's.

"I have. There is a small town near where the mountains meet the sea. They are very near a healing spring which might help cleanse the damage." He turned firm eyes towards the door, respectful and determined. "If the Yiling Patriarch is going to be healed, it will be there."

"The Yiling Patriarch is gone," Jiang Yanli told him, voice flat.

"For the best," Song Zichen agreed, though Jiang Yanli could see the doubt in his eyes. "I." His frown deepened. "I overheard things, while recovering in the care of Wen-guniang. I do not know if it is my place to share them."

"Please, if you know anything that might help him…"

Song Zichen's face grew terribly troubled. "You remember I told them about Xiao Xingchen's sacrifice, and how his master helped me regain my sight." Jiang Yanli nodded; it had been what inspired A-Xian to search his own memories of his mother's words regarding the immortal. "I heard him and Lady Wen discussing it later, when they thought I was sleeping. Not as a means to an end, though, but it's usefulness as a ruse."

Jiang Yanli frowned. "A ruse?"

"For concealing the truth of how they truly intended to restore Sect Leader Jiang’s golden core."

Jiang Yanli did not sleep that night. She sat on the bed next to the boys, staring at her brother in the opposite bed, trying to keep her tears as silent as possible. Did A-Cheng know? Had he figured it out? When he’d told her about their plot to remove Yunmeng Jiang from the contentious ongoing battle of wills between A-Xian and the rest of the world, had it been with the full knowledge of what A-Xian sacrificed for him? She couldn’t bring herself to believe it. Surely, if he’d known the depth of their brother’s love he would have chosen to stand beside him. She had to believe that, even if A-Cheng had been otherwise unable to stand against the tide in the end.

Her poor, incredible, broken brothers.

Lan Wangji had warned her about the effects of demonic cultivation. For a long time she had believed it to be the cause of his black despair and the series of empty wine jugs he’d left trailing behind him until he’d found a new cause to fight for to distract him from the pain of losing his golden core. Knowing what she did now, she wished she’d paid more attention instead of assuming that the changes wrought upon her brother had been the effects of the war.

A-Cheng had Lotus Pier, A-Xian’s golden core, and the Jiang sect disciples. With the deaths of the Wen remnants, A-Xian now only had herself, A-Ling, and A-Yuan. And she would make sure he kept them.

They left the next morning, Jiang Yanli and A-Ling on one horse, A-Yuan mounted by himself on another with Song Zichen and A-Xian leading them away from town. In case they were recognized after the fact, they made a show of leaving the village heading west, towards Meishan, then changed direction and continued south. Song Zichen, while not as naturally reticent as certain other persons of their acquaintance, was certainly not verbose, and with A-Xian still living most of his life in his head, Jiang Yanli carried the bulk of the conversation. She didn’t mind.

She recalled, upon coming to live in Koi Tower, a moment where she had run across her brother-in-law, fresh from an argument with Jin Zixun. While regarding her solemnly, Jin Guangyao reminded her that what might be valued in Lotus Pier was not similarly welcome in Koi Tower. Not a threat, but a friendly warning from someone who also seemed to bite his tongue on every second word. Being able to speak freely again after well over a year of weighing her words before she spoke warmed her through. It reminded her of the days prior to the downfall of Lotus Pier. Or at least during the times when her mother wasn’t around.

A-Ling, now over two months, had begun to understand the world around him and seemed to recognize her, A-Xian, and A-Yuan. He cooed at her and tracked her hand when she waved it in front of him. She wanted Zixuan to live on in A-Ling, but sometimes her heart ached in her chest until she had to pass him off in the evenings to take a moment for herself, allowing the true depth of her grief to stick in her ribs as though the mutilated pieces of her heart were trying to flee her body.

And then, one day, she found her heart unexpectedly healing.

She couldn’t say what inspired it; A-Yuan sat with them, gamely allowing A-Ling to hold his finger as the elder boy patiently sat through Jiang Yanli brushing his hair. A-Ling stared at them from where he lay on a blanket on the ground. Between one moment and the next, he peeped out the smallest noise. Jiang Yanli almost missed it.

Then A-Yuan began to laugh.

It spread.

A-Ling giggled, which made A-Yuan howl with amusement. The joyous cycle passed back and forth between them until tears streamed down A-Yuan’s face and he clutched at his stomach.

Happy tears in her eyes, Jiang Yanli looked for A-Xian to share in the moment, only to spot her brother watching them from the outskirts of their small encampment, terrible conflict written in despairing lines on his face.

She finished with A-Yuan’s hair, kissed the crown of his head, then asked for Song Zichen to watch them for a moment. She crossed to A-Xian and placed a hand on his arm.

“I don’t deserve this,” A-Xian whispered, attention still fixed on the boys.

She took one of his hands between hers, scared at how cold his skin still felt. “A-Xian, if life is about getting what we deserve, many people we knew would still be alive while others would be long dead.”

He turned his attention to her. His eyes were still ringed red, his skin worryingly pale. She’d watched him eat the bare minimum, always concerned about whether she and A-Yuan had enough and waving away any extra portions, claiming it was better to save them, no matter how much remained at the end of the meal. It gifted her with yet more sad insight to his life in the Burial Mounds and reminded her of his first days in Lotus Pier, where he seemed scared to eat his fill and allow himself to become used to having his basic needs met. As a child, she’d silently sworn he’d never feel that way again. As an adult, she realized she’d broken her promise.

He shook his head. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

Before he could, a plaintive, “Baba!” came from behind them. His face lost a small measure of its despair as A-Yuan flung himself forward to affix himself to A-Xian’s leg. “A-Ling laughed!”

“He did,” A-Xian hoisted A-Yuan into his arms and stared at the child for far too long. Eventually, A-Yuan placed his hands on A-Xian’s cheeks and kissed his nose. A-Xian choked out a sob and kissed A-Yuan’s forehead in return. “Thank you, radish.”

“I’m not a radish,” A-Yuan told him sternly.

“Wrong,” A-Xian laughed wetly, “I am your mother. I grew you myself, and you will always be my radish.”

A-Yuan looked as though he was deciding whether or not he was being tricked. Jiang Yanli hid a smile behind her sleeve.

She woke with a gasp later that night, the sound of a sword slicing through the air and a wild screech of a misused dizi dragging her from sleep. She immediately looked to the two babies, still safe and deep asleep beside her in their tent.

At least for now.

She crawled outside, gasping when she saw the black flurry of angry movements as A-Xian defended himself from Song Zichen’s sword. The black clouds of resentful energy choked the air around him, whipping out and striking at their friend, knocking him back with every movement.

“A-Xian,” she called out, running forward.

Song Zichen threw himself in front of her, casting out his arm to halt her in her tracks. “Wei Wuxian,” he snapped, “Come back to yourself before you hurt your family.”

A-Xian stared, wild-eyed. “I need to find them. I need to… they killed Qing-jie. And Wen Ning. Popo and Uncle Four. They…” He looked back, towards their lost homes in the north, his face a rictus of hatred. “They need to pay.”

“A-Xian,” Jiang Yanli shouted over Song Zichen’s shoulder. “Please.”

Tears flooded his eyes, broken laughing cracking the air around him. “Please? You beg me to spare them? When I couldn’t even spare your husband?” He shook his head. “How can they rely on my mercy? How can you, when I destroyed your entire life?”

Jiang Yanli’s spine stiffened. She grabbed Song Zichen’s arm and pushed it down until it rested at his side. A-Xian watched closely, possessed of whatever darkness dwelled beneath his skin. His dizi waited against his lips, only a breath away from channeling his power. Jiang Yanli had to believe he would not hurt her.

“You promised me you did not mean for Zixuan to come to harm,” she reminded him. She stepped around Song Zichen, keenly aware of his body tensing in preparation to defend her should they come to it. She prayed it would not. “A-Xian, don’t create any more widows.”

It was cruel, but she could think of nothing else to say to break through the veneer of resentful energy coming close to consuming him. A-Xian trembled and dropped his hand to his side. His dizi fell from his fingers and clattered to the ground, closely followed by A-Xian himself as his strength gave out and he collapsed.

Jiang Yanli ran to his side. Smoke swirled around them, calling to him and encouraging him to press on with his desire for violence. She cupped his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Shijie,” he whimpered.

“No more, didi,” she said. She reached into his sleeve and wrapped her fingers around the chilling cold of the Stygian Tiger Amulet. He watched, numb, as she pulled it forth. The touch of the metal burned her skin, but she could not release it.

It whispered to her, offering her revenge for all she had lost. Against A-Xian and, when that failed to gain traction, against all the world which had turned against him and called for his blood, trapping him in his desperation until violence felt like the only way to escape.

Avenge your brother, it whispered. Kill the ones who would have killed him. Protect him. Defend your son and nephew. Destroy those who would murder everyone you love.

“No more,” she repeated.

A-Xian nodded and turned his face away. Jiang Yanli shoved her hand out. Song Zichen leapt forward and scooped the amulet into a qiankun pouch, careful not to touch it. He sealed it with a dozen talismans and slowly the cold leaked away from the air around them.

A-Xian blinked up at her, then shifted his gaze to Song Zichen, who nodded solemnly.

“I will find a means to destroy it. You have my word.”

As though the words sent him hurtling headlong into his exhaustion, A-Xian promptly passed out in her lap. Jiang Yanli leaned over and kissed his forehead, shocked when she stroked his cheek and left a streak of blood behind. She lifted her hand to look at her palm, the dim light cast by their dying fire revealing black mottled flesh and cracked skin. The cold had completely numbed her to the damage, though as she looked upon the ruined skin of her hand she could feel the beginnings of pain as her flesh thawed.

“Lady Jiang.” When she did not look up, Song Zichen tried again. “Yanli-jie.” He swept to her side and wrapped a dry cloth around her hand. She nodded in thanks and stood to help him return A-Xian to his bedroll.

“How will you do it?” she asked quietly.

“I will rededicate myself to finding Xiao Xingchen. Surely his master must know of a means to its end,” Song Zichen replied.

Jiang Yanli nodded. “Will it take you from us?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve sworn to see you safely to a new home. It’s contained, for now. We can only pray it remains that way.” He hesitated. “Here,” he finally said. From the folds of his robes, he produced a slim dagger, hilt decorated with heraldry reminiscent of snow that complemented Fuxue. “For your protection.”

“I could never.”

“The protection of your family, then,” he insisted. He waited until she took it from him and tucked it into her belt. There were very real threats in the world, for all her didi wasn’t one of them. “I hope you never need to use it, but if you do I trust you will find the strength to do so.”

Jiang Yanli, her hand throbbing as feeling began returning to it, slunk back to her tent to try and sleep through the worst of the pain.

Two weeks later, they reached the town of which Song Zichen had spoken. Nearly two months had passed since they’d left the cultivation world and each day hung like a stone around her neck. On the very borders before entering the town proper, they found a rundown skeleton of a manor house, barely standing, surrounded by an overgrown plot of land. A-Xian looked at it, numb and disinterested as Jiang Yanli walked in through the gates. The courtyard had gone to seed and the doors were in such disrepair she slipped through a rip in the screen instead of daring to try and open them.

Inside looked little better, but offered more space than Jiang Yanli would have suspected at first. What furniture remained was in ruins, broken and half-rotted from the damp sea air. Abandoned tools gone to rust littered the floor, but the hearth looked sturdy and usable, and that was all they required to make the place a home.

The boys could share with her and A-Xian, for now. There were rooms enough for them to have their own when they grew older and required privacy. Her children would grow here.

The thought struck her like a blow.

She sank to the floor, her arms wrapped around A-Ling as she sobbed silently into the crown of his head, everything she had loved and lost and left behind hitting her all at once. She’d been ruthlessly quashing everything save the single-minded determination to find A-Xian a means to heal. Now they’d come to a place where it might be possible, she couldn’t help the bubbling sorrow rising in her breast.

She lost track of time, until A-Ling woke and moved restlessly in his sling, grunting out a few sounds and grabbing her robes tightly in his chubby little fist. She took a few steadying breaths, wiped her eyes, and set to feeding him.

After he finished, she wiped the remaining milk from his lips then stood and passed back out the door.

A-Xian and Song Zichen waited just outside, A-Xian unnaturally still and quiet. A-Yuan sat in the dust at his feet, pulling weeds as though they were flowers and collecting them in a ragged bouquet. She kissed his head when he handed it to her.

“Let’s make inquiries.”

Coming from the ruling seat of Yunmeng, she knew empty houses did nothing for a community. Small-minded sect leaders might demand tribute in the form of ongoing payment, but the most important commodity was the value a person could offer their neighbours.

Hopefully the village elder would feel the same way.

Late into the afternoon, they passed through the borders of the town, a seaside collection of homes and merchants, all shrouded in the scent of brine and salt. The small inn barely looked capable of accommodating the staff, let alone visitors.

“You can speak to Bei Shimin about it,” the innkeeper said of the abandoned homestead while dropping off a host of dishes, mostly seafood-based and all comparably seasoned to what they were accustomed to in Yunmeng. Jiang Yanli breathed a sigh of quiet contentment; Koi Tower had been all about overly-sweetened, fatty dishes. She’d missed the leaner, spicier fare of her home.

They sought out Bei Shimin the following morning. The town elder appeared nonplussed when she and A-Xian bowed, but waited for them to rise before speaking. In some ways, his bearing and the carefully-groomed beard on his chin, he reminded her of Grandmaster Lan.

When he spoke it echoed with similar authority. "You come from a large sect," Bei Shimin said. A-Xian tensed beside her and Jiang Yanli placed a quelling hand on his arm. "Your manners are very fine."

"We did," she agreed, "But now seek peace and a chance to recover from wounds left on us and our children leftover from the war."

"A war. Yes." He stroked his beard. "You are married?"

"No, sir. I—" It struck her, suddenly, "Am Song Yanli. This is my brother Song Ying. There is a house just outside of town we would like to take ownership of."

He nodded to himself. "I know the one. The land around it is good, but not enough to fully sustain a family." A-Xian looked as though he might argue the fact, but remained silent. "You are cultivators?"

"My brother is very accomplished, but his injuries from the war have made it hard to continue cultivating in the traditional fashion. We are hoping use of your healing springs will help us create a new home here for ourselves."

The elder fixed both her and A-Xian with a considering look. "There are children here who would benefit from a decent teacher."

A-Xian cast his gaze downwards. "I—"

"My brother is an excellent teacher. Our shidis loved no one better." A-Xian cast a wounded look her way. "Though he will need time to recover prior to accepting any students."

Bei Shimin nodded. "How long?"

"A year at least. And in the meantime, perhaps you could offer us assistance with clearing the land around our new home."

"We are always happy to help our neighbours," Bei Shimin nodded. "Yes. We will welcome you. And," he continued with a knowing eye, "If you consent to help our children, we will of course offer you the consideration of anonymity, should anyone ask after strangers who have come to us."

She stood and bowed. "Most gracious."

A-Xian followed her out the door, radiating discomfort.

"Shijie, I don't know if I can."

She patted his arm. "A-Xian, when your spirits are fully recovered, you will ache for something to do." And she hadn’t lied; he’d always loved teaching. Once he escaped his black thoughts, she knew he'd jump at the opportunity.

While obviously uncertain, he nodded anyway, and followed her back to the inn to collect the children from Song Zichen.

A few hours later, a young woman appeared at their door. "I am Bei Yuwan. I understand you need a guide to the hot springs."

Song Zichen insisted on accompanying them, wariness hanging shroudlike upon him. He dogged A-Xian's steps altogether too closely.

A-Xian, of course, noticed. "You're afraid of me?"

Ahead of them, Bei Yuwan tensed and cast a fearful look over her shoulder.

Song Zichen slowed his step, falling back far enough that the other woman would not be able to overhear them, though Jiang Yanli could still mark their words.

"The energy you have cultivated will try to keep itself rooted in you. We would neither of us forgive ourselves if harm came to Yanli-jie or the boys."

A-Xian nodded, his hold tightening on A-Yuan.

Bei Yuwan stopped at the base of a craggy mountain path, rough-hewn stairs carved into the natural bedrock. "At the top." She turned a canny look towards Jiang Yanli. "I can accompany the lady and children back down." She fixed Jiang Yanli with a pointed eye, tilting her head back down the path.

Jiang Yanli offered her a small smile. "Thank you, but this is a family matter. I will see it through."

Bei Yuwan bowed and reluctantly took off back down the path to return to town.

"Shijie—"

"Together, A-Xian."

They began the slow climb up the mountain.

The incline, like a lone book tilted against the side of a shelf, almost immediately robbed her of her breath. She took to grabbing hold of nearby tree branches to pull herself along. More than anything to this point, seeing A-Xian struggle with the steep pathway told her everything about the absence of his golden core. Such a walk might have once been a jaunty morning run for him, before. Now his brow lined with sweat and his breath heaved out even faster than her own.

She tucked herself under his arm and together the two of them trudged upwards, one aching foot before another. Between one laboured breath and the next Song Zichen darted in to take the boys, carrying A-Yuan on his back and A-Ling's sling fastened to his chest.

At the junction of one of the innumerable switchbacks, A-Xian tripped on the rocky paving stones and hit the ground, gashing one of his palms open on the rough rock. Black smoke curled up around the wound and he stared at it, unseeing, until the smoke dissipated and red blood welled up in the injury. Jiang Yanli grabbed a handkerchief from her sleeve and wrapped it around his hand.

He took a deep breath and staggered upwards. Her own lungs ached with sympathy.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks later, they finally reached a plateau between two peaks. The smell of sulphur assaulted her nostrils. Song Zichen stood ahead of them, looking out into a deep, silty pool, wisps of steam curling up from the otherwise still surface.

He turned to look at them. "You will need to come here more than once, to heal as you need."

A-Xian nodded and stripped down to his underclothes. Closing his eyes, as though bracing for a blow, he stepped into the hot pool.

He winced as he inched into it, gasping out little huffs of pain. The steam drifting up around him blackened with every step, but he continued onwards until his skin turned a rosy red and the air around him seethed with black clouds.

He reached what appeared to be a natural rock formation in the middle of the pool and settled upon it in the lotus position. Jiang Yanli's heart lurched when memories of the Unclean Realm from a millennia ago crept through her mind. Hadn't she seen him in such a way once before, shortly after A-Cheng brought him back? At the time she hadn't understood it. Now, knowing what she did about his golden core and the damage his use of demonic cultivation had done to him, she cast her gaze back with greater understanding.

Jiang Yanli found a cooler rock pool at the edge of the spring and carefully bathed the boys. A-Ling came clean with no issue, but just like his father, A-Yuan had tendrils of black drifting up and away from his skin. This poor child, who had lived, breathed and nearly been consumed by the Burial Mounds.

Song Zichen coughed after she'd wrestled a terribly sleepy A-Yuan back into his clothes.

"I can..." He gestured to the boys, awkward in his earnestness and quickly averting his eyes. "If you..."

She smiled gently and allowed him to carry the boys to the other side of the outcropping.

She hadn't noticed anything unusual during the boys' baths, but once she submerged her entire body she shivered as her skin tingled with the heat and pervasive spiritual energy. The skin on her hand from where she’d touched the Stygian Tiger amulet faded from angry red to an almost unnoticeable scar, the slightest discolouration stretching the width of her palm. It wanted her anger, she realized. And her grief. She felt entitled to the latter and refused to lose it to the former. She released what remained of her quiet rage to the calming waters, holding back her sorrow. Every small ache she’d been ignoring from sleeping on the ground faded away. She relaxed into the warmth for a few selfish minutes before rising to relieve Song Zichen.

The sun set before A-Xian opened his eyes. The clouds of resentful energy around him appeared less pervasive. He slid into the pool again, ducking his head beneath the water and emerging with a profound sigh of relief.

“How do you feel, A-Xian?”

He took a few moments to organize his thoughts before answering. “Lighter.” He offered a wan smile.

A-Yuan lifted his head from where he snoozed against Jiang Yanli’s leg and held out his arms. A-Xian dressed himself quickly and scooped up his son.

“Thank you,” he said to Song Zichen.

The other man leveled him with a penetrating look. Satisfied with whatever he found, he nodded. “I will leave you tomorrow.”

Jiang Yanli caught his eye. She wanted to touch—it was in her nature to do so around her brothers—and she had to keep reminding herself to avoid making Song Zichen uncomfortable, when he’d done so much for them. “You will always be welcome here with us, Zichen-ge.”

He smiled bashfully down at his feet.

They trekked down the mountain and spent another night at the inn before seeing Song Zichen off the next morning. Jiang Yanli didn’t think she imagined the longing look in A-Xian’s eye as their friend disappeared into the dawn, but he merely shook his head when she tilted a questioning eyebrow at him.

“I thought, once, about dragging Lan Zhan out of Cloud Recesses and travelling the world with him,” he confided, rebalancing A-Yuan on his hip. His half-smile turned wry. “Only ever just a dream.”

She squeezed his shoulder.

The home they’d chosen for themselves required substantial repairs, even before they began tending to the land. Far from the apathy he’d demonstrated the day they arrived, A-Xian now looked upon it as though he had found immortality, shadows of his old enthusiasm creeping through.

“The soil is amazing,” he said, crouching down to run his hands through the dirt. “We can plant almost anything here.”

A-Yuan babbled to A-Ling about burying him, which Jiang Yanli chose to take as a metaphor.

“And I’ve learned so much about building and architecture,” A-Xian continued, absently scooping dirt onto A-Yuan’s legs, to his son’s delight. “I can fix this place up, I swear.”

She set herself to work clearing the worst of the refuse from the floors inside as A-Xian took off to town to collect the necessities they needed to rebuild. He returned with a cartful of supplies, purchased with liberated Jin coin, and Bei Yuwan. The woman relaxed when she saw Jiang Yanli and cast a look of reluctant approval A-Xian’s way.

“You’ll want to shore up the walls before you start with the roof,” she suggested.

Between the two of them, they managed to organize the building materials. A-Xian set himself to work on the first of the repairs by ripping out and replacing some of the rotten support beams.

Late into the afternoon, he took off for the hot springs again, his steps significantly bouncier than the day before.

Bei Yuwan barely waited until he’d left before turning to Jiang Yanli, “Is it serious? Whatever ails him?”

Jiang Yanli inclined her head. “It would have meant his death, if we hadn’t come here.” One way or another.

Bei Yuwan frowned. “Is he a danger to you?”

“No. Never.”

“All right, then.”

They decided to sleep on the floor of the kitchen that night, the only room in which the roof had been mostly intact and the hearth cleared of the collected detritus.

“Shijie,” A-Xian whispered into the darkness. She hummed, half-asleep and sore from the day’s work. “Thank you.”

He slept through the night, even when A-Ling woke looking for milk and a cuddle. The dim light cast him in shadows, and she smiled as he shifted in his sleep to curl around A-Yuan.

Jiang Yanli took to wearing a white sash. Her mourning robes were impractical with the constant demands of cleaning up their home, but she wanted to honour Zixuan and grieve for him as he deserved as both her husband and father of her son.

She and A-Xian set up a memorial at the back of the house, putting out what offerings they could. Zixuan would have scorned them as unworthy, she decided with a smile. Even after overcoming some of his more objectionable habits, he’d remained an inveterate snob. She had come to love the naivete behind the attitude. They inscribed his name on a piece of smooth wood and polished it with lacquer. They would add others to this makeshift ancestral hall in time to make sure that A-Yuan’s family, as well as their own parents, were honoured properly.

"Your father," she said, bouncing A-Ling in her arms before the plaque. "He was not always a kind man, but he was good." She kissed her son's brow. "It's important you remember the difference, A-Ling. People will like you if you're nice, but they will respect you if you're good."

She wondered if there was a world in which Wei Wuxian and Jin Zixuan might have ever been friends. She found it hard to imagine, but then again Zixuan had met his end while trying to protect A-Xian from harm. For her benefit. If there was anything that could bring two people together it was the shared love for a third.

In his memory, they would make a home here and together keep close the best things about him. A-Xian would heal. They would raise their children together. Their boys would grow into good men who did credit to the memories of the generations who had come before them.

More than anything, that would be the most meaningful legacy of those whose lives paid for this new start.

Chapter Text

The Burial Mounds smelled of ash and death.

Cracked soil kicked up dust beneath Lan Wangji’s feet. The fire in the Burial Mounds had burned hot enough to scorch rock. Nothing remained of the settlement Wei Ying and the Wen remnants had forged with their blood, tears, and sweat. What had not been immolated by the blaze which consumed Wei Ying had been sacked by the Jin, though by all reports there had barely been anything left.

Lan Wangji passed into the Demon Slaughtering Cave and alighted into the space he had cleared for himself in those first few weeks after the fire. Sometimes Lan Wangji could almost feel heat lingering in the stone beneath him.The Burial Mounds held onto the destruction, as though fuelled by the lives it had taken.

He drew out his guqin to settle in and play Inquiry. He called out to Wei Ying. To Jiang Yanli. He had yet to receive an answer, but he remained persistent. He needed to know what had happened, for he refused to believe Wei Ying could raise a hand to his sister, as the Jin still claimed. No one, not even Jiang Wanyin, seemed prepared to defend Wei Ying. If anything, the world still acted irecconciably annoyed by the fact he’d robbed them of their opportunity to murder him.

Once again, he quietly mourned the stillness of his strings. He would play until his fingers bled if he thought he might receive a reply but having already done so several times without reply he’d become realistic of his chances. He brought his hands to rest against the strings and sighed.

Word of the destruction of the Burial Mounds had reached him late into the night. He’d returned to Cloud Recesses on his brother’s orders and paced the floors of the Jinghsi waiting for the sect leaders, all meeting in Koi Tower, to make a decision as to how to move forward after the death of Jin Zixuan. He remained steadfast in his belief that Wei Ying could never bring harm to Jiang Yanli—and through her, her husband—and waited eagerly for them to come to the same conclusion. They had their flesh in the revenge they’d carved into the burnt bodies of Wen Qing and Wen Ning, and those other corpses they’d hung from the walls of Nightless City. How could they demand more from a man who had only been trying to uphold his morals?

It had all come to nothing when Wei Ying had stolen into Koi Tower and kidnapped his sister and her infant son away with him to the Burial Mounds. Whatever happened next had been the subject of speculation ever since; when the sect leaders had all converged in Yiling, it had been to find an inferno.

The fire which took the Demon Slaughtering Cave, it was thought, might have died out easier if not for the dry wooden structures around it. Though the homes burned all too easily, the trees of the Burial Mounds had all been grown choked in blood and too wet to catch, or stood as petrified monuments to a once-fertile land. By the time the combined forces of the sects had arrived to murder Wei Ying, everything was gone. Lan Wangji, only having learned of the attack after his brother had committed to the effort, joined them later and watched as the Jin flapped about in an attempt to find and save anything of value. The fire burned itself out after two days.

They decried Wei Ying as a villain and mourned Jiang Yanli as the last martyr. In all their posturing and shallow expressions of grief, Lan Wangji hated them all in silence. They had ultimately been responsible for Wei Ying’s death and he had no space in his grieving heart for forgiveness.

It strained his relationship with the cultivation world, especially those who had once claimed ties with Wei Ying. Jiang Wanyin glowered and raged and took to hunting down any sign of demonic cultivation with single-minded brutality. And Xichen looked at Lan Wangji with sad eyes, but offered little in the way of condolences that weren’t obviously coloured by relief.

Shufu, surprisingly, came closest to understanding. “You will tear yourself apart by wondering what you might have done to prevent his downfall,” he said once, late into the evening, when they’d both been skirting curfew. His gaze grew distant and troubled. “If your words might have stopped him. Or if there was anything you might have been able to change if only you’d known the right path. Do not dwell in the past, Wangji. It is an immutable kingdom.”

He could have tried harder to bring Wei Ying to Gusu. Clarified his intentions from the very beginning. Their tragedy had always been one of miscommunication. Even before Wei Ying took up the cause of the Wen remnants, the world had turned against him because of the way in which he won the war. All Lan Wangji wanted was to help him heal from whatever invisible injuries he'd sustained to drive him to demonic cultivation. He knew Wei Ying never valued power or prestige. He only needed to look around the home Wei Ying tried to build to see evidence of the fact. If he clung so desperately to wicked arts, it had to be for reasons he had not seen fit to share.

The abused earth around the settlement would never again produce life, the cursed soil choking out the tiniest weed with resentment. Whatever Wei Ying dreamed of building in such a place would never come to pass.

“The fire,” Jin Guangyao had stated with confidence he had done nothing to merit, “Must have been a product of his twisted ways. Our world loses nothing of value in the destruction of this place.” He hurried to add, “Save for my sister-in-law and nephew.”

“He did something fucking stupid and got my sister killed,” Jiang Wanyin growled to anyone who would listen.

Wei Ying was not careless. Irresponsible, unconcerned, oblivious to his own wellbeing, but never careless. Whatever happened here, Lan Wangji knew it had not been an accident.

He made it back to Yiling and walked through the centre of town, pausing when he passed a familiar stall selling familiar toys. Lan Wangji stared at the grass butterflies. Cloud Recesses only allowed toys until children began their studies in earnest, at which point such frivolities became regarded as a mere distraction. Surely, by now, A-Yuan would be too old for things if he had lived.

If he had lived.

With everyone around him baying for his blood, how could Wei Ying have picked out Lan Wangji's voice from the cacophony?

Heart heavier than when he arrived, Lan Wangji prepared for the trip back to Cloud Recesses.

He arrived well in advance of curfew, just in time for Xichen, joined by Jin Guangyao and his betrothed, to interrupt his return to the jingshi.

His brother stepped into his path and offered a gentle, if unsure, smile in greeting. “Wangji.”

Lan Wangji bowed. “Xiongzhang.”

“We expected you home earlier.”

No doubt. He had made a frequent habit of going on solo night hunts which took him close enough to Yiling to allow him his devastating, one-sided communing. While he found himself constantly disappointed, Lan Wangji had no intention of giving up on his excursions into Yiling.

Xichen fell into step beside him, dogging his heels. The silence, once so comfortable between them, felt stilted and unnatural. His brother no longer sought him out for the sake of his company, but rather when he needed something or to convey messages from the Lan sect elders. While ostensibly the consequence of his ascension as Sect Leader, Lan Wangji couldn’t help but wonder if it was also in part because he’d found himself more pleasant company in his perennial companion, Lianfang-zun.

They were frequently together, especially now that Jin Guangyao’s wedding loomed in the near future. Lan Wangji did not dislike Jin Guangyao, but nor did he hold him in the same high estimation as his brother.

Qin Su and Jin Guangyao fell into step behind them as he continued on his path, Xichen keeping easy pace. Doubtless they were hoping to coax him to tea. While the prospect was not wholly abhorrent he also had no desire at present to socialize with the living.

“I was hoping to ask you for a favour,” Xichen ventured before they reached the entrance to the garden outside the jingshi. Utterly unsurprised, Lan Wangji tilted his head in invitation for him to continue. “I need someone to take over the tutelage of our juniormost disciples.”

Lan Wangji paused in his step. “Lan Shihan is ceding the task?”

“She has expressed an interest in moving to more scholarly pursuits.” Xichen’s smile grew slightly strained.

It would offer less opportunities for him to pursue his solo endeavours, certainly, but Lan Wangji had always enjoyed spending time with the younger disciples. They tended to remind him of… livelier company, to which he had once been accustomed.

“I agree,” he said.

“Excellent. I shall let them know to expect you for tomorrow’s class.” Xichen bowed and turned to go, though he paused. “I understand you once again visited Yiling. Were you satisfied with your endeavour?”

Had Lan Wangji found evidence of Wei Ying’s crimes, he meant. Everyone assumed it was Lan Wangji’s primary reason for his ongoing excursions. It contented him to allow them to believe it. While he remained steadfast in his certainty of Wei Ying’s innocence, he had no proof to offer beyond appeals to his own integrity. While he personally considered it to be unimpeachable, the charges the Jin brought against Wei Ying were certainly more salacious and therefore more eager to be believed.

Jin Guangyao did little to conceal his interest in Lan Wangji’s answer. Lan Wangji rather wished his brother had not brought it up in front of company.

“I will continue until I am,” Lan Wangji answered, his tone just shy of short.

Xichen nodded, gaze sad. “You know that I would ease away your cares if I could.”

Lan Wangji could not even appreciate the sentiment. Everyone thought he meant to confirm Wei Ying’s guilt. Lan Wangji looked at him impassively until Xichen nodded, mostly to himself it seemed. The group removed back down the path towards the hanshi, side by side. Qin Su paused, looking over her shoulder at him in consideration, before Jin Guangyao directed her along by the hand she’d tucked into his elbow.

The jingshi was chilly in the autumn air, and Lan Wangji took out his guan in silence. The quiet had never bothered him before, but now it felt as though a constant, unwanted companion set on regaling him with his failures. Many of the other disciples who had lived through the Sunshot Campaign often complained of the same; they constantly tensed in preparation for a battle which never came, all their waking hours feeling like a lie.

His own newfound dislike of silence stemmed from another source altogether.

Perhaps assuming responsibility for the youngest disciples would be for the best. Night hunting provided occupation when he left Cloud Recesses, but what he had at home now no longer satisfied him the way it once had.

The collection of junior disciples ranged from seven to twelve years of age, all of them diligently attempting to build their knowledge of cultivation along with the budding beginnings of their golden cores. They sat quiet and expectant even before he called the class to order. Lan Shihan had helpfully outlined the curriculum she had followed since the days when Shufu’s generation attended her sessions, as well as what they were required to learn from the instruction. The information followed the natural progression of Lan precepts, meant to build the proper character prior to their training in other arts. It seemed a number of them had already commenced the study of musical cultivation, although Xichen still took personal pride in overseeing that particular discipline.

Lan Wangji had only just started to speak when a small streak of white flew into the classroom and dropped into one of the back seats. He paused and regarded the young boy, one of the smallest of his new cohort at what Lan Wangji estimated to be around eight years of age. His forehead ribbon tilted to the left, slipping down far enough to hide part of his eyebrow.

“Sorry, Hanguang-jun, I didn’t get breakfast and then when I went to the kitchens, they refused to feed me? And I told them I was copying the disciplines and couldn’t eat at the regular time, and that I was late for class, but then they said that hunger built character and then I said that it was hard to pay attention while I was hungry, so they finally gave me some fruit, but it wasn’t really enough so I ran back to my room where I think I left my dishes from the other night because I really wanted more to eat, but they’d already been cleaned out even though I don’t remember taking them anywhere. That’s why I’m late.”

None of the other children seemed surprised by this torrent of words, thus Lan Wangji tried to keep his own bemusement carefully at bay.

“Please make every effort to be on time moving forward,” he finally said.

The child nodded wildly and took his seat. The lesson commenced without additional interruption.

Despite his desire to treat all his new charges equally, Lan Wangji noticed his attention was frequently drawn to the same pupil, who had the habit of slumping unbecomingly in his seat, though he always snapped back to attention when Lan Wangji cast an eye his way. When called upon, he offered the correct responses replete with additional, unsolicited commentary. At one point, one of the other students tried to shush him, only to be roundly told off in the politest terms possible for an eight-year-old, which was to say that the boy scowled, made a rude gesture, then immediately offered himself up for more lines in lieu of anything resembling an apology.

The oldest of the students, a boy Lan Wangji recognized as a distant cousin, scoffed. “You’re already copying lines for the next month, Lan Jingyi. Isn’t your wrist getting sore?”

“Isn’t your mouth?” Lan Jingyi demanded.

“Enough,” Lan Wangji said, effectively silencing both boys.

Lan Wangji briefly wondered if Lan Shihan’s abrupt retirement had more to it than a desire for ‘scholarly pursuits.’

By the afternoon, he felt confident of it.

They began meditation shortly after the midday meal. While most of the students were able to compose themselves properly, Lan Jingyi obviously struggled with the required focus. He shifted and twitched in his place, frequently falling out of the necessary positioning to allow his body to relax with his mind. Lan Wangji offered the challenge only mild interest until the student next to him, a girl roughly a year older, snapped.

“Stop moving,” she growled.

“My nose itches!” Lan Jingyi protested. “And it’s too hot in here. And I can hear the sounds of he senior disciples drilling in the sword field and—”

“No one cares about what the senior disciples are doing! You’re supposed to be focused,” she told him. When Lan Jingyi tried to push the point, she huffed in irritation and moved across the room.

Aiya, Lan Zhan, how can you expect a kid like this to just sit still when he’s got so much energy?

Lan Wangji did not smile, but for the first time in what felt like years it took actual effort on his part.

At the end of the day, when the other students packed up their materials, he gestured for Lan Jingyi to stay behind. Lan Jingyi appeared entirely unsurprised, as did the rest of the cohort.

“Lines?” the boy asked through a resigned grimace.

“Come with me,” Lan Wangji said instead.

Obviously dismayed, the boy trudged along beside him as Lan Wangji made his way across Cloud Recesses, away from the classroom and towards the mountains.

“I had a friend who experienced similar challenges settling his mind,” Lan Wangji offered.

“Hanguang-jun has friends?” Lan Jingyi gasped. And then ducked into bow. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Obviously Hanguang-jun is a respected cultivator, with many friends.”

Wei Ying, Lan Wangji decided without a lick of irony, would have loved this boy. His thoughts strayed to A-Yuan, who would have been of an age with Lan Jingyi had he lived. Grief, his other longtime friend, raised itself to attention before he ruthlessly forced it down.

"There are meditation methods outside of quiet and stillness which you may find more suitable."

Lan Jingyi sighed. "Because I'm not a proper Lan?" The recited sentiments were obviously not his own.

"Please recite rule one hundred and twenty-seven."

"Individual needs must be respected in order to advance collective serenity," he answered promptly. Good. Lan Jingyi had more chances to memorize the precepts than the rest of his peers, presumably because of how often he was asked to copy them. "But that's, like, allergies and stuff."

Lan Wangji raised a delicate eyebrow. "Does the rule say as much?"

"Uh. No?"

"Then perhaps it is being interpreted incorrectly."

Lan Jingyi considered this with no little amount of wide-eyed murmuring as they passed onto a bridge over one of the Cloud Recesses fastest-moving streams.

Lan Wangji stopped at the halfway point and gestured downwards, "Consider the movement of the water."

"Uh."

"Watch it closely. Follow the flow and ripple as it passes over rocks. Listen to the sound of it. Allow your mind to fully embrace the way it passes beneath the bridge."

Lan Jingyi sat down at the edge of the bridge and looked at the stream below. Gradually, his shoulders relaxed and his gaze grew unfocused and blissfully empty. Lan Wangji sat down beside him and relaxed into his own meditation, as he had lost the chance to do so earlier.

Twenty minutes later, far and away the longest time Lan Jingyi had spent in stillness throughout the day, the boy finally rustled back to awareness.

"How do you feel?" Lan Wangji asked.

Lan Jingyi thought for a moment and then offered, with urgent gravitas, "Hungry."

Lan Wangji allowed a gentle tilt to his lips. "Then I will see you back to your parents."

"Oh. Yeah. About that." He scratched the back of his head. "I just spend time in the dorms, really. I don't. Uh. I don't have anyone."

"No one?"

Lan Jingyi shook his head.

Of course orphans were not unknown to Cloud Recesses, especially after the war. Most of them became the shared responsibility of the other disciples, offered little in the way of childhood comforts, but fed and raised to become good Lan disciples and cultivators. Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen had been fortunate enough to have the love of their uncle, along with the stability and privilege that went hand in hand with their positions as sect heirs. He doubted Lan Jingyi, with all his boisterousness and irrepressibility, had enjoyed the same advantages.

Lan Wangji stood and Lan Jingyi hustled along behind him.

They made it to the dining hall in time for the evening meal. Lan Wangji gestured for Lan Jingyi to join him. He often ate in the jingshi instead of the dining hall, but supposed he could make an exception if for no other reason than to make sure Lan Jingyi had the opportunity to eat his fill.

A few of his classmates murmured as they passed. "Must've done something really bad." "Hanguang-jun is the head disciplinarian." "Something worse than writing lines?!"

Lan Jingyi, ignored it all with genial aplomb, apparently accustomed to it. Lan Wangji found himself unsurprised by the whisperings, though they ended abruptly as the meal began.

After dinner, Lan Jingyi bowed to him and took off at a quick pace, narrowly skirting the definition of running, to whatever amusements he wanted to enjoy before curfew.

The following morning, he was once again absent at the start of class. But so, too, was another of Lan Wangji's pupils, the same cousin who had been unkind to Lan Jingyi the day before.

One of the other students volunteered the information, “They’re kneeling.” Her voice dropped low, “Lan Jingyi and Lan Yanwei got into a fight.”

He had to wait until the midday break to go in search of the boys. They were, as described, kneeling outside the main hall on opposite sides of the walkway. Lan Yanwei had the beginnings of a black eye and split lip. Despite being significantly smaller than his erstwhile opponent Lan Jingyi appeared unharmed, though his ribbon was even more crooked than it had been the day before. Instead of the glazed-over look of someone reflecting on their conduct, his face was twisted into a mutinous glower.

Lan Wangji pointedly ignored them both and passed into his brother’s reception room. Xichen looked up at his entrance, gaze flickering past him for a moment to the boys in the courtyard beyond.

“I can have someone else assume the responsibilities if they’re not to your taste, Wangji,” he said, to all appearances resigned, once he’d waved Lan Wangji into the spot across from him.

“Unnecessary,” Lan Wangji said. “What was the source of their conflict?”

“Lan Jingyi took exception to Lan Yanwei’s assertion that the extra time you spent with him yesterday was due to his lack of ability to comprehend basic materials.”

“Ridiculous,” Lan Wangji dismissed. Xichen blinked and raised an eyebrow. “He is clever, but concerns with focus have prevented him from demonstrating his full capabilities. He will be an asset once he identifies a form of learning appropriate to his needs.”

“Lan Shihan seemed to think him a bit of a lost cause. I suspect her unwillingness to accept failure drove her to retirement.”

Lan Wangji felt a tug of irritation on Lan Jingyi’s behalf. For all he wanted to repudiate Lan Shihan's instruction to the world, doubtless Xichen would not appreciate it. “If the student fails, it is the teacher who must accept responsibility.”

Xichen hummed. They sat in lengthy silence until Xichen nodded to himself. “Once he finishes his punishment, perhaps you’d like to accept the additional challenge of assisting him with, as you say, identifying an appropriate form of learning?" He spoke through a sly smile for which Lan Wangji did not care; it reminded him too much of Jin Guangyao.

“Mn. Acceptable.”

Xichen blinked in surprise, clearly having expected him to argue. Lan Wangji stood, bowed, and removed himself back to his classroom.

Lan Jingyi and Lan Yanwei returned after lunch, neither of them looking particularly happy to be back within arm’s reach of each other. The afternoon was dedicated to calligraphy, a subject in which Lan Jingyi seemed largely uninterested, though he put forward a decent effort.

He lingered of his own accord at the end of the lesson, shuffling his feet until he noticed Lan Wangji watching him, at which point he managed to still for all of ten seconds before resuming.

“Fighting without permission is prohibited,” Lan Wangji reminded him, collecting the unused writing materials for the following day.

Lan Jingyi jumped to help. “I know.”

“You know all the disciplines quite well. Why contravene them?”

“You said yesterday that the rules were open to interpretation.” Not exactly, but Lan Wangji nodded for him to continue. “Well, there are rules against treating others with contempt. And harbouring jealousy. And slander. But Lan Yanwei said that the only reason you spent any time with me at all was because you wanted an excuse to kick me out, which isn’t fair because I should have a second chance? Well. A fifth. Sixth? And it’s obvious he was saying it because he was angry that you wanted to help me, because he’s used to being the teacher’s favourite and you didn’t call on him once at all yesterday. Then he told me that the only reason I was here at all is because they didn’t have room for me in the servant’s quarters? Which, rude? ‘Be easy on others.’ Which he’s obviously decided to ignore. And I only hit him a little to enforce the disciplines.” He took a breath. “Enthusiastically.”

Lan Zhan! You shouldn’t laugh! It only encourages them. Of course you’re laughing. I can always tell.

“Next time you choose to enthusiastically reinforce the disciplines, take care not to break any yourself.”

Lan Jingyi sighed, face screwed up in obvious dismay, but he nodded.

“Would you like to continue your water-based meditation today?”

“Yes please.”

This time, he managed to improve his focus by an additional ten minutes. Heartened by the improvement, Lan Jingyi chatted the entire way back to the dining hall.

“...But I don’t get my sword? Until I’m twelve? Which is way too late, Hanguang-jun. I know that we get to drill using practice swords, but I think a real one is important for us to have. Early."

"I suppose arguments against naptime would be giving more weight, should the children in the nursery be thus armed."

Lan Jingyi tripped, seemingly over his own feet, but scrambled to catch up. "Hanguang-jun, was that a joke?!"

Rumours and whispers continued that evening when Lan Jingyi once again ate at his side. Tonight, both Shufu and Xichen had finished their duties in advance of the hour, and seated themselves at the same table. From their expressions, only the invective against speaking while eating kept them from commenting on Lan Jingyi’s presence, as well as the number of times he almost lost control of himself to offer commentary during the meal.

The next few weeks continued in the same manner, falling into easy routine. With his time and efforts directed at his students, Lan Wangji held off on night hunting, afraid to lose the traction he gained as their principal instructor should he leave for too long. After in-class instruction finished, he would accompany Lan Jingyi to the bridge to provide him space and time to meditate. They would then share a meal before Lan Jingyi returned to the dormitories for the evening.

The improvement in his meditative acumen also assisted in other areas of study, until he had more or less resumed pace with the rest of the class. He still frequently found difficulty with tasks requiring extended periods of stillness, but even these began to come easier to him as autumn tripped towards winter. Lan Wangji anticipated him surpassing his peers before spring.

When ice completely froze out the surface of the stream, Lan Wangji needed to find a different method of focusing Lan Jingyi's boundless energy.

Watching the snowfall worked well but proved unreliable. The drifts on the outer paths quickly became too challenging to easily pass through for walking meditation. Lan Jingyi struggled (the kindest possible assessment) with anything musical, to the point Lan Wangji worried he had some hearing issues, which also might explain his excessive volume when speaking.

He came upon the solution one evening in solitude, as he quietly reorganized a few of his keepsakes and came across a familiar illustration. Lan Wangji, younger and infinitely less self-aware, had found it after cleaning the ripped pages of the pornography Wei Ying shoved under his nose and crumpled it in the wake of his anger in response to what he perceived as nothing more than cruel mockery. The regret followed quickly and he had done his best to smooth it out. The edges of the paper remained wrinkled despite his best efforts.

He set the picture down on his desk, casting his thoughts back to other times they’d secluded themselves in the library.

"We do not have time for such trivialities, Wei Ying."

"Ah, Lan Zhan, it gives me time to think."

"Such rarity must be encouraged, in that case."

"So mean, Lan Zhan! I'm going to tell Jiang Cheng you’re bullying me and he'll beat you up."

He brought Lan Jingyi out to a pristine clearing the following day.

"What do you see in the snow?"

"Uh. White? A lot of…" Lan Jingyi waved his hands. "A lot of white."

"Look closer."

Lan Jingyi's nose wrinkled, but he obediently crouched down to look at the ground. "Still white, Hanguang-jun."

"Closer."

He nearly shoved his face into the ground, blinking when he began to pick apart the sight of the individual flakes. "Ohhhh."

Lan Wangji passed him paper and a piece of charcoal. "Draw as many of them as you can. Without looking at the paper."

Lan Jingyi worked in silence, his breathing evening out as he fell into copying the fractal patterns and allowing the rest of his cares to ease away. Once he’d drifted off to a meditative state, Lan Wangji used a warning talisman to prevent him from freezing, as his golden core was not sufficiently developed enough to keep him warm for prolonged periods of time.

Before nightfall, Lan Jingyi had covered his page with small but faithful fractals and ran out of room for more.

"Was that good, Hanguang-jun?"

"Mn. Very admirable."

Lan Jingyi grinned, showing off the gap where he had recently lost two of his baby teeth from the left, making his smile decidedly lopsided. "Thank you."

They missed the call for the evening meal. Lan Wangji led Lan Jingyi to the jingshi and provided him with a light supper from his own, relatively well-stocked cupboards.

Afterwards, Lan Jingyi shocked him by darting in and throwing his arms around Lan Wangji's waist and whispering, "Goodnight."

He took off before Lan Wangji could reply.

Lan Wangji stared after him, warmed through.

He tucked the drawing of the snowflakes in among his other small treasures for safekeeping.

An opportunity for a night hunt presented itself shortly after the sect’s characteristically sedate Lunar New Year celebration, when the disciples were all given three days for individual contemplation.

Lan Jingyi walked him to the gates, chattering the way about everything and nothing, only pausing for breath once they reached the entryway.

"...can I come with you?" he finally asked in a small voice, the question obviously weighing down on him.

Lan Wangji shook his head and Lan Jingyi's shoulders slumped.

"I will not be long." Indeed, he anticipated dispatching the lone restless spirit before the first nightfall of his absence. The rest of his time would be spent travelling to Yiling.

Lan Jingyi’s lower lip trembled. "But I'll miss you."

Egregious displays of emotion were discouraged, but Lan Wangji considered it appropriate to place a hand on Lan Jingyi's shoulder and squeeze. The pout abated. Lan Jingyi stood taller under the attention. It made the tilt of his forehead ribbon much more obvious.

Be diligent in remembering the purpose of self-reflection, Lan Wangji almost said. He could remember his uncle issuing similar ordinances when leaving for his travels. Lan Wangji had always accepted them and did his best to honour such directions, but it had never been what he'd wanted to hear.

"I will miss you as well," he allowed.

Lan Jingyi's smile returned. "Can I stay in the jingshi while you're gone? I won't mess anything up. I promise. I'll even clean it all from top to bottom. Well, except if I don't mess anything up I suppose it doesn't need cleaning? Though the only way to really be sure is if I stay there…?"

"Remain in your own room," Lan Wangji replied firmly.

The pout made a reappearance and Lan Jingyi began kicking and shuffling his feet, a habit he'd yet to break.

"Wind at your back," he finally muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and casting a resentful gaze towards the gates.

Lan Wangji gave his next words careful thought, "Thank you, Jing-er."

Lan Jingyi grinned wide at the endearment and waved wildly as Lan Wangji walked out the gates and began his descent.

The night hunt proved no challenge and he travelled to Yiling early the following morning. He easily found the path to the Burial Mounds, surprised to realize that months had passed since his last visit. Nothing changed in this place. The skeletal trees still reached for him, the air sitting heavy in his lungs.

He found his usual perch and pulled out his guqin to play Inquiry.

Almost three years had now passed. While Lan Wangji no longer anticipated a response, he could not yet bear to give up hope of one.

Wei Ying, he called out through his guqin, Jiang Yanli. Where are you?

Night fell. He allowed himself a selfish heave of breath before rising.

The return trip to Gusu often filled him with resignation and mild discomfort, knowing his brother would be waiting for him with a kind smile which nevertheless betrayed his confusion over Lan Wangji’s actions. Do not grieve in excess always hung in the air between them. Such words had been parroted at Lan Wangji hundreds of times after the death of his mother, perhaps informing his unwillingness to express himself as he grew older. He did not grieve Wei Ying outwardly, but held his zhiji close to his heart, as though memories of him might stem the still-bleeding wound his absence left behind.

He passed into Cloud Recesses and made his way for the jingshi, pleasantly surprised when he remained unaccosted. He’d managed to make it in just before curfew, which perhaps explained Xichen’s absence. Doubtless his brother would seek him out in the morning, if not otherwise occupied.

Lan Wangji came to a pause at the jingshi gates. A bundle of white waited for him outside the doors. He blinked in quiet dismay when he realized it was Lan Jingyi, fast asleep, although the late winter chill still bit through the air.

He leaned over and carefully collected the child, carrying him into the jingshi.

“Hanguang-jun?” Lan Jingyi yawned.

“It is almost curfew,” Lan Wangji informed him.

Lan Jingyi offered a loud, obviously fake snore in response. Lan Wangji sighed fondly and eased him down atop a spare sleeping mat for the evening, carefully piling blankets around him.

“Is your dorm room really so unacceptable?”

Lan Jingyi gave up pretending to sleep for a moment and sighed dramatically. “It’s boring.” He’s not wrong, Lan Zhan. Try being an eight-year-old with nothing to do except stare at empty walls. “And I knew you’d be home today.”

To this, Wei Ying likely would have just cooed ridiculously and fed him something wholly without nutritional value.

“We’ll discuss this in the morning,” Lan Wangji told him instead.

Lan Jingyi grinned. “I’m glad you’re home.”

He squirrelled himself under the small mountain of blankets.

With thoughts of Wei Ying close to the surface, Lan Wangji could not properly settle his mind. He drew out his guqin yet again, blindly finding the strings to play the song he had composed long ago.

“...’snice,” Lan Jingyi murmured from his makeshift bed. “‘sit called?”

Lan Wangji’s face softened, but he did not reply before the boy’s breaths drifted off into slumber.

Lan Jingyi barely managed to stumble out of bed in time for the morning meal and took off without checking his appearance, leaving his hair in complete disarray and his forehead ribbon improperly crooked as always. Lan Wangji silently despaired after him. Instead of joining him for breakfast, however, he preemptively went in search of his elder brother.

“Ah, Wangji,” Xichen smiled and waved him to a seat. “Welcome home. I trust your time in contemplation was well-spent?” Lan Wangji nodded. “I noticed in your absence your pupil has a very interesting way of expressing himself. Occasionally to the extent where he disdains our disciplines.”

“Disdains?” Lan Wangji repeated sceptically. Surely not. Lan Jingyi strove to be an upright example, if only because everyone seemed to expect otherwise.

“Yes, he seems to think that a broader interpretation of the rules of conduct is acceptable, especially with regards to the volume of his voice.”

Ah. Not unexpected, in that case. “Mn. He is spirited.”

Xichen’s face clouded over. “I suppose he is, at that.” He thought about the words for a moment. “Wangji, if teaching someone… like that is a burden for you, Lan Shihan had suggested he might find better occupation in pursuits outside cultivation.”

“No.” He did not betray his anger at the assumption. His brother meant no offense. He never did.

Xichen’s shoulders eased slightly in relief. “Ah. Good. Though I ask you to please be wary of distinguishing him over your other students. While he has his share of challenges, we cannot be thought to be subjective in evaluation of our students.”

“Lan Jingyi has worked hard to overcome these challenges.”

“Very admirably, but now that he is on par with his classmates—” Lan Wangji silently disagreed with the assessment, as Lan Jingyi had placed above the others in his last formal evaluation, “—you should allow your time to be spent elsewhere when outside the classroom.”

“Lan Jingyi does not have family.”

“True, but you are only his teacher. No one expects you to be singularly dedicated to his needs.”

“Then I will adopt him.” The words, whip-quick and reactive, nonetheless made his heart sing in ways it had not in many years, since holding A-Yuan in his lap and considering what it would mean to have a child of his own.

The words brought Xichen up short. Lan Wangji waited his brother out, rather than uselessly filling the shocked silence. “Adopt…” He shook his head and huffed an incredulous chuckle. “Wangji, you cannot be serious.”

After a life lived in perfect sincerity, he couldn’t see why his brother would think him to be joking now.

Xichen’s brow furrowed when no rebuttal came. “Wangji, it’s a noble idea, but surely you have responsibilities that demand more time and attention than you can provide to a child. Especially the child in question.”

“Taking responsibility for the classroom has kept me more often at home. I am willing to accept the position on a permanent basis, rather than a temporary one.”

“Have you thought this through?” Xichen asked with an uncertain twist of his lips. “Only, I’m not sure if you would find your temperament suited to this arrangement in the long run. It would grieve you to be unable to find satisfaction in your duties.”

Lan Wangji could not claim to have done so, but it made sense to him, suddenly, in ways very little else had over the past three years. Left to his own devices, he had no doubt Lan Jingyi would succeed as a disciple and become a capable cultivator who distinguished himself among his peers. But Lan Wangji found himself hesitant to step away from the chance to help guide him.

"I have given it sufficient consideration," he finally stated.

His brother's expression barely twitched out of shock and trepidation. “I encourage you to discuss the idea with Shufu. Perhaps you might listen to his counsel, since mine will not sway you.”

“You have no further objections if he approves?”

“No, but Wangji—” He cut himself off with a small shake of his head. “I’m not convinced this is right for you.”

“Thank you, Zewu-jun. I appreciate your input.”

Lan Wangji stood and bowed. Speaking with Shufu could wait. Obviously his first discussion had to be with Lan Jingyi.

He had the opportunity after class, when Lan Jingyi tarried to complain about the imposed days of rest, which most of his classmates seemed to have enjoyed.

“Jing-er,” Lan Wangji said, once the last of his diatribe slowed to mostly incomprehensible mutterings. Jingyi glowed in delight at the endearment. “I need to ask why you waited for me outside the jingshi.”

“I told you, I was bored.”

“Be forthright in your speech. Do not take your own words lightly.”

Jingyi began shuffling his feet. “I was bored because you weren’t here.”

“Mn.” Now or never, Lan Zhan. “If you wanted, there is a way in which you could accompany me on any missions moving forward.” Jingyi’s eyes lit up. “If you did so as my son.”

The moment Jingyi realized his meeting, his eyes widened, lit up brighter than the moon at its fullest.

“You do not need to give an answer—”

“Yes!” Jingyi practically vibrated in place. “Can I go get my stuff now?”

“Should you wish—”

Jingyi took off at a run, only slowing when he presumably remembered the rule against it. Or perhaps remembering something else entirely, as he swung back around to fling himself against Lan Wangji in a tight embrace before setting out once again.

Lan Wangji allowed himself the smallest of smiles and took off in search of his uncle.

By the time he’d returned to the jingshi following an abbreviated conversation with his uncle—which consisted mostly of nodding, listening to Shufu’s dubious hopes that spending more time around Lan Wangji might curb some of Jingyi’s unfortunate natural exuberance and giving both his unqualified blessing and promise to help with the particulars whenever required—Lan Jingyi waited for him outside the doors, bag slung over his shoulder.

He settled in quickly. Lan Wangji requested a privacy screen and another bed and the two of them found it easy enough to move and adjust things to create a second sleeping area. Before the time came for the evening meal, things were organized to their shared satisfaction.

Before they left, Lan Wangji placed a hand on Jingyi’s shoulder. Once he had the boy’s full attention, he adjusted his crooked forehead ribbon.

Jingyi grinned. "Thanks, Hang— A-Die."

(The effort proved mostly in vain, as it somehow managed to become crooked again even before they reached the dining hall).

Jingyi's first official function as Lan Wangji's son and second heir of the Gusu Lan came late in the summer, in the form of Lianfang-zun's wedding.

Before they left their guest quarters in Koi Tower, he sat Jingyi in front of him and styled his hair around a guan and ribbon, one appropriate to his station, which Lan Wangji had himself worn at a comparable age.

As he did, he made Jingyi recite the full lineages of the other major sects.

"Most disciples don't need to know this yet," Jingyi pointed out, wincing as Lan Wangji brushed out a particularly stubborn knot. “Not until the lectures when the guest disciples arrive.”

"Most disciples will not be expected to potentially greet other influential sect members by name," Lan Wangji pointed out, as Shufu had once said to him. "Continue."

Jingyi sighed, but managed to trace back the Nie sect by three generations before stumbling.

Then they moved onto the Jiang.

"Current family consists of Jiang Wanyin and…" He frowned. "Isn't that it? And one sister who died?"

Lan Wangji's lips drew tightly together. "Jiang Yanli, who married into the Jin sect. She was honourable and dedicated to her family.” Jingyi took this information with a mostly disinterested nod, which Lan Wangji found himself curiously unwilling to countenance. He continued, “Sect Leader Jiang also had a brother."

"Really?"

"Yes. This generation of the Jiang sect also included Wei Wuxian."

Jingyi's lips pursed thoughtfully. "Why isn't he in the records, then? Is this a trick? Is this a lesson?" Jingyi jerked his head around to cast a betrayed look Lan Wangji's way. "Will there be a test? Because Shugong says that all tests should be administered in a fair and equitable manner and if I'm not given the proper study materials I am going to call bull—"

"Wei Wuxian was stricken from the Jiang family records," Lan Wangji interrupted. He had resigned himself to the necessity of breaking the Lan precepts against interruption, if only because he would never otherwise be able to get a word in edgewise when it came to speaking with his son. He tucked his fingers under Jingyi’s chin and turned his head back around to finish winding his ribbon through the back of his hair ornament.

"Oooh. What did he do?"

"It is not a short story. If you manage to get through the ceremony without causing significant political incident, I will tell you."

Lan Zhan, am I worthy of being a bedtime story? For your son? I have never been so honoured.

He finished the styling and stepped away.

The Lan delegation included himself and Jingyi, Shufu, and three senior disciples. Xichen had travelled well ahead of them to help his sworn brother with the last remaining arrangements. They fell easily into straight lines, Shufu at the head of their party, as they made their way to the main reception hall of Koi Tower.

"What sort of incident are we talking about, anyway?" Jingyi murmured as they passed through the doors.

Before either Lan Wangji or Shufu could reply, Xichen caught up to them, full of joyful salutations, in his element having been in the company of his sworn brothers. How happy for him that he had found company so much more suitable to his tastes than a stodgy younger brother who had long outgrown his need to be teased.

Unfair, Lan Wangji chastised himself. He had never doubted his elder brother loved him.

And yet he did not imagine the strain between them, which had only been exacerbated with his adoption of Jingyi. Xichen did not understand him; not when it came to Wei Ying and Jingyi. It came as a startling realization after a life spent being perfectly in sync.

Their easy greetings were shortly interrupted by the father of the groom. Lan Wangji's grip tightened dangerously on Bichen, though he easily schooled his face to neutrality. This man had hounded Wei Ying until his death and still yet enjoyed the incomparable prestige of his position of Chief Cultivator and ruling the most prosperous of the great sects.

"I am glad to greet my valuable friends and allies!" Jin Guangshan, in company, never spoke in a way that was not performative. His voice boomed with unwarranted authority, as though he expected eyes to be on him at all times. It had the desired effect; the indecorous volume never failed to draw attention.

"Sect Leader Jin, we are honoured to be here in celebration of your heir's marriage," Shufu replied in a much more reasonable tone.

His voice dropped as though he was inviting a confidence, but remained loud enough for everyone to hear, "Yes, well, the whole affair is far less distinguished than weddings I have hosted before now, but at least the bride is beautiful." He made as if to nudge Shufu's ribs with his elbow, but presumably realized at the last moment that such an action would be unwise. "Ah, sit, sit. I won't offer you wine," he laughed with a false joviality, "Remembering the last time your people were offered a cup."

"I'd have one," Jingyi muttered. Lan Wangji cast an admonishing gaze over his shoulder and he quieted.

The ceremony took place soon after, the hall overly crowded and soon overheated in the late summer air. At the front of the room, Jin Guangyao sat beside his admittedly lovely bride, his easy smile belied by wild eyes, betraying the profound disbelief of his good fortune.

Having Jingyi along gave Lan Wangji a socially acceptable excuse to leave even earlier than normal. The two of them slipped out sometime shortly after innumerable lotus cakes had been placed upon their plates. There had been a notable dearth of vegetables, but enough that Lan Wangji could sustain himself, even while moving the more substantial fare to Jingyi's plate.

(He was relatively certain Jingyi had managed to finagle some suckling pig as well, but neither of them acknowledged the fact beyond Jingyi's rapturous expression as he quickly shoved the entire piece into his mouth.)

It may have passed as an uncomfortable yet unremarkable evening had they not run across Jiang Wanyin on their way out the door. The sect leader's mouth twisted when he saw them, doubtless in disgust or anger. Lan Wangji had rarely perceived anything else on the other man’s face.

"Lan-er-gongzi," Jiang Wanyin gritted out, jaw clenched so tightly his molars probably feared fracturing. Lan Wangji decided remaining stoic and silent to be the best approach; in his experience, Jiang Wanyin hated nothing more than people refusing to rise to his bait. "I hear you've been in Yiling again. I doubt there’s ever been anything there of worth to anyone."

Lan Wangji could not help the subtle tightening of his lips, which Jiang Wanyin marked with a smug curl of his own.

"Hanguang-jun's business takes him many places," Jingyi stated with unerring confidence. “And he never dedicates his time to anything unworthy.”

Jiang Wanyin turned his scowl towards Lan Wangji's son, though the cruel smile remained fixed in place when he shifted it back towards Lan Wangji. “That’s not what I recall.”

“He’s not responsible for your memory problems,” Jingyi huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jiang Wanyin glowered, though it may have been the standard state of his face. “I thought the Lan of Gusu valued respect?”

“‘Respect the virtuous and strive to learn from them,’” Jingyi quoted. “‘Do not mistake physical strength for virtue of character.’”

“You—!” Jiang Wanyin took a step forward, hand clenching around Zidian.

Lan Wangji interposed himself between the Jiang sect leader and his son, still provocatively impassive, but silently rather hoping Jiang Wanyin would give him an excuse. Any excuse. Lan Wangji’s own conduct with Wei Ying had undoubtedly contributed to his death, but that paled in comparison to how Jiang Wanyin had behaved. If his own regrets manifested in his dislike for Jiang Wanyin, then no one remained to whom he owed an account.

(He doubted his brother would forgive him for causing a scene at such a distinguished event, but his temper had long-since worn out).

Jiang Wanyin glanced back and forth between the two of them before scoffing and turning on his heel to march back into the banquet.

Jingyi only waited until he was out of sight, “That didn't count as a political incident, right? I still get my story?”

Lan Wangji could think of no greater tribute to Wei Ying than irritating Jiang Wanyin. And after that, he felt frankly obligated to share stories of Wei Ying, if for nothing else than to recognize Jingyi’s accidental honoring of his memory.

“Come,” he said.

Jingyi fell into step beside him. Once they made their way back to their shared suite, Jingyi immediately flopped over onto the nearest pillow, smacking ineffectually at his head until Lan Wangji obligingly helped remove his guan.

“What do you know of the Yiling Patriarch?” Lan Wangji asked.

“Uhhh. He killed the original Jin clan heir, right? And died in a fire, or something?”

It seemed Wei Ying had turned himself into a half-remembered footnote. If the siege against the Burial Mounds had gone through, perhaps he might be more than a little-known cautionary tale.

Lan Zhan! So rude!

“I will tell you about Wei Wuxian,” Lan Wangji continued. Jingyi wiggled around until he lay comfortably and looked at Lan Wangji expectantly. “The hero who defeated Wen Ruohan and won the Sunshot Campaign.”

Jingyi’s eyes widened. “I thought Jin Guangyao did that?”

“Listen.”

He waited expectantly until Jingyi sat up straight before launching into his tale of the boy who had scaled the walls of Cloud Recesses.

Adjusting to life with Jingyi proved initially quite challenging. Lan Wangji never said as much to anyone, not even Xichen or Shufu, but he often found himself unprepared for the unique challenges of fatherhood. Frequently, his only guiding star was his imagination, in the form of Wei Ying's voice, whispering encouragement or protestation. He found, more often than not, following such imaginary guidance proved the right course, even when it conflicted with his initial instincts.

Once, only once, his brother gently suggested that fatherhood might be less of a burden if he finally chose a wife. Lan Wangji could not say exactly what his face did in response, but Xichen quickly changed the subject and never brought it up again. He maintained a cautious air around Jingyi, as though expecting Lan Wangji might at any moment come to his senses and realize he’d made a mistake. As though responsibilities and commitments could be easily set aside when inconvenient. Lan Wangji could not tell if Jingyi truly noticed the uncharacteristic austerity, but long after Shufu began answering fondly to Jingyi calling him Shugong, Xichen remained Zewu-jun.

Two years after Jingyi's adoption, five after the death of Wei Ying, in the middle of a pleasant autumn evening, Lan Wangji sent his son to the library.

Had it only been himself, he might have waited until the following morning. He did not urgently require the volume, but Jingyi, irrepressibly full of energy, seemed to need constant occupation to settle his mind and—having already meditated, finished his assigned schoolwork, and cleaned the small disaster in his living area—Lan Wangji felt that sending him on a small errand would be for the best.

He did not anticipate a sentry's frantic knocking on the jingshi door only fifteen minutes later.

"You are needed in the library, Hanguang-jun. Urgently."

He took off running. There was so little that could potentially injure his son in the library pavilion, but if anyone could find a way to do themselves harm while surrounded by books and calm, it was Jingyi.

He heard the clamouring in defiance of the rules of conduct well before he reached the doors.

Only a handful of disciples awaited him on the main floor, none of them Jingyi, all of them deadly quiet. Lan Wangji realized with a growing sense of dread the yelling came from the forbidden section.

He took the stairs down quickly and found himself faced with Jingyi on one side, Jin Guangyao on another, and Xichen standing between them.

"...saw him with it!" Jingyi screeched at top volume.

Jin Guangyao smiled as though he considered Jingyi a caged beast who had performed a marvelous trick. It made Lan Wangji’s hand tighten on Bichen’s scabbard. "The young master has an active temperament."

As Jingyi lunged, Lan Wangji barely reached him in time to catch him beneath his arms to hold him back. Jingyi braced himself only until he realized who held him and then relaxed entirely.

"How did you get in here, A-Yao?" Xichen asked.

"After I left you, I came here to find something to read for the evening. At that point, I discovered the door to this section open and, curious, I came to investigate. That was when Young Master Lan stumbled upon me." Jin Guangyao turned a simpering gaze towards Lan Xichen. "You must pardon my trespass, er-ge. I supposed this was a restricted part of the Cloud Recesses collection, but my curiosity overcame me."

Jingyi drew in a breath to shout, yet remained silent when Lan Wangji placed a hand on his shoulder.

Xichen doubted. Lan Wangji could see it in his brother's eyes. While the explanation was plausible, entering such a private place of another sect could not be excused away with mere apologies and claims to curiosity. Especially not with what their library housed. For all their intimacies, Xichen could not overlook the trespass.

"Jingyi, please describe what you saw," Xichen calmly requested.

"I came to get a book for A-Die. I saw the door was open and that he was down here and I called for the guards." So far, a match to the tale. Jin Guangyao nodded as though this corroboration addressed the entire ordeal. Then Jingyi’s eyes narrowed. "But before I did, I saw him putting a book away. And I can point out which book it was."

The smile on Jin Guangyao's face froze.

In the very periphery of his vision, Lan Wangji noted one of the many volumes out of alignment with the other books on the shelf. Xichen must have marked it as well. Blood-draining betrayal stole across his face, devastating to witness.

"Please pass me the book, Jingyi," Xichen whispered.

Jingyi, keenly aware of the emotions of those around them in ways Lan Wangji never mastered, merely nodded and replied, "Yes, Zewu-jun."

He moved to pass Jin Guangyao.

The man turned as though to allow it, his hands raising to wave Jingyi politely by.

And suddenly there was a garrote stretched across his son's neck.

Bichen flew into Lan Wangji's hand, unsheathed in a single breath. He held it aloft, heart hammering hard in his chest as he looked for any sign of weakness in Jin Guangyao's hold.

"A-Yao!"

Lan Wangji could have lived his life without the knowledge of how his brother sounded as his heart shattered.

Jingyi looked as though he wanted to fight. Lan Wangji caught his eye and shook his head. His son would not be a casualty of whatever machinations Jin Guangyao hoped to achieve.

"A-Yao," Xichen repeated shakily. "Why?"

"You could never understand, er-ge," Jin Guangyao's face twisted into a fierce scowl. "Not having suffered a lifetime of debasement, how could you? I have no desire to harm the child, but please do not doubt that I will if there is any attempt to prevent my leaving."

"No," Lan Wangji growled.

"Wangji—"

"Please, if you dismiss the sentries upstairs and then seal your spiritual power, this can end peacefully."

"And then what, A-Yao? You hope to just return to Koi Tower, as though you haven't threatened the life of Hanguang-jun’s son, accessed forbidden materials, and betrayed my trust?"

"Oh, no. Not ever, now. My father will fling me down the steps and directly onto Hanguang-jun's blade should I attempt to return home after this failure. Bad enough I could not recover the Stygian Tiger Amulet, this will not be tolerated."

Xichen stared as though he had never seen the man before him and spoke the words which now choked Lan Wangji’s voice in his throat. "Did you have something to do with Wei Wuxian's death?"

Lan Wangji's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his brother's question thrumming angry as a wasp in the air between them.

"Of course not, er-ge. He brought it on himself. Were you not in agreement that he needed to die?" He looked directly at Lan Wangji as he said it, revelling in his cordial cruelty. The words drove a cold spike through Lan Wangji’s heart.

"No. I always said he could be redeemed. And, A-Yao, please. He isn't the only one."

Lan Wangji wanted to excoriate his brother for begging in such a way, to such a man. He could not even say what he might have done if their situations were reversed, as there existed not a situation in the entirety of the universe in which Wei Ying would ever hostage a child. If Wei Ying were here...

Aiya, Lan Zhan, if your Wei Ying were here, then you wouldn't have to worry about Jing-er, because he would find a way to be the one taken hostage instead.

He would find a way.

Lan Wangji sheathed Bichen and sealed his spiritual energy in a few abrupt movements. He held out his sword to his brother and bowed to Jin Guangyao.

"Release my son. I will accompany you."

"Wangji, no."

They both ignored Xichen, though neither of them were in the habit of doing so. Lan Wangji slanted a pointed look at Xichen until his brother reluctantly sealed his own energy, lips tight in a furious moue.

"Move to the main floor, Hanguang-jun."

Xichen went ahead of them to clear the disciplines waiting on the floor above. By this point, no doubt, word had spread that something was happening, though details would surely be vague. It would be enough to summon Shufu, if not half the sect. Whatever Jin Guangyao's exit strategy, he had to know his options were severely limited.

Lan Wangji moved ahead of them, senses heightened by panic as he listened to Jin Guangyao manhandle his son up the stairs. When he turned at the top, he spotted a line of blood cutting across Jingyi’s neck. Red momentarily clouded his vision and he took a threatening step forward. Hobbled spiritual energy or no, he would not allow further harm to come to his child.

"Stop there, please."

He did, though resentfully. Jin Guangyao eased the wire from Jingyi's neck and shoved him back down the stairs.

Lan Wangji jumped forward, but Jin Guangyao had his sword out and pointed at him before he could find purchase for his hands. The tip rested over his heart.

"I have nothing but affection and respect for your brother, Hanguang-jun. Please do not make me kill you. It would upset him."

In a fair fight, Jin Guangyao would offer little challenge, but with his spiritual power sealed even the other man’s weak cultivation would be enough to overcome him. Lan Wangji allowed himself to be steered backwards, out the door and onto the walkway. Lan Xichen had done an admirable job of commanding the other disciples to clear the area; the space around them had been abandoned. His brother was the only one awaiting them outside the library doors.

“A-Yao, please,” Xichen whispered.

“We’re long past useless pleading, er-ge,” Jin Guangyao told him. He had the gall to sound apologetic. “I did not mean for either of you to become embroiled in this. Had the young master not stumbled across me, you would not be so inconvenienced.”

Lan Wangji kept his eyes firmly on Jin Guangyao, inching backwards at the point of his sword. Wei Ying would have already been gloating at this point, he decided, because unbeknownst to the Jin sect heir, Shufu was very, very fast.

A single note played on the xiao preceded a blast of spiritual energy, knocking Jing Guangyao back off his feet. Lan Wangji leapt away to give Shufu a chance to descend from above. He settled himself between Jin Guangyao and his nephews. Outsiders rarely saw Shufu with his sword drawn; few appreciated his skills extended to more than teaching.

Lan Wangji fell into a flanking position beside Lan Qiren, waiting tensed as his uncle leveled his sword in preparation for an attack. Jin Guangyao pushed himself to his feet. His gaze flickered between Shufu and Lan Wangji, likely seeking out weakness.

He found none.

Jin Guangyao turned a pleading gaze to Xichen, still frozen near the library doors. Perhaps, like Lan Wangji, he noted the tears brimming in his brother’s eyes, for he seemed to deflate, his gaze dropping away.

“I would not have harmed you, had I been able to help it,” he told Xichen.

“Wangji,” Shufu said, “Go see about Jing-er. I will take it from here.”

Lan Wangji returned to the library with quick steps. Jingyi sat at the bottom of the stairs, looking annoyed but uninjured. Before Lan Wangji could say anything, his son threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Lan Wangji’s waist.

“I grabbed the book,” he said. He offered up the volume for Lan Wangji’s inspection. “There’s a page missing.”

The Collection of Turmoil. There was no little amount of chaos Jin Guangyao could have caused with such a thing in hand. Lan Wangji cupped the side of Jingyi’s head and nodded solemnly.

“Well done,” he said.

Jingyi frowned. “What’s going to happen?”

Lan Wangji could not answer. Jin Guangshan would no doubt find a way to disassociate himself from his heir’s misdeeds. Jin Rusong, only a year old, would almost certainly not be named as Sect Heir, if indeed he was allowed to survive his father’s treachery. Doubtless, whatever occurred next, the consequences would be far worse if the missing page was discovered on Jin Guangyao’s person.

“Whatever happens, it does not reflect on your conduct,” Lan Wangji promised.

Jingyi looked hesitant to accept the fact, but nodded, and allowed Lan Wangji to steer him back up the stairs.

Chapter Text

Song Sizhui and Song Ling (Wen Yuan and Jin Ling, Lan Wangji knew in the deepest silence of his heart) brought them past the borders of Baling, into ungoverned territories, ever closer to the sea. For two nights, Lan Wangji retired early to shamelessly eavesdrop as the boys spoke of their lives. And for two nights, he waited for one of them to speak the names of their parents—a loving father, a doting mother, each thus far distinguished by their acts of love and devotion and frustratingly unnamed—and dreaded it all the same.

For years he had refused to imagine Wei Ying and Jiang Yanli still living. He had thrown every effort into upstanding performance of his duties, raising Jingyi, and striving to live up to the promise he and Wei Ying had made.

Hearing Wangxian played on Chenqing, something he had resigned to the bounds of his imagination, rent his soul. Seeing Suibian held in capable hands—for he had no doubt that Song Sizhui (A-Yuan) had been raised to be capable—had scabbed over a part of himself he had long since resigned to remaining an open wound for his living days.

Faced with a young man wielding Chenqing and Suibian, standing alongside a boy who held Suihua, he waited poised on the precipice of heartbreak, waiting to fall.

He feared what awaited him when they reached the Song home.

One evening, as he lay stiff as a corpse atop his bedroll and listening to Jingyi and his new friends, his son finally asked one of the questions to which Lan Wangji had been dreading the answer:

"You haven't spoken about your mother," Jingyi ventured with all due respect. Song Ling spoke of his father in a gentle but detached way that suggested his knowledge had been affectionately passed down secondhand. Inevitably, he would realize how soft he'd become and snap at everyone around him. But Song Sizhui? His stories spoke of a father full of life and love, a passionate recitation of a life well-lived, all without the specifics Lan Wangji craved.

"Hm? Oh, I never knew her. Actually, Baba used to joke that he was my mother, but then he'd clam up as soon as I asked who my father was in that case." Song Sizhui huffed in amusement. "Sometimes, I thought maybe he had been married to Hanguang-jun, and told us his stories as a way of mourning. I supposed wrongly, I see."

(The next morning, he realized Jingyi had not refuted the idea as he might have, had he not obviously been harbouring his own suspicions).

Had Wei Ying spent the intervening years grieving as Lan Wangji had done? The thought brought neither comfort nor validation. Wei Ying was meant to have lived a life without envy. Lan Wangji never wanted him to feel the chains of grief beggaring his movements. Wei Ying had suffered enough; Lan Wangji had taken the pain of loss as his due for not having advocated for his zhiji while he could.

He prayed Wei Ying had not spent sixteen years in mourning. Had instead found joy in raising two wonderful young men, as Lan Wangji had discovered in bringing up Jingyi. He hoped that Wei Ying and Jiang Yanli had comforted one another in their loss and found contentment in lives free of the politics which had almost destroyed them.

As they arrived at the home Wei Ying and Jiang Yanli had built together, for their children, Lan Wangji even dared to hope they had been happy.

When Jiang Yanli, whole and healthy, looked at him from where she greeted her son and nephew, Lan Wangji felt as though he could take a real breath after sixteen years of drowning.

“Madam Song,” he finally forced out, the name tripping awkwardly across his lips. During the Sunshot Campaign, when he and Jiang Wanyin had nothing save three months of failure to report, she had been Young Mistress Jiang. And after her marriage, when they had the occasional chance to meet socially and avoided saying anything to one another about the absent man who inextricably tied them together, he had been unable to see her as anything else, and struggled with adjusting his method of address. He anticipated that ‘Madam Song,’ even after a sixteen year absence, would not come naturally.

Song Sizhui picked up on the sudden swell of tension in the air. “Auntie?”

She smiled kindly. She had never been capable of anything else. “I am very glad you brought us these guests for dinner, A-Yuan, A-Ling.” Lan Wangji closed his eyes for just a moment as his stomach clenched, suspicions finally confirmed. Madam Song noted it, for he opened them again to find her gaze fixed upon him.

“Where’s Baba?” Song Sizhui asked.

“Visiting the hot springs,” Madam Song replied. “He missed you both a great deal.”

Song Sizhui and Song Ling exchanged knowing glances.

“We’ll need to arrange a proper feast to celebrate your return,” she continued. “But I’m afraid we don’t have enough for six. Why don’t you boys take Young Master Lan to the market and fetch us up a few more things?

“Hanguang-jun,” she continued, “While they’re gone, will you join me for tea?”

He inclined his head. Jingyi, who had watched the proceedings with a characteristically suspicious air, twisted and turned his head until Lan Wangji met his eyes. The intensity in his son’s gaze spoke volumes, though he impressed Lan Wangji with his restraint as he obviously stopped himself from demanding answers. Still, he allowed Song Sizhui and Song Ling to drag him out the door, leaving Lan Wangji in the company of Madam Song and an unacknowledged sixteen years spent waiting.

Madam Song moved with the same grace he recalled from their time as casual acquaintances. He had always been distracted when in her company, much in the same way he was now. His attention constantly flitted towards the door, as though Wei Ying would walk in any moment and completely gut his composure. He only managed to stop himself once he sat down across from her, as he did not care to be unintentionally rude.

“Madam Song—”

“Only in public, Hanguang-jun. In my heart, I will always be Jiang.”

“Lady Jiang,” he corrected.

“Why did you come here, Hanguang-jun?” He blinked at the forthright manner of her speech, so different from the soft approach she had always taken with the world around her. “I need to know.”

He suddenly recalled her dressing down of Jin Zixun, a moment long forgotten in the chaos which followed. Jiang Yanli conducted herself with meekness on her own accord, but her ferocity always rose in response to an implied insult or threat to her brothers. Did she see him as a threat? She must have. And what cause did she have to think otherwise? He exemplified a world that they had left behind in an attempt to find peace. For all she knew, he brought war with him through her front gate.

The silence stretched out as he gave the words due consideration. She made no effort to rush him.

“I suspected who Song Sizhui and Song Ling were. That it likely meant Wei Ying lived. And I needed to know. To see him.” He halted, wishing he had his brother’s talent for speaking beautifully to make himself understood. “I have grieved for him.” It was not nearly enough.

“You are not angry at the deception?” Jiang Yanli asked. They both knew full well there was a person of their mutual acquaintance who would mask his hurt in fury and violence.

“I understand the need for it,” Lan Wangji replied. “They would not have allowed him to live.”

For years, Lan Wangji had obsessed over his own failings; if he had convinced Wei Ying to return to Gusu, he believed, he could have had him spared. But the offers he made had been unclear and cruel in their own way; unclear for he never made it explicit that he wanted to offer Wei Ying succor and refuge instead of condemnation, cruel because—in hindsight—Wei Ying could never have conscionably accepted it when Lan Wangji never extended the same offer to those Wei Ying had sworn to protect. He’d had years to come to terms with it. The chance to redeem himself of those mistakes loomed nearly as large in his mind as the staggering realization that Wei Ying lived.

“If I told you to leave now, and never return or speak of this to anyone, would you do so?”

Lan Wangji steadied himself to be sent away, carrying the secret as a lodestone around his neck. “Yes,” he promised. While she could not physically force him to do anything, they were both well aware of the fact that if she ordered him away, he would go without complaint or delay. “If knowing he lives is all I am permitted, I will be content.” He deserved no less for not walking with Wei Ying along his single-plank bridge when it had been a choice. Knowing they were alive and well would buoy the weight in ways he probably did not deserve.

Jiang Yanli looked as though she understood. “A-Xian was unwell when I took him from the Burial Mounds—”

Lan Wangji’s brow furrowed just slightly. He had never doubted the story they’d been fed about Wei Ying being the one to spirit Jiang Yanli away from Koi Tower. Mostly because, to him, it seemed such a characteristically poorly thought-out plan.

“—The use of resentful energy damaged him, as you told me it would. Sometimes, when I think on it, it seems to me he was barely human by the end. It took him years to recover. There are times when I think he has not found all his scattered pieces.” She finally poured tea and passed a cup to Lan Wangji. “I believe your return to his life might finally help him fit some of those missing parts of himself back together.”

Lan Wangji took a moment to gather his thoughts and parse what she’d said and what she hadn’t. “When I spoke, it was with the understanding that such methods would damage his golden core.”

Jiang Yanli’s lips pursed. “It is gone, as you've apparently discovered, since just after the fall of Lotus Pier. He has never confided in me the story of its loss.”

That early. Presumably before or during the neverending three months when he had been missing. Lan Wangji wondered if he should have realized it when they’d found Wei Ying meting out his terrible revenge against Wen Chao. Or if he realistically even could have.

He guessed, of course, that Wei Ying had been damaged, misused, ill. If the sallow cast to his skin had not been enough, the way he failed to hold his own when Lan Wangji challenged him shortly after his return confirmed it. He had wanted to scream when the man before him no longer resembled the one Lan Wangji had left behind after the Xuanwu’s defeat, mystified at the differences and angry that this stranger had replaced the man Lan Wangji had come to deeply care for.

“I did not understand,” Lan Wangji admitted.

“He did not want you to. Or anyone. He feared we would remove him from the battlefield only to see the war lost.”

Her words were not unfair. The war had been won on the back of Wei Ying’s unorthodox cultivation, for all they had lost sight of such things when it came time to find a new enemy. In the aftermath of the Sunshot Campaign, when they’d all been at odds with the world itself for want of something upon which to focus the momentum of their ire, Wei Ying had proved too tempting a target to ignore. Too grand in his power and too unsettling in his righteousness.

“I would have,” Lan Wangji admitted. “I wanted to bring him to Gusu. To the healing springs, where he might replenish all he lost.” He had never known the depth of such loss. “I did not care to think what it might cost him, or us.”

Jiang Yanli considered this a moment. “You are good, Hanguang-jun. If… if Zixuan had been hurting in such a way, I would have wanted the same for him. But I have to know, now, if your plan remains unchanged. A-Xian cannot return to the world we left behind. They would see him as a lost villain rising. Everything we sacrificed over the past sixteen years would have been for nothing. I need to know if you understand this.”

“I do,” Lan Wangji promised. “I have spent much time in self-reflection since Wei Ying has gone. I strive to be the person I lacked the courage to become, when we were younger.”

“Very well,” Jiang Yanli agreed. She poured him tea. “A-Xian has never forgotten the boy who fought with him on the walls of Cloud Recesses. He will be happy to have you returned to him.”

Would his happiness compare with Lan Wangji’s own? Lan Wangji stood and bowed. “Thank you for your trust, Lady Jiang.”

“Hanguang-jun has always been one of the most trustworthy people I have met,” Jiang Yanli responded.

“Lan Wangji,” he offered.

Jiang Yanli smiled as though his words were a personal triumph. “Jiang Yanli, then. I suspect we will see each other often.”

“As often as I am permitted here,” Lan Wangji agreed, privately hoping and fearing what Wei Ying might decide. He could not see how Wei Ying would forgive him, for all he was gratified to at least have the chance of offering himself for consideration.

She smiled and sipped her tea.

Lan Wangji anticipated spending the time until the boys—and Wei Ying—returned providing information on those she had left behind and braced himself accordingly, but it seemed that she either remembered the precepts against gossip, or had made peace with not knowing. Instead, she gently prompted him about Jingyi, delighted to have the shared experience of raising very energetic children.

“I often wondered about Jing-er’s birth parents. What they were like. I am ashamed to admit my failure in discovering anything. As outer disciples, very little was known of them prior to their deaths.” He imagined them to be lively and outspoken people, traits which came easily to his son and unnaturally to himself.

“I’ve now raised four young men almost to adulthood,” she said with a small laugh. “And each of them have been very different. Well,” she amended, “A-Ling is very much like A-Cheng, which never fails to surprise me, but he has his father’s sweet inability to express himself.”

Before he could give much thought to what he considered very diplomatic assessments of both Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan, a shout reached them from outside: “Shijie! Are the boys home yet?”

An entire galaxy slammed into being with the sound of Wei Ying's voice. Until that moment, even upon seeing Jiang Yanli, nothing had seemed real to him, everything merely an elaborate hoax played out at his expense.

They both looked up, anticipation thrumming between them.

“In here A-Xian,” Jiang Yanli called. She turned her attention back to Lan Wangji. “Please remember what I’ve said.”

Lan Wangji nodded, then turned to the door in time to watch Wei Ying walk through it.

The years had been kind: he looked beautifully, wonderfully haler than when they last parted at the Burial Mounds. His skin no longer pulled tight over his bones and hours obviously spent in the bracing seastained air chased away his unnatural pallor.

Lan Wangji knew the moment Wei Ying marked his presence; his face transformed as a smile stretched his features. Not the guarded, pale smiles Lan Wangji saw after the Sunshot Campaign, or the sadly resigned ones he remembered from visiting the Burial Mounds. This was the smile that had been waiting for him in the back hills when he’d caught Wei Ying out of bounds after they’d crossed swords. The smile once offered to him across a classroom accompanied by an enthusiastic wave. Open and uncomplicated in its delight. An expression Lan Wangji had reconciled himself as lost long before the Burial Mounds burned.

“Lan Zhan.” His name sat like breath on Wei Ying’s tongue, though Lan Wangji was the one who felt he’d finally surfaced for air after more than a decade submerged beneath stormy waters.

The only reply he could make, "Wei Ying," slipped out through all the other sentiments dammed up behind his teeth. He waited for the smile to fade away, for Wei Ying to recall that the man before him had been a part of a world who had driven him to degradation and killed his son's birth family.

Neither of them looked away. Wei Ying’s smile only seemed to grow with every moment.

Jiang Yanli finally coughed politely to remind them of her presence. "I've sent the boys to the market for dinner," she informed Wei Ying. She glanced sidelong at Lan Wangji. "This is a happy reunion. We need to be good hosts."

Wei Ying nodded mutely, the whole of his weighty attention still fixed on Lan Wangji, his genuine joy undiminished. Jiang Yanli stood and crossed to her brother to place a hand on his arm. He finally tore his gaze away from Lan Wangji with what appeared to be substantial effort, turning eyes on his sister. It lasted only a moment before his attention snapped back to Lan Wangji.

Jiang Yanli huffed out a small laugh. "I will begin cooking," she announced to the room at large.

"Thank you, Shijie," Wei Ying replied absently. She bowed to Lan Wangji, who returned the consideration in kind, and removed herself from the room.

How could he express himself? How could he even begin? Years of regrets bubbled up, clamouring against each other jockeying for position in the queue of necessary apologies. He stared at Wei Ying, confused and aggrieved at his inability to express himself, until Wei Ying stepped closer, near enough for Lan Wangji to feel the flutter of Wei Ying's breath against his cheeks.

"Wei Ying," he repeated helplessly, every other word he might've summoned escaping him completely.

"I missed hearing you say my name," Wei Ying admitted. Lan Wangji closed his eyes for only a single moment as he promised himself to say it as often as he could for as long as he was allowed.

The air between them felt fragile as glass, waiting for one of them to speak words easily misunderstood. A plea to return to Gusu. An insistence on walking a lonely path.

Or, perhaps, there had been enough of that between them. Lan Wangji spent years imagining what he would say to Wei Ying to smooth the sharp edges; how terrible now that he could not conjure a single syllable.

And yet, as always, Wei Ying Knew. For all they had spent years misunderstanding one another, no one ever knew him the way his zhiji had.

Wei Ying settled a hand on Lan Wangji's neck, his eyes intently fixed upon Lan Wangji's face as he gently stroked Lan Wangji's cheek with his thumb. Lan Wangji's breath caught in his throat, stealing the air from his lungs. They’d never touched in such a way despite long years of wanting it. Silence blanketed them once more, curling them close together in a loose embrace. Silence, or willful refusal to listen, had defined their lives since the beginning of the Sunshot Campaign. Lan Wangji had spent sixteen years regretting it. And now Wei Ying stood alive before him, once more defying all expectations of the world.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji managed to choke out yet again.

“Lan Zhan—”

“I looked for you,” Lan Wangji said, forcing out the words. “I have lived my life regretting that I did not speak words I should have spoken when they needed to be said.”

“Please,” Wei Ying grabbed his forearms and held them tight. “I.”

“Don’t,” Lan Wangji insisted, pressing on. “Sixteen years I have mourned you, Wei Ying.”

“Funny,” Wei Ying replied. “Because in the sixteen years I’ve been holding onto your memory, it never occurred to me you would.”

Lan Wangji lost what remained of his control and enfolded Wei Ying in a tight embrace. Wei Ying stiffened, and Lan Wangji's heart fractured into a thousand pieces before Wei Ying threw his arms around Lan Wangji and it remade itself anew.

“You found us,” Wei Ying whispered.

“Your boys. They are a credit to your instruction."

Wei Ying’s laugh made Lan Wangji's heart split. How long since he had heard the sound? “Ah. I wondered how far they’d get on their own.” He scratched the side of his nose. “I spent a lot of time imagining they’d run into you or Jiang Cheng and what would come next.”

His heart, chimerical monstrosity it had become, gave a hard lurch. “And what comes next, Wei Ying?”

"Dinner!" Song Ling shouted, entering the room brandishing a basket loaded up with fish. Song Sizhui and Jingyi followed close behind him. "Da-jiu!"

"Kids!" Wei Ying slithered out of Lan Wangji's embrace to throw his arms around the boys. He followed with cheek pinches that Song Ling squawked over and to which Song Sizhui resigned himself with affectionate forbearance. "And you brought me an extra! One of yours, obviously, Lan Zhan."

Jingyi's jaw dropped

"Mn," Lan Wangji nodded. "My son, Lan Jingyi."

"Your s—" Wei Ying stumbled over the word as he took a moment to level an assessing look towards Jingyi. "Your son! Hanguang-jun has a son!"

"You're doing well, Baba?" Song Sizhui asked gently when Wei Ying finally released him.

"Much better now I see you home safe from your hunt," Wei Ying said. He stepped back to encompass Lan Wangji and Jingyi in his attention. "And with such remarkable prey, too. I'll admit, I am amazed at your prowess."

"It's a good surprise?" Song Sizhui pressed.

Wei Ying's smile settled into something gentler, but no less genuine. "The best surprise, radish." His grin changed again, impish and impossible. "And you finally got to meet your hero. Lan Zhan! Did Sizhui tell you about the sewing scraps?"

"Ba," Song Sizhui complained mildly, still obviously glowing under his father's attention.

"I told them," Song Ling smirked. Superficially, the expression resembled Jiang Wanyin's, but Lan Wangji could detect no cruelty in it.

Wei Ying wagged a finger. "Ah, then Sizhui must have told them in turn about you chasing him around while roaring and pretending to be the Xuanwu of Slaughter."

Jingyi barked out a laugh as Song Ling sighed out a deeply aggrieved whine.

"Ah, come and sit, come and sit. I have enough embarrassing stories about both of you to last through dinner, at least."

"You left some things out when you told me about him," Jingyi declared that night, well after their usual curfew. Both of them had been obviously reluctant to leave the cheerful company they’d enjoyed over dinner, especially after Jingyi successfully argued that discipline six hundred and twenty-one (“respect the customs of your hosts, for you are a guest at their forbearance”) overruled number twenty-four (“do not speak while eating to reflect on the value of your meal”) and had slotted himself in effortlessly with the others at the table.

Lan Wangji inclined his head. "I did." For all he had wanted Jingyi to understand the often-ignored accomplishments of Wei Ying, there were parts to their story which he hoarded as his own, afraid to share them in case the words failed to properly convey their significance.

Jingyi snorted, sceptical and outraged and also obviously elated. As Lan Wangji had always suspected, Wei Ying and Jingyi got along very, very well. "You'll tell me the rest now, right? So I can compare notes with Sizhui and Song Ling?"

"Very well," Lan Wangji agreed. “Though not tonight.”

Whatever Jingyi’s immediate complaint might have been was interrupted by a yawn, completely undercutting any potential point he might have otherwise made. He looked annoyed at himself about it. “Okay. But, really, did you two suppress a soul-eating goddess when you were, like, sixteen?”

“I believe we were seventeen at the time.”

Jingyi squawked. “Why did I need to hear about this from Sizhui and Song Ling? I’d still be talking about it to my grandkids if I did that.”

“‘Be respectful and humble,’” Lan Wangji reminded him. At Jingyi’s huff, he allowed a small smile. “You will have many such opportunities to distinguish yourself.”

Jingyi’s mouth tugged into a sly smile. “Especially if I get to start night hunting with Sizhui and Song Ling, without Lan Yanwei there to take all the glory.”

True, the Lan senior disciple left something to be desired (innumerable somethings, according to Jingyi—they never had managed to overcome their childhood differences) with his tendency to to afford himself the lion’s share of the credit whenever they returned to recount their night hunts.

“You like them, then?” Lan Wangji asked, trying not to come across as anything besides mildly curious.

Jingyi shuffled his feet. “Does it matter? When you want to be here?”

“Jing-er,” Lan Wangji placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It matters. Of course it matters.” If Jingyi did not care to spend time with Song Sizhui and Song Ling, or if he became disenchanted with Wei Ying’s exuberance, Lan Wangji would find ways to balance his responsibilities as a father with the other demands of his heart. He would not allow Jingyi to feel as though he had been some sort of placeholder. “You are my son. You have a say in both how I spend my time and conduct myself.”

Jingyi nodded, shoulders slumping in relief. “I know, Die.” His smile returned. “I like them. I mean, A-Ling’s a prick, but Sizhui’s pretty great.” Despite the assessment, Lan Wangji seemed to recall Jingyi spending more time speaking with Song Ling, enraptured by someone who could dish out contentiousness and insults as quickly as he could. More than once they’d both frozen and looked towards Jiang Yanli, who seemed in equal measure unimpressed and unsurprised. He also couldn’t help but think that while Jingyi had also described Lan Yanwei as a ‘prick’ before, it had never been in such an affectionate tone.

Lan Wangji saw Jingyi to bed, the last few late nights and long travel sending him careening into sleep endearingly quickly. Lan Wangji eased his hair down out of its usual style to the accompaniment of his son’s snores. He paused before turning in himself, anticipation humming in the air.

He stepped out the door to his room, unsurprised to see Wei Ying supine on the roof across the courtyard, waiting for him. With the gentlest push of spiritual power, Lan Wangji crossed the distance and settled down next to him. The moon hung heavy and full in the sky, brighter than it had been in the many years since Lan Wangji had the opportunity to indulge himself in this particular pleasure.

“You know, it’s a good thing I came up here.,” Wei Ying told him. “I found a missing patch in our roof I would’ve overlooked otherwise.”

“Ah. Fortunate, indeed.”

"I missed you," Wei Ying told him. He had a jar of wine in hand, the contents still sloshing mostly full inside.

"Mn." When Wei Ying turned to him with a teasing lift to his eyebrow, Lan Wangji shook his head. "Ridiculous."

"Definitely missed that. Everyone here takes me too seriously."

"Having met your nephew, I doubt it."

"I want to protest, but it's true." He straightened and took a small sip of his wine. He hadn't had much at dinner either, Lan Wangji noted. "Your son is incredible."

"As is yours." He turned to look at Wei Ying. "You were starting to tell me what comes next."

"Ah, Lan Zhan! It's all very shameless. Not worthy of your attention."

"I tried not to imagine that we might meet again." Wei Ying pouted. "It became too painful after the first time I did so."

Wei Ying reached out to take his hand, but hesitated at the last moment. Lan Wangji had no such reservations and tucked his fingers underneath Wei Ying's. Having spent too long failing to seize such moments, he decided to be determined in indulging in them at every available opportunity.

"What did you imagine?" Wei Ying asked at a whisper.

"That one day, I would meet a child with familiar eyes, happy, with loving parents and endless friends, always enough food in his belly and working to cultivate the strongest, brightest golden core in an age. And I would make sure that he had everything he needed to live a safe and joyful life. One without envy. And then I would return to Cloud Recesses, alone."

"Why?" He nearly missed the soft-spoken word, half swallowed by moonlight.

"Having turned from you when you needed me, what right would I have to stay when you didn't?"

"Lan Zhan." Wei Ying turned his hand to thread their fingers together, tight enough to nearly be uncomfortable. "That sounds a lot like you mean to leave and," his voice cracked, "And never come back."

"No, Wei Ying. What I failed to understand when I imagined this was, having finally found you, how impossible it would be to walk away."

He hadn't dared look at Wei Ying as he spoke, but finally raised his eyes to find tears on Wei Ying's cheeks. Small droplets clung to his lashes, a few errant rivulets falling towards his chin. He ached to wipe them away.

"Do you know what I really imagined?" Wei Ying choked out. Lan Wangji tilted his head. "I thought we would meet again and you'd look at me and you wouldn't see a monster anymore—"

"Never thought Wei Ying was a monster."

"—that you'd just see me. And you'd see that no matter where I went or what I did, a part of me was always yours." Consciously or not, Wei Ying placed his hand against his chest. Over his heart.

“I see you,” Lan Wangji promised him.

Wei Ying laughed out a sob and eased his way into Lan Wangji’s space, a slow-moving question that Lan Wangji answered by catching Wei Ying’s mouth with his own. He’d had no experience with kissing, but had imagined doing so with Wei Ying, as far back as their days at the Cloud Recesses lectures. For all his expansive daydreams, nothing lived up to the reality of tasting Wei Ying on his lips and hearing the soft sounds settle in the back of his throat, barely whispering across Lan Wangji’s tongue when they finally escaped.

"You once thought of me as your zhiji," Lan Wangji whispered against Wei Ying’s mouth.

Wei Ying breathed out happiness. "I still do."

Lan Wangji kissed him again.

A cascade of noises crept from Wei Ying’s mouth to Lan Wangji’s; soft murmurs of encouragement, the occasional gasp. A particularly desperate whimper seemed to reach into the very core of him and pull his hips into a desperate cant, nuding his half-hard cock against Wei Ying’s thigh.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispered into his neck, his breath ghosting across Lan Wangji’s jaw and drawing a shiver up his back from his tailbone to the nape of his neck. “Lan Zhan. Sixteen years is long enough to wait, right? Right, Lan Zhan? You’re not going to… I can’t waste anymore time. I want you too much.”

He caught Wei Ying’s mouth, his kiss not-quite bruising. He had neither art nor skill; he had only ever desired Wei Ying and in his absence experienced nothing resembling intimacy. He wondered, from the tremble in Wei Ying’s hands, if it had been the same for him.

“I really want this,” Wei Ying whispered. “I really want you.”

“I have always wanted Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji admitted.

Wei Ying gasped out a laugh of disbelief. “Not always.”

“Always,” Lan Wangji insisted. “I did not always understand it, or myself, but it has always been you.”

Deafening silence followed, broken an achingly long time later by a ragged sob and the desperate press of Wei Ying’s mouth against his own. He pulled away a devastatingly brief second later to pepper Lan Wangji’s face with a buzzing trail of kisses. “How can you… with your face… and you’re so…”

Artless, perhaps, but wonderful.

Wei Ying shook apart in his arms, their hands moving with deliberate slowness to draw out their pleasure as long as possible even as their mouths moved frantically across every available bit of skin, circling back again and again to exchange messy kisses until Wei Ying finally gasped a breath against Lan Wangji’s lips and spilled against his thigh. He followed not long after, Wei Ying pliant and gasping beneath him.

He’d been right, after all: sixteen years proved too long a wait to finally have Wei Ying in his embrace. He also felt keen awareness that he would have waited the rest of his life if he’d needed to.

In the aftermath they lay pressed together, chest-to-chest, watching one another with silent wonder. Lan Wangji cupped Wei Ying’s cheek in his palm, his thumb drifting back and forth across the freckle beneath Wei Ying’s lip.

Wei Ying grinned at him, running his fingers through loose strands of Lan Wangji’s hair, daringly close to his ribbon. Lan Wangji firmly took hold of his wrist and manoeuvred his hand to press it firmly against the broad expanse of cloth.

“It has always been your right,” Lan Wangji told him.

Wei Ying joined their free hands and pressed his lips against Lan Wangji's knuckles. 

Lan Wangji woke the next morning to the feeling of Wei Ying sliding out of his arms, an absolutely unacceptable way to begin his day. He blinked open a slow eye to watch Wei Ying pull on loose-fitting robes.

“Wei Ying?”

“Need to pop out to the springs,” Wei Ying told him. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Lan Wangji’s brow, exactly where his ribbon generally sat. Warmed through, he forced himself up. “You can sleep a bit longer, sweetheart.”

Lan Wangji glowered sleepily. “No.” After years apart, he was hardly going to let Wei Ying out of his sight for an errand. His mulish tone danced a chuckle out of Wei Ying, who gamely waited for Lan Wangji to dress before taking his hand and leading him out of the house and into the countryside.

A few minutes of cool morning air helped wake him, and he settled into the achingly familiar enjoyment of Wei Ying chattering next to him about everything and nothing. There were still Words that needed to be spoken between them; much of which they needed to say to each other had been stoppered by the presence of others. And yet Lan Wangji felt loath to break the easy peace.

They arrived at the base of a mountain trail and Wei Ying paused.

“It’s better now,” he said, breath trailing in mist from his lips. “I’m sure Shijie told you about how I was when we first arrived.” Not to the extent she could have, Lan Wangji suspected, but he was grateful for her to leave Wei Ying the choice of what he wished to share. “I used to come here every day. Not sure how much I really need it anymore, but strong negative emotions sometimes… well. It’s a good thing I don’t have the seal any longer.”

“It’s gone?”

“Destroyed,” Wei Ying confirmed. “Almost ten years ago, now, with the help of Song Zichen.” Lan Wangji nodded, certain his face betrayed his relief by the way Wei Ying turned an abashed look at his feet. “I won’t apologize for creating it. Or using it. It won us the war, and for a while it kept us safe. I just wish ‘a while’ had lasted longer.” He took a shaky breath. “But there are things I do need to apologize for. I just need to figure out what order they should come in.”

“No,” Lan Wangji insisted. “Between us, there is no need for ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry.’ I did not understand. Did not want to, in some ways.” The options, as he understood them at the time, had been too terrible to contemplate. Knowing the truth of the matter offered no comfort, Wei Ying’s loss too heartbreaking to properly conceptualize.

Wei Ying’s expression shifted, brow furrowing and his eyes wincing against the truth of the matter. “Do you understand now?”

Lan Wangji placed his hand above Wei Ying’s lower dantian. “I do. Wei Ying suffered," Lan Wangji said quietly.

Wei Ying swallowed and nodded, “A lot of it was of my own making.” He placed his hand over Lan Wangji’s and then tugged him onwards.

"The making of others, as well," Lan Wangji reminded him.

Wei Ying quieted a moment. "Maybe. When we first came here, I tried to keep it away from Shijie and the kids. Once or twice I caught myself sleepwalking. I'd be dreaming of Wen Qing and Wen Ning and their family, and wanted so badly to hurt the people who'd murdered them. And then I'd stub my toe or walk into a tree and realize I'd left the house on my way to do it." He would not look at Lan Wangji. "Strong negative emotions bring it closer to the surface."

"Last night?" Lan Wangji's stomach swooped down towards his feet, dragged down by a hard clench of fear and despair. Hadn't Wei Ying only visited the springs the day before?

"No, no. Lan Zhan, no. I had a nightmare." Wei Ying grabbed the front of Lan Wangji's robes and tugged on them before immediately smoothing them back out. "Anger is the worst, but fear is terrible in it's own way."

"I wish for you only good dreams," Lan Wangji said.

Wei Ying’s smile returned and they began their walk up the mountain. “I rely mostly on spells and talismans these days. And arrays. A-Yuan took charge of Suibian, as you saw. Had a rough time of it, but A-Yuan insisted that no other sword would do. And when I'm not around to supervise I force him to take Chenqing along as well."

The climb brought to mind ascending the mountain to Cloud Recesses. Wei Ying filled the time as he always had when they’d attended the lectures together, with cheerful nonsense requiring very little input from Lan Wangji, save for the occasional noncommittal noise. During the Sunshot Campaign, such lovely inanity had been hard to come by. It struck Lan Wangji that apart from missing Wei Ying himself, he’d also missed the way the air moved between them, his words winding their way up and into the sky, returning their joint breaths to the clouds.

Wei Ying only paused when they reached the springs, stripping off his robes and draping them through the crotch of a nearby tree. The movements came with the ease of long habit.

He started to avert his eyes and realized he didn't have to. Wei Ying looked lovely bathed in dappled dawn, strength evident in his limbs and the controlled grace in his movements. The Wen brand upon his breast had faded with time, though a few other scars had collected across the body. In the dark the night before, Lan Wangji had not seen the thin, nearly invisible scar bisecting his abdomen. He slipped into the hot springs, tiny tendrils of black smoke seeping from his pores, all vanquished by the morning sunshine.

He eventually paddled out to a wide rock in the middle of the springs and climbed up on it to meditate.

"May I play for you?" Lan Wangji asked.

"I would love you to play for me."

It settled a very visceral need in Lan Wangji that had been denied since the very beginnings of the Sunshot Campaign; offering what he could to ease his zhiji’s suffering and being accepted with gratitude instead of suspicion. Cleansing would, of course, be the most helpful in the circumstances, but there was another composition that he had longed to play for Wei Ying and Lan Wangji took the words as blanket permission to decide the score.

He sat down and summoned his guqin, setting himself to the familiar chords of a song he composed long ago for a boy he thought he'd lost forever. The wild, devastating hope that ripped him apart when he'd heard it played on a dizi for the first time stuck with him, permanently inscribed on his soul until thinking of it made his hands tremble on the strings and his heart beat too fast against his ribs. When he'd looked at a different boy playing, he'd wondered if it was a matter of possession, the feeling replacing itself with dread right up until he realized who the young man must be.

"I used to sing this to the boys," Wei Ying said.

"Mn. And I to Jing-er." He paused only briefly. “I wrote it. For you. For us."

"Is… did you mean to leave room for a duet?"

"Only if the part is played by Wei Ying."

Suffused with calm in his pre-meditative state, Wei Ying did not gasp or complain at Lan Wangji's softness. It left Lan Wangji with smug satisfaction to not hear a compliment immediately rebuffed.

When the song drew to a close, Wei Ying took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, Lan Zhan."

"Mn?"

"Sorry I left you. Sixteen years. I thought it was only me. I thought… I didn't know."

Lan Wangji waved his hand and tucked his instrument away. Wei Ying's eyes remained closed as he stripped away his own layers and slid into the not-quite scalding water. He moved through it until he reached Wei Ying and placed his hands on the other man's knees. Wei Ying opened his eyes.

"It has always been Wei Ying." He needed Wei Ying to understand, though he was a mess of poor articulation as he tried to arrange his thoughts to something that made sense. "If my grief was the price of your safety, I would pay it the rest of my life."

Wei Ying slithered off the rock and into the pool before him. He twined his arms around Lan Wangji's neck and pressed his face into the crook of his own elbow, his nose snuffling against Lan Wangji's ear. Lan Wangji brought his hands to rest on Wei Ying's waist, shamelessly pulling him closer.

"No more grief, Lan Zhan. Not for me." Wei Ying clung harder. "I don't think I was worth your grief."

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji chided.

"No, listen. I needed to be away from it to realize how badly it hurt me. Once I lost Wen Qing and Wen Ning, it was like I lost what was left of me right along with them and all I wanted was more death. Not even revenge, really, or justice. If Shijie hadn't found me and pulled me back, I think I would have done something unforgivable."

"I will always forgive you," Lan Wangji promised. "Especially under such circumstances."

"Well, with the Seal gone, it shouldn't happen again. I've found ways to channel resentful energy that don't do quite the same damage. As long as I settle in for a good soak afterwards, I'm fine." He pulled back and cupped Lan Wangji's cheek. "Even better if you're here playing for me, I can tell."

Lan Wangji allowed his head to tip over until Wei Ying cradled the weight of it in his palm.

"If invited, I will come as often as I can."

"You are always invited, but never obligated."

"Incorrect. I have an obligation to my heart."

Wei Ying gasped out a sob and toppled his mouth clumsily against Lan Wangji's. He kissed sweet and perfect, chaste in deference to the holiness of the springs. Lan Wangji forcibly reminded himself that such places were sacred, which took priority to the dull beginnings of arousal from the feeling of Wei Ying in his arms and in his life.

They climbed out together, glancing at one another as they dressed, Wei Ying grinning with foolish joy. Lan Wangji somehow managed to avoid doing the same, even though the feeling caught him in a rebounding echo which etched itself into his bones.

Together, they returned to the house; the lazy trail of smoke from the kitchen came into sight well before they passed through the gates. The home already hummed with life, welcoming them into the courtyard with the smell of breakfast and woodsmoke.

“A-Ling might still be sleeping,” Wei Ying said, drawing Lan Wangji towards the kitchen. “He takes after me that way. Sizhui and Shijie should be up, though.”

True to his words, Jiang Yanli and Song Sizhui awaited them in the kitchen. Song Sizhui buzzed around the stove, frequently casting glances over his shoulder to his aunt, bent over her mending. Wei Ying paused just outside the doorway, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes to listen to them speak. Lan Wangji lingered beside him, his angle on the open door providing an excellent view of the room.

“…and you’re sure you were all right without us?” Song Sizhui asked gently, scooping a few things into a waiting bowl. Even to Lan Wangji, it sounded like an oft-repeated query.

“It is our job to worry about you, radish,” Jiang Yanli reminded him gently.

“Surely a parent’s obligation ends once a child reaches maturity.”

“Ah, there you are wrong. Your father and I will be old and half-dead before we stop wanting to take care of you and A-Ling. Even then we will still love you.” She held up her mending and examined what looked like Jingyi’s outer robes before resettling the cloth in her lap and continuing with her work.

Song Sizhui smiled and moved across the room to kneel beside her. She reached out and gently stroked a few stray wisps of hair away from his face.

“It is very difficult for some parents to see their children as grown. I will look at you when you are a full fifty years old and still see the child who brought me every wildflower which crossed his path.”

Song Sizhui nodded against her palm, but his eyes flickered upwards a moment later and he snapped up to attention when he saw Lan Wangji hovering next to the door. He regretted the interruption; it was not his intent to force them apart.

“Hanguang-jun,” Song Sizhui greeted with a respectful bow.

“Ah, Shijie, radish, good morning,” Wei Ying said, strolling into the kitchen past him. He made his way to the stove to examine the contents. “What are you making? Did you add enough chilis?”

With a consternated look, Song Sizhui jumped back to his father’s side. “Don’t touch, Baba. We all need to eat it.”

Wei Ying huffed with exaggerated irritation. “You have no stamina. I’m glad your cousin at least takes after me.”

“Because you seared off his taste buds when he was a toddler,” Jiang Yanli reproofed mildly.

“You cannot prove he was born with any,” Wei Ying said with an airy wave. He half shoved Lan Wangji into the seat next to her, then promptly dropped down beside him.

"Are those Jingyi's robes?" Lan Wangji questioned, nodding in gratitude as Song Sizhui set the tea service down between the three adults.

"Yes. There were a few rips I noticed yesterday. I remember well enough the Lan disciplines around decorum." She used white thread, her hand so fine the repair did not stand out against the rest of the fabric.

A short time later, Song Ling stormed into the room like a thunderhead, his hands clumsily tugging his hair up and away from his face. Jingyi trailed behind him in borrowed clothing and already halfway through an argument which seemed to focus around proper use of spirit nets during night hunts.

Song Ling froze in the door and stared suspiciously at the table. "No one let da-jiu cook, right?"

"Such disrespect! From my own nephew!"

Song Ling rolled his eyes, earning himself a generous chuckle which crept up through Wei Ying’s belly. Every time Wei Ying laughed, Lan Wangji felt as though another stitch had been added to strengthen the bindings of his repaired heart.

"A-Xian is capable when cooking for his own taste," Jiang Yanli offered diplomatically. She gave Jingyi's robes a shake and inspected her handiwork.

Song Sizhui ducked behind Song Ling and straightened his hair with familiar efficiency, earning himself an absent, "thanks, da-ge" from the recipient of his attention, who was critically examining the table contents as though one might plan a campaign upon a battlefield. He arranged a plate, meticulously organized but not overly filled with a few carefully selected offerings, then placed it in front of his mother before refilling her cup.

"Thank you, A-Ling."

He shrugged and went about putting together his own, much more substantial, breakfast, amiably squabbling with Jingyi as their chopsticks strayed towards the same dish at the same time.

Lan Wangji looked down as Wei Ying set a plate down in front of him, still apparently caught in conversation with Song Sizhui about an academic matter they had set aside in his son's absence.

Breakfast passed with easy comfort, a river of conversation flowing smoothly between everyone seated at the table. Lan Wangji ate in silence, his custom long unbroken, but happily enjoyed the byplay. Wei Ying constantly moved food to his plate, Song Sizhui doing the same to Jiang Yanli in tandem with Song Ling until she had to wave them off with a laugh to finish what had already been placed there. Lan Wangji could imagine many such mornings spent in love and comfort, enveloped in the warmth Jiang Yanli and Wei Ying created simply by being themselves.

Yet despite how it pained him, awareness settled in Lan Wangji’s mind: they needed to leave. If they did not return to the Discussion Conference, search parties would be sent for them. He and Jingyi were too important to the Lan sect to remain unrecovered, even in the case of their deaths. Staying could bring disaster down upon the home Wei Ying and Jiang Yanli had carved out for their family. The realization sat heavy and unwelcome in his stomach, buoyed only by the knowledge that in leaving they would be able to return.

Once breakfast ended, he caught Wei Ying’s gaze across the table and his zhiji read his intentions before Lan Wangji gave them voice. The easy smile faded and he dropped his eyes.

“We must,” Lan Wangji whispered.

Wei Ying nodded, though his gaze remained downcast. “Of course. I suppose we couldn’t expect to keep you.”

“It’s a long flight to Baling. I’ll pack you both some food,” Jiang Yanli said. She stood. “Boys.”

Song Sizhui and Song Ling snapped up to assist her, Jingyi levelling a curious look at Lan Wangji and Wei Ying before reluctantly joining them, effortlessly folded into Jiang Yanli's warmth as countless young people who had come before him.

“Guess it’s a good thing I went to the hot springs this morning,” Wei Ying whispered.

“Wei Ying?”

“I’m… just... I’m terrified that you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again. And it’s like you said—now that you’ve returned to me, I can’t stand the thought of not having you.”

Lan Wangji stared at him and for the thousandth time in his life wondered how such a brilliant man could be so short-sighted. Glad they’d been sitting beside one another, Lan Wangji reached across the short distance between them to take Wei Ying’s hand.

“You have me,” he vowed.

Wei Ying’s lips pressed together. “What happens if I wake up tomorrow and this has all just been a figment?”

Lan Wangji looked down at their twined fingers, the same worries pressing against his heart. “Dreams are not so vivid.”

“I don’t know, Lan Zhan, I’ve had some pretty elaborate ones about you.” He rubbed his nose with his free hand. “Don’t suppose you could just send Jingyi? Or, better, leave him here? I know you’d definitely come back for him.”

Lan Wangji’s mouth softened. “Wei Ying.”

“No, no. You’re right. I was unbearable while the boys were gone. I think Shijie was about ready to send me after them herself to stop my bellyaching.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your son. He’s obviously been good for you. You’re way less of a fuddy duddy than you used to be.”

“All thanks to Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan insisted.

Wei Ying took a measured breath and nodded, though the bereft cast remained obvious in his eyes. “Good to know at least something I did turned out alright.”

Lan Wangji tugged Wei Ying forward to press their mouths together. It wasn’t much of a kiss, certainly not compared to what they’d shared earlier, but he couldn’t bear to think that Wei Ying considered his legacy one of ruination when everything he’d done had changed Lan Wangji for the better. He tasted salt on Wei Ying’s lips.

He pulled back, wincing at Wei Ying’s punched-out whine at the loss. He raised his hands to his hair. Wei Ying watched with wide-blown eyes as he untied his ribbon. With an aching amount of care, he undid Wei Ying’ bracer and pushed back his sleeve to wind his ribbon’s full length around Wei Ying’s wrist, running nearly the entire length of his forearm, and tied it off with a torturously complicated knot.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispered in awe. “You… you can’t.”

“I can.”

“Shouldn’t, then.”

“It is not the first time I have tied my ribbon to your wrist. It’s time I did so with the proper intentions."

“Your uncle is going to have a fit when you return to Gusu without it.”

“I will tell Shufu the truth: it was a necessary sacrifice made to protect my soul.”

Wei Ying wailed and dropped forward, hiding his face in Lan Wangji’s voluminous robes. Lan Wangji bent over with an indulgent smile and pressed a kiss to the back of his head. Wei Ying grabbed onto whatever cloth was closest to his hands and held tight, anchoring himself in Lan Wangji’s space as though intent to stay there.

“We will return,” Lan Wangji promised.

Wei Ying’s reply started out muffled until he threw himself back. “Well you have to now. You think I don’t know what this means? Shijie is going to be ordering red cloth for us before you’ve gone more than a mile.”

The idea appealed to the greediest part of him and he felt a smug smile creep up in response, which Wei Ying laughed at. He leaned forward and kissed Lan Wangji’s bare forehead.

They eventually migrated to the courtyard, though neither of them found the willpower to remove their hands from one another.

Wei Ying brushed his lips against Lan Wangji’s knuckles. “I love you.”

“I love Wei Ying.”

“Come back to me soon.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed. He caught Wei Ying’s mouth in one last kiss, just in time for Jiang Yanli and the boys to step out into the courtyard.

“A-Xian,” Jiang Yanli scolded through a broad grin. “In front of the boys?”

Song Sizhui smiled, a gentle expression that nonetheless made his shock-widened eyes more obvious, while Song Ling whined in exaggerated distress. Lan Wangji looked at Jingyi, heart tripping in his chest when he saw his son’s attention flitting between Lan Wangji’s bare forehead and Wei Ying’s wrapped arm.

“Sorry, Shijie,” Wei Ying said, though his smile remained obviously unapologetic.

She moved to stand beside him. “The yolk isn’t so very heavy, hm?”

Wei Ying laughed and rubbed his nose.

She presented Lan Wangji with a generous package, laden down with food that could keep while travelling. “I’m glad you’ve found us, Lan Wangji.”

“And I,” he said, bowing deeply over the food.

“There’s a festival at the end of the month. You should come back for it,” Song Ling blurted out. They all turned to look at him and he crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes, though neither did much to hide the flush crawling up his neck. “What? It’s obvious you’re coming back.”

“Very well done, A-Ling,” Jiang Yanli said. He beamed at his mother for a moment before remembering himself and scowling at the rest of them. Some family traits ran river-deep, it seemed. “And I agree. It would be good for you both to return for it.” She smiled very kindly at Jingyi, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “You may call me Auntie, if you like.”

Jingyi spluttered and flushed and kicked his feet in a way so reminiscent of his childhood that Lan Wangji automatically checked to make sure his ribbon wasn't crooked. "Thank you." He paused and continued with a stammer, "Auntie."

Familiar with the astounding sincerity in which Jiang Yanli comported herself, Lan Wangji was better prepared for it when she turned to him and graced him with that same smile. It struck him, quite unintentionally, that she and Wei Ying shared a smile; an expansive look of good cheer inviting those around them to share in their joy. His heart lurched—he had missed so much of their lives. He would not miss any more than became necessary.

The four of them—Wei Ying, Jiang Yanli, and their sons—fell into a line and bowed together. He and Jingyi both returned the farewell, painfully proper. He felt as though his heart would slip free of his chest and tumble to the ground. Wei Ying popped up first to wave as Lan Wangji and Jingyi mounted their swords.

Lan Wangji honestly admired his son’s restraint, as Jingyi waited until they were out of shouting distance before swinging about. “A-Die, did you get married while I was helping Auntie make lunch?!”

“I would not marry without your approval,” Lan Wangji said. He loved Wei Ying. He hoped Jingyi would come to love him as well, but his son remained his priority, even now he was full grown.

“But you want to?” Jingyi demanded.

“In time.” Everything meaningful between them had already been settled, to the best of his understanding. He hoped Wei Ying felt the same way.

Jingyi took time to ponder this, the ocean disappearing behind them, fading behind the sky-tall forest.

"Well. As long as you're happy," Jingyi finally allowed.

"Thank you, Jing-er."

With Baling ahead of them, Gusu beyond, it did not feel as though they were homebound. Rather that home now waited behind them for their return.

Jin Ziyu arrived in Cloud Recesses in the middle of a chilly autumn afternoon.

He sent word ahead; a graciously worded request to meet with Lan Xichen, though the subject of such a meeting felt deliberately vague. Lan Xichen agreed to the request, of course. The tone of the missive conveyed some urgency. While he could not imagine what it was the Jin Sect Heir could require, he sent a reply welcoming him with a steady hand which hid the uncertainty in his heart. The request only mildly concerned him in that it lacked the obsequiousness characteristic of Jin Guangshan’s usual correspondence. If Jin Ziyu had arranged the meeting outside of his father’s knowledge it might indicate an unfortunate downturn in the older man’s health.

When Jin Ziyu stepped into Lan Xichen’s private receiving room, Lan Xichen took a moment to examine him. The first time Lan Xichen had ever seen the younger man it had been through the heat emanating from A-Yao’s execution pyre. Lan Xichen still could not help but think of smoke choking what little breath remained in his lungs as he watched his sworn brother die.

"Zewu-jun," Jin Ziyu said, bowing far too deeply for a man of his position. Lan Xichen suspected it to be a holdover from years of less distinguishment, from before he had been taken in as the Jin heir. Back when that position had been held by A-Yao.

Lan Xichen tried to judge Jin Ziyu fairly on his own merits, but the turn of his countenance, sometimes, reminded him so painfully of A-Yao that he had to look away. When the young man had attended the lectures as a guest disciple, Lan Xichen had gone out of his way to avoid participating in his instruction, content to allow Wangji and Shufu to take lead instead. Wangji had looked at him, far too knowing, but had mercifully said nothing about it. It was probably kinder than Lan Xichen deserved, considering.

Long exposure had done very little to mitigate the knee jerk desire to run when he saw A-Yao’s living half-brother, but he could overcome the inclination. He was not a slave to his instincts, after all. And, fortunately, his mannerisms and movements were so vastly different that one could overlook more superficial similarities, such as the sharp line of his chin or tilt to his brow.

“Young Master Jin. Won’t you join me for tea?” He waved to the spot across from him.

Jin Ziyu’s face tripped into what could only be generously referred to as a smile, his eyes far too wide to be anything other than mildly panicked. He settled down in the offered seat. Lan Xichen allowed muscle memory to pull him through the motions of pouring tea and sliding the cup across the table.

“Zewu-jun is very generous,” Jin Ziyu said in the direction of his cup. “Thank you.”

“I was not expecting your request,” Lan Xichen admitted.

“Yes, I’m sorry. But I need help and I wasn’t sure where else I could go.”

“Are you in trouble?” Lan Xichen asked, looking up.

Jin Ziyu’s hands shook violently as he set his cup back on the table without taking a sip. “Trouble?” he squeaked. Lan Xichen waited calmly as he collected himself. “No, no. Nothing like that. I only came because, uh.” He took a moment to centre himself. “My father has entered seclusion in deference to his health. I’m afraid that he will not emerge again.”

“Ah. You believe you will soon be assuming the mantle of leadership then, in that case.” A-Yao would have been sect leader, had he lived. Had Jin Guangshan not decided to appeal to the injured dignity of the Lan by ordering his son’s execution—not a consequence sought for or demanded. Lan Xichen had tried to plead on his sworn brother’s behalf, but Jin Guangshan could not be moved. When he closed his eyes at night, Lan Xichen still found himself watching A-Yao’s body burning atop the pyre, his skin cracked and black, clenching his jaw tightly to prevent himself from screaming, until he couldn’t contain it any longer.

A-Yao would have made for an excellent sect leader, if only he had allowed nobler instincts to guide his hand. Lan Xichen’s greatest regret was allowing himself to be governed by A-Yao’s easy smiles and delicate manners, never bothering to look any deeper and find a way to heal the suffering A-Yao hid behind them. He tried not to take unwarranted accountability for the actions of others, but nevertheless the regret persisted.

“Yes. In his final hours, he has seen fit to reestablish my sister-in-law in Koi Tower.”

“Qin Su has returned to a place of dignity in Lanling?” He’d missed her, Lan Xichen found. Their friendship had been built upon the strong foundational love for A-Yao and her grief had driven her to cut all ties with anything reminding her of her deceased husband. He had worried for her, in the aftermath of A-Yao’s execution, when she and her son had retreated back to Laoling.

“With my nephew, yes.” For a moment, all anxiety fell away and Jin Ziyu looked genuinely happy. “They have both been very kind to me, even though they’d been through so much. But with my father so ill, there hasn’t been much opportunity for him to speak with me. I know this is presumptuous, but I wanted to ask you for guidance.” His voice broke on the last word and he hastily took a sip of his tea, which sloshed over his fingers. “As you can imagine, I don’t feel I am in a position to request help from Sect Leader Nie—”

Of course he would not go to Mingjue. Mingjue’s temper constantly sat on a fiery precipice and there had been too much that had passed between the Jin and the Nie to allow for any warm relations anytime in the near future. He had taken to visiting the Unclean Realm often, playing with all his vast knowledge of musical cultivation to ease some of Mingjue's cares away. He hoped it was working, yet feared it would not be enough.

When Mingjue died, Lan Xichen did not know how he would survive the weight of loss when he did not have sufficient pillars to help bear the load. A vast expanse had long cracked and deepened between him and Wangji he could not begin to understand. He feared it went much further back than anything he might have anticipated; that Wangji blamed him for encouraging a friendship which had led to so much pain.

He had tried to compensate for his missteps. Tried, initially, to discourage his interest with Jingyi because he feared it would only bring his brother yet more grief when the similarities between the boy and the dead became too much.

Seeing Lan Wangji gravitate to a child who, by all reports, would never be able to properly cultivate, Lan Xichen worried at his brother's fragile heart being broken once again. Lan Shihan insisted, even now, that Jingyi was unfit to act as a disciple. All he had wanted was to stop Wangji from being hurt once again, when he wore his first heartbreak as an indelible mark upon him.

His words invoked only cold, sudden anger. His reluctance had, it felt, damaged their relationship and driven them even further apart. He had no idea how to begin to repair it. Every time he thought he'd been doing his brother a service—from encouraging his friendship with Young Master Wei to discouraging his sudden, apparently dissonant interest in fatherhood—had ended up being a misstep. Even though A-Yao had been so sure it was the correct tract.

Then again, with A-Yao… He did not believe Wangji begrudged him his grief for an unworthy man. Had hoped, in some small way, they might find a way to bridge the distance between them with the ruined remains of their shared experience. But when he’d tried comparing A-Yao with Wei Wuxian, yet another fracture fissured between them. He couldn't imagine how to begin to repair it with his paralyzing fear of making things somehow worse

"You could try talking to him," Da-ge suggested, during one of Lan Xichen's frequent visits to Qinghe. In the wake of A-Yao's betrayal, it felt as though he also owed repentance to Nie Mingjue, and sought him out as frequently as he could manage. Da-ge did not share the opinion, but then it hadn't been his inattentiveness and blind trust that nearly resulted in his brother's death.

At Lan Xichen's droll look of reply, Nie Mingjue had chuckled. "Talk at him then, and hope he listens."

"Has that ever worked with A-Sang?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm sure I'm not."

Lan Xichen had thus far lacked sufficient courage to take up the task. He'd already lost one brother; how could he risk losing another?

He realized with a guilty start that he'd been staring at Jin Ziyu while lost in thought and having completely missed his recitation of other clan leaders and justifications as to why Jin Ziyu had not sought them out.

“—and Sect Leader Jiang is… a lot. Su-jie has offered me her guidance, but she’s been very attentive to father’s needs and it hasn’t left us much time.”

Lan Xichen inclined his head. “It is not presumptuous to seek out trustworthy counsel. If you feel I am worthy of such trust, then I offer myself gladly.”

Do not tell lies. The precepts sat uncomfortable at the forefront of his mind, but he did not allow himself to betray his reluctance. Jin Ziyu should not be made to suffer because of the actions of his brother. And from everything Lan Xichen understood of Koi Tower, surely anyone with a single kind word would win Jin Ziyu’s love and loyalty forever.

Perhaps it was time to begin nurturing new friendships.

“For a time, there were no clans as close as that of Lan and Jin, I would like to see us return to such warm terms,” Jin Ziyu continued, words obviously carefully rehearsed. Lan Xichen’s lips twitched up in a neutral smile. Such warmth, of course, had been driven by his relationship with A-Yao, and the reminder twisted inside him as though a blade had been driven into his stomach.

Before he could offer any reply, the sound of Jingyi’s voice drew their attention to the walkways outside Lan Xichen’s receiving room. They both looked at the door as Jingyi and Wangji strode by, Jingyi bouncing along next to his father with a delighted grin spread across his face.

Off again, it seemed.

A full four months after Jingyi’s disappearance from the Baling Discussion Conference, it still struck Lan Xichen as deeply disconcerting to see Wangji's bare forehead. Lan Xichen and Shufu had both offered to assist him with the consecration rites of a new ribbon, which he had gently but firmly rejected. Whatever transpired to rob him of his original, Wangji considered it irreplaceable, though he had been tight-lipped when asked about the circumstances behind the loss. Any other disciple and Lan Xichen would worry after their self-regulation, but his brother continued to be a steadfast paramount of propriety.

They had been disappearing together on night hunts almost constantly over the past months, stopping over in Cloud Recesses barely a week at a time before leaving again. Obviously Jingyi’s unfortunate run-in during the Baling Discussion Conference had driven Wangji to accompany his son on all his ventures moving forward. Lan Xichen admired his brother’s dedication, even if such dedication had been taking them away from Cloud Recesses for increasingly long periods of time. It felt as though they’d only just returned from a month-long sojourn, and were now off again. Yet it seemed to be doing him some good; while Jingyi had done wonders for his brother’s disposition, Lan Xichen had not seen him as settled since...

Another welcome change; Wangji had stopped his fruitless trips to Yiling. Lan Xichen no longer had to watch his younger brother shoulder the mantle of sorrow for the unworthy departed. The first time he’d left for a night hunt without Yiling being his secondary consideration Lan Xichen thought it might be the promising beginning of a new chapter, and perhaps a means to closing the gulf between them. Alas, though he seemed to have returned fully to the living, he had little time for Lan Xichen.

Lan Xichen, having had little time for Wangji prior to A-Yao's death, considered it his due.

“They are gone often from Gusu now, I think. We’ve had reports of them travelling through Lanling,” Jin Ziyu commented.

“Certainly more often recently. My brother has always been a dedicated champion of the underprivileged, and he and my nephew have been seeking out night hunts past the borders of Gusu, to help those who might require the aid of a cultivator.”

“Have they given much account for their ventures? If they pass through Lanling, it is my sect’s responsibility to look into whatever is demanding attention.”

Lan Xichen blinked slowly as he considered the words. Wangji’s reports had been suffering scant details, but contained nothing troubling. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m only curious, Zewu-jun. Perhaps… perhaps it would be better for Lan Jingyi to remain at home for a while. Just. Lan Jingyi might find more opportunities for him, closer to home. Perhaps.”

“Do you feel there has been some impropriety?” Lan Xichen asked. This could explain Jin Ziyu’s unprecedented visit to Cloud Recesses, if he felt GusuLan had committed some trespass.

“No, no, no,” Jin Ziyu immediately protested. “There could not be, where Hanguang-jun is involved. Only. Lan Jingyi has been kind to me, and I worry about him coming to harm when I could prevent it.”

Ah. As Lan Xichen had suspected; he had not anticipated Jingyi being the one to earn such loyalty, but it came as a pleasant surprise for Jin Ziyu to be worried over what he likely considered a rare friend.

“I assure you that Hanguang-jun would never allow Jingyi to be hurt,” Lan Xichen assured him. “And my brother is more than capable of protecting himself.”

Jin Ziyu looked momentarily frustrated, but apparently decided not to press the point. “Of course Hanguang-jun will take care of it,” he finally declared. He offered up a distinctly wan smile. “Please forgive my impertinence.”

“Not at all. Now, what specifically did you come to ask about?”

Jin Ziyu scrambled to collect himself, his concern for Jingyi throwing him from his original purpose.

No matter. Lan Xichen could afford patience. These days, it seemed he had little else.

Chapter Text

Song Sizhui loved his family. He loved the effortless way his aunt enveloped everyone around her into her easy affection, and Baba's teasing, which always came from a place of unfathomable love. He loved his cousin, who really was his younger brother all but in blood and how A-Ling's passion evened out Song Sizhui’s own level-headedness. He loved his absent uncles and their daughter, and the stories they brought back of their adventures while wandering the world, doled out over visits which could last two months or more.

And, slowly, he was beginning to love the two others who had folded themselves into his family’s lives.

Song Sizhui always tried to hold himself to the high standards of his aunt, his father, and the man his father had made Hanguang-jun out to be. Having met Lan Wangji, Song Sizhui could now safely say that he still wanted to hold himself to the highest standards possible, but he also couldn’t help the small thrill he got whenever he did something that reminded Hanguang-jun of Baba and the ensuing smile that tended to cross his hero’s face.

And Jingyi who. Well. Jingyi, who would be his brother in the not-so-distant future. Who filled their house with endless chatter and good cheer, tempered by three thousand rules of conduct which he’d become an expert in interpreting to his advantage. Baba obviously adored Jingyi. Jingyi, for all his subtle reluctance, blossomed under Baba’s influence and melted again when faced with Ayi’s sweetness.

They came to expect them at least once a month, for at minimum a week at a time, easily settling themselves into longstanding daily routines. Baba and Hanguang-jun would inevitably take off together, leaving Song Sizhui and A-Ling to drag Jingyi along on local night hunts, or working together to improve his (laughably terrible) archery skills. A-Ling preened over his superiority even while patiently correcting Jingyi’s elbows, reteaching the basic mechanics of the skill, which Jingyi admittedly neglected in Gusu. They spent hours together, A-Ling showing off what he’d learned at Baba’s hip while Song Sizhui watched with a smile. He felt comfortable enough with a bow, but it really was A-Ling’s area of expertise and his cousin excelled whenever given the chance to show off.

(The day Jingyi had finally managed to pierce a kite out of the air he’d jumped up and down with such excitement his ribbon had slipped down to cover his left eye. He’d barely noticed until Hanguang-jun had carefully set it to rights that evening when they’d returned home for dinner, Baba watching with a fond smile, arm slung across A-Ling’s shoulders as he whispered congratulations for excellent instruction, to which A-Ling had burned like a lantern with embarrassed pleasure.

Not two days later, Hanguang-jun came upon Song Sizhui practicing his dizi and asked very softly if he wished to learn the guqin, volunteering himself as a 'competent' instructor. Song Sizhui didn't care to think of how embarrassingly quickly he'd agreed, and certainly not how close the offer brought him to tears.)

Autumn tripped gaily towards winter. Song Sizhui allowed A-Ling to drag his bed back into Song Sizhui’s bedroom, which they’d shared together as children before A-Ling broadly declared himself too old to need his da-ge at age six (belying his words when he crawled into Song Sizhui’s bed almost every night for another full year.) Not only did the extra body help keep the room warmer, it meant they could take turns stoking up the brazier at night, instead of Song Sizhui having to drag himself out from suddenly chilly sheets every few hours.

That morning A-Ling adjusted his sleeping mat, clearing out some additional space near the west wall, he shrugged at Song Sizhui’s questioning look. “They should be arriving today, right? It’s been a month.”

“I’ll run to the market and pick up some more fish,” Song Sizhui said. “You go and clear out the other room.”

A-Ling snorted. “Why? Jingyi’s going to sleep in here like a fucking mooch—” Nevermind A-Ling had been the one to make accommodations for him already, “—And Hanguang-jun is just going to tuck himself in with da-jiu, because they are awful human beings who behave so shamelessly and I cannot believe that the fortune teller is making us wait until spring...”

Song Sizhui rolled his eyes fondly, fixed A-Ling’s hair to prevent it listing to the right all day, then headed out to the market to retrieve the first of the day’s catch.

He successfully haggled with Uncle Cao for an impressively enormous fish, a few aromatics, and a small package of Ayi’s favourite dates.

He worried, sometimes, that with Baba so preoccupied with Hanguang-jun and himself and A-Ling throwing themselves wholeheartedly into their friendship with Jingyi that she might get lonely, despite her protestations to the contrary. After finishing at the market, he made sure to stop at Auntie Bei’s to request she stop in to look in on Ayi a few times during the week, receiving a pinched cheek for his trouble, as though he’d spontaneously regressed to the age of three; to hear tell, his cheeks had been bruised through to the age of five.

The stopover proved well-timed, however, as she produced a letter addressed to Baba and Ayi, recently delivered by Uncle Bei.

Carefully fighting down his desire to tear it open and discover the news, Song Sizhui ferried his armload of prizes home in time for breakfast.

After Ayi exclaimed over the fish and smiled sweetly at the dates, she bullied him into a seat to make sure he ate while she read the letter.

“It’s from Second Uncle Song,” she declared, scanning the missive. “Uncle Xiao has overheard rumours of Xue Yang's whereabouts. He believes they’ll be passing through Baling within the week.”

“What about A-Qing?” Song Sizhui asked.

Ayi gamely handed over the letter, to which he discovered a postscript written specifically for him in a shaky hand, their cousin still working on her calligraphy. A number of hasty corrections and blotted out characters suggested she’d had some help in her writing, just as the irritated tone of her message indicated she’d hated it.

Da-ge, I don't want to write this, but Song-gege is making me. I am still being dragged along on this stupid quest because Big Blind and Song-gege will not let me travel on my own even though I am completely capable of handling myself and they are gross. If I find that asshole first, I am going to kill him and eat all his candy, I don’t care how much Big Blind pouts about it.

Several characters had been crossed out and rewritten, as though she was uncertain as to which order of potential torments would be more satisfying. He was surprised she'd decided on murder—from everything Uncle Xiao and Uncle Song had told them, eating the candy first seemed crueler.

Tell A-Ling to remember what I said and that girls won’t like him if he keeps being grumpy. Here is a picture of a cat.

The cat was keenly drawn, but completely unappreciated by A-Ling. “Who’s grumpy?” he demanded, grumpily. “Tell her that boys won’t like her if she keeps stealing all their shit!”

“You can tell her yourself. Uncle says he hopes they will be here for the winter and stay through until the wedding,” Song Sizhui suggested, quickly scanning the rest of the letter. Second Uncle seemed far too amused by the news of the upcoming marriage for reasons Song Sizhui couldn’t quite figure out. Perhaps he had more insight into the great love story between Baba and Hanguang-jun, the shape of which Song Sizhui only caught in shadows and distorted reflections, without proper information to give it form. Neither of them seemed to like speaking of it, even though they’d loved so deeply it had carried through sixteen years of separation. Song Sizhui dreamed of having such a love someday.

A-Ling huffed, barely mollified and likely already mentally constructing his argument, grabbed his sword. “Come spar with me.”

After sharing a sly, commiseratory smile with Ayi, Song Sizhui followed A-Ling out to the courtyard. Which is where they were an hour later, when a very welcome guest walked through their gates.

"Jingyi!" Song Sizhui greeted, beaming. He sheathed his sword and crossed the courtyard. "I'm so happy to see you."

Lan Jingyi grinned with effusive cheer. "Sizhui, A-Ling, let me introduce you to my friend. This is Ouyang Zizhen."

Song Sizhui and A-Ling bowed in greeting, which Young Master Ouyang accepted with a smile and a bow in return. He immediately turned to Lan Jingyi, looking for guidance, until Jingyi grabbed his arm and all but dragged him forward.

“Where is Hanguang-jun? If he’s decided to abandon da-jiu, I’ll—” A-Ling began before remembering there was another person there with them and snapping his mouth shut, in case Young Master Ouyang decided to take him at his word instead of hearing the frustrated affection behind it.

Jingyi waved them all forward, warming Song Sizhui with the thought that Jingyi considered this to be his home as much as theirs. “Where are Song-qianbei and Auntie? I’ll tell everyone together.”

Baba and Ayi, sitting in their shared receiving room, looked up with genuine pleasure when their group of four tumbled in through the doorway.

"Hanguang-jun apologizes for being unable to join us," Lan Jingyi said, bowing in a reasonably good impression of his father's immaculate manners. Baba frowned, not quite a pout but not far from one either. "He sends this, along with his good wishes." He handed over a couple of jars of wine, which made Baba's face light up, along with a very fine bolt of cloth for Ayi.

"I hope all is well in Gusu," Ayi said with a small downturn of her mouth.

"It is. We received word only a few days ago that the Chief Cultivator has died and Zewu-jun is being considered for the position. Hanguang-jun remained with him to attend the emergency Discussion Conference."

Baba and Ayi both regarded Lan Jingyi with surprise. "Jin Guangshan is dead?" Ayi clarified.

Lan Jingyi nodded.

Without a word to one another, Baba and Ayi moved in perfect synchronization, as they so often did: Baba cracked open the first of the jars while Ayi retrieved two cups. He poured them each a generous serving and they silently toasted one another before drinking the contents in a single swallow. Ouyang Zizhen looked shocked and scandalized and delighted all at once. A-Ling just scowled, resigned to the fact that yet one more person had decided his mother was the most amazing woman who had ever walked the earth.

(Song Sizhui could absolutely empathize, as he had felt the same way about Ayi as long as he could remember. She'd been the one to gift him his courtesy name—a longstanding agreement between her and Baba—and she'd held him tight the day she'd first whispered it in his ear.

Baba had teased him about it only once, "What is your wife going to think when you constantly measure her up against your aunt?"

Song Sizhui gave the question more weight than Baba probably intended before deciding, "Any spouse I choose to be with will surely not be inclined towards jealousy. I cannot imagine loving a person who would be so mean with their heart."

Whatever Baba meant to say next, the words had become trapped behind his teeth. He kissed Song Sizhui's forehead and told him he didn't deserve such a good son. He'd repeated the same words often during Song Sizhui's childhood, to the point of concern when Sizhui began suspecting, sometime around his thirteenth year, that Baba was in earnest instead of merely teasing. Song Sizhui rededicated himself to being worthy of the man he knew his father to be, instead of the one his father believed he was.)

Song Sizhui suspected that Ouyang Zizhen would also be calling her Auntie in short order. The thought made him smile; Ayi’s heart was generous enough to love the whole world equally.

Except, apparently, Jin Guangshan.

Unlike stories of Jin Zixuan, Hanguang-jun and Sandu Senshou, they had never heard much about LanlingJin as a whole. Of course tales of the ferocious Luo Qingyang had delighted them many times, but otherwise it was rare indeed to hear anything about them. Both Baba and Ayi had always been generous with their words, but circled around certain subjects with the ease of trained dancers. Who they’d been. Where they’d come from. Who they’d left behind (because Song Sizhui had no memories of his life before they’d made a home here, but he felt in his soul there had been a ‘before’ of which now went unspoken.)

A-Ling’s father heralded from LanlingJin. They had gold peony heraldry. And, apparently, Jin Guangshan’s death was something to celebrate. With the exception of a few out-of-context snippets he’d gleaned from Jingyi during his visits, these statements now comprised the entirety of his knowledge of the clan as a whole, a looming void in his otherwise exceptional education. He’d never had any reason to resent the oversight, but now that he was older, he wondered if he shouldn't have questioned it.

“Hanguang-jun,” Jingyi continued, grinning ear-to-ear at the impropriety of the toast, “Promised to join us as soon as the emergency conference concluded. In the meantime,” he swung around to A-Ling and Song Sizhui, not quite dancing in place. “There’s a night hunt north of here that Zizhen promised his father we’d look into.”

As synchronized as their parents, A-Ling and Song Sizhui spun to turn pleading eyes on Baba and Ayi.

“At least they’re asking,” Ayi laughed, with a pointed look Baba's way. As though they’d ever disrespect her and Baba by taking off without permission!

"Shijie, don't tease them," Baba said, wagging his finger. He pulled Chenqing from his belt and spun it around his fingers to hold it out to Song Sizhui. “Have fun!”

“Be safe,” Ayi said, tilting a scolding eyebrow towards Baba.

“Yes, yes, yes. That too.” He waved them towards the door, not quite shooing them out. “Go and pack your things. Shijie and I will make you some food.”

“I will make you some food,” Ayi laughed once A-Ling swung towards her with a deeply betrayed furrow of his brow. “Go get them some pocket money, A-Xian. Distinguished young gentlemen such as these should be able to have a few treats.”

“I think your mother is laughing at us,” Ouyang Zizhen said as they headed to collect their things.

“She’s too nice for that,” Jingyi protested.

A-Ling sighed. “You should really get to know her better. She raised da-jiu practically on her own. He had to have gotten it from somewhere.”

The night hunt was a scant two day's journey by sword, their evening break filled with good cheer and shared laughter. On the second day, late into the afternoon, they arrived at the town closest to the location of the hunt. They all stumbled together towards the single, humble inn for soft beds and a decent meal.

Ouyang Zizhen paused at the doors, eyes drawn to the market nearby and zeroing in on a small stall loaded down with books. “I’ll be right along.”

Jingyi rolled his eyes and gently elbowed him in the ribs. “Didn’t your father tell you not to bring more books home?"

Ouyang Zizhen aimed a soft look towards Song Sizhui and A-Ling. “Well, maybe I’ll have a new place to keep them.”

“I’m sure we could find room,” Song Sizhui agreed. With a bright grin, Ouyang Zizhen took off into the market, leaving them to make their way inside the inn to request a room.

The innkeeper, a gruff-looking woman with an impressive beard and a hard cast to her features, directed them up the stairs and promised to follow with a generous meal.

The room, larger than his own at home, would nonetheless be a tight squeeze for four young masters, but considering the humble appointment of the town itself he felt quite pleased. He and A-Ling could sleep on the floor, after all. Though that would leave Jingyi to share the lone bed with Ouyang Zizhen, though he couldn’t say if the Lan disciplines would consider it an unforgivable impropriety. In anticipation of Baba’s marriage to Hanguang-jun, he’d tried to familiarize himself with some of the Lan precepts (Baba was surprisingly—or perhaps, not so surprisingly, all things now considered—well-versed in them) but couldn’t think of any that, strictly speaking, applied in such a way that Jingyi wouldn’t find means of justifying.

If all else failed, he decided as the innkeeper appeared with their meal, he and A-Ling could sleep in the barn.

“Would you mind if we asked you a question about the town north of here?” Song Sizhui asked. It earned him a queer look from Jingyi, though A-Ling didn’t seem to remark on anything odd about it. Baba had always suggested innkeepers to be the best and most reliable source of information.

“What do you want to know?” she asked. “The past few weeks travel has died away to nothing and anyone gone to investigate hasn’t returned. We don’t go there any longer.”

“Did anything strike you as odd before the disappearances started?” Song Sizhui continued.

“Some rumblings about diseased livestock, but nothing we paid much mind to, before the trade dried up.” She turned a close eye on Jingyi. “If you’re going to investigate, take care. We may be outside the borders of Baling, but that won’t stop the sects from descending if their disciples disappear.”

“Thank you,” Song Sizhui said, clasping his hands together and earning himself the barest glimpse of a smile before she placed a jar of wine in front of him. “We have a friend just out in the marketplace right now, could you please send him upstairs when he arrives?” The innkeeper nodded and left them to their meal.

“Song Ling,” Jingyi said, eyes fixed on a crispy pork dish, “I will fight you if you don’t let me have that big piece.”

“Why are you threatening me? Da-ge should have a say in who gets it!”

“Because Sizhui is entirely too nice, and is just going to say it’s up to us to decide anyway.”

“Actually, if you two fight over it, I’m going to have to insist that we save it for Ouyang Zizhen,” Song Sizhui told them. They both turned indignant frowns his way, though A-Ling didn’t appear overly surprised by the sentiment; Ayi had used the exact same strategy with the two of them about a thousand times during their childhood.

They hadn’t managed to come to a quorum several minutes later, when a tapping sound came from the hallway. Their door slid open, to the sound of Ouyang Zizhen’s voice,

“And through here—mind the step, miss—are my friends, of good character and very respectable and would never do anything untowards and would be happy to share our meal—”

“Thank you,” came a whispered, tremulous response from a familiar voice, “I’m ashamed to trespass on your kindness, but it’s been so long since I ate a full…” The voice drifted off as the owner came into view, “…meal—Da-ge!”

“Meimei?” Song Sizhui blinked in surprise as he was suddenly tackled by his cousin, her walking stick shoved into Ouyang Zizhen’s arms. He managed to keep them both from toppling to the ground, but it came closer than he would’ve liked. While she’d never been able to match him for muscle, few people of his acquaintance came closer to her level of enthusiasm.

“And Ling-di!” She turned her aggressive affections towards him, only settling down into the seat beside him once she’d put him completely out of sorts with a fierce embrace.

“What are you doing here?” Song Sizui asked once she’d settled into place.

A-Qing huffed in irritation, swiping the still-contentious piece of pork and shoving it into her mouth before A-Ling or Jingyi could protest. “What am I ever doing anywhere, da-ge?” she demanded through the mouthful. She swallowed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Chasing that asshole.”

A-Ling and Song Sizhui exchanged concerned looks. “Xue Yang is here?”

“No. Well. No. Big Blind and Song-gege went after him, but they abandoned me here. On my own. To fend for myself.” She swiped another piece of pork.

That proved the last straw for A-Ling, “Don’t hog it all!”

“That’s not how you should speak to beautiful young women,” Ouyang Zizhen protested, still standing near the door and looking appropriately bewildered.

“She’s not a beautiful young woman, she’s my cousin," A-Ling stated, furious and leveling Ouyang Zizhen with a threatening glower before he realized that A-Qing had nabbed another piece. "And if she keeps eating all the pork I’ll say worse to her!”

A-Qing hissed, “And then I’ll tell your mother!”

Sometimes Song Sizhui wondered if, back when Uncle Song had arrived at their door carrying A-Qing, either her or A-Ling would have turned out quite so loud if they hadn’t been exposed to one another at such a formative age.

“Then you’re not blind?” asked Ouyang Zizhen. He stared mystified at the stick in his hand, then towards A-Qing, then back to the stick. With as much reverence as he might show a spiritual weapon, he leaned it against the door and crossed to join them.

She turned towards him and grinned. “You’re adorable. Remind me to return your purse.”

A-Ling rolled his eyes so hard he probably caught a glimpse of his brain. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he grumped, already spooning more food onto her plate. “My mother taught you better than that.”

Ayi tried to, at least, though she’d never been as insistent with A-Qing's manners as she had with Song Sizhui and A-Ling. He glanced across the table as Ouyang Zizhen took the empty seat beside Jingyi. Their eyes met in a moment of profound commiseration. Ouyang Zizhen hadn't mentioned anything in their days of travel, but in that brief second of eye contact, Song Suzhui knew with absolute certainty he had at least two younger siblings.

A-Qing stuck out her tongue. “I wasn’t lying, though,” she said, shoving the next largest piece of pork into her mouth and followed it up with a sizable slurp of noodles. “I haven’t eaten a decent meal all day.”

“Why haven’t you eaten?” A-Ling demanded. “Did Second Uncle and Uncle Xiao not leave you enough money?”

A-Qing waved him off. "I spent all my money on snacks earlier, so I figured I'd find some handsome young man to treat me to dinner." She winked at Ouyang Zizhen, who flushed from his cheeks all the way down to his chest.

Once they’d all filled their plates, A-Qing reached for the jar of wine, graciously pouring one each for Song Sizhui, Ouyang Zizhen, and Jingyi, before finally serving herself and then A-Ling, much to A-Ling’s consternation.

"Is it true what they say about the Lan and alcohol?" A-Qing asked Jingyi with a perfectly evil smirk.

"It is true of my father, Zewu-jun, my great uncle and not at all of me," Lan Jingyi stated. He practically poured the wine down his throat; Song Sizhui would've been shocked if he even tasted it.

This proved the moment required to break Ouyang Zizhen’s stupor. “That’s not what I remember from the first time you and I shared a jar.” Song Sizhui honestly adored him a little already and the gleam in his eyes only cemented the feeling.

“My tolerance has improved since then,” Jingyi protested. “And I’m not the one who ended up in the koi pond.”

“If I let a Lan outdrink me, da-ge’s father will never let me live it down,” A-Qing declared, refilling his cup and topping up her own to the brim.

Song Sizhui resigned himself to a long night. While he could hold his wine at least as well as anyone else in his family, he didn’t particularly enjoy the loose-limbed cloudiness which accompanied overindulgence. And here, away from their parents, he could rely on a certain amount of immoderation from everyone at the table.

The four of them called for a second jar of wine. Then a third. He refused to go downstairs to ask for a fourth, much to the disappointment of all gathered parties.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to why they were in town. “I thought I wouldn’t see you until winter,” A-Qing declared, pressed into A-Ling’s side. A-Ling’s eyes were fluttered as he tried to fight his way through the haze of alcohol and remain awake.

“We only received your letter a few days ago,” Song Sizhui told her. “I thought you’d be with your guardians.”

"They left me here and took off after him," A-Qing hissed, glaring at the empty table. At some point they’d finished off the last of the chicken. All that remained were a few stray slices of scallions. "'Oh, it's too dangerous, A-Qing.' Ha!" She slapped the table. "Like I'm some sort of liability. More likely they knew what I’d do to him if I got to him first.”

He did sometimes wonder over the sincerity of her hatred for Xue Yang. She’d lived with him and Uncle Xiao for several years before Second Uncle caught up with them. They’d practically raised her until then, by all accounts. For a long time, whenever he came up, A-Qing referred to him as her gege. The anger had only come much, much later.

“What are they going to do with him if they catch him?” A-Ling asked.

The perennial question; apparently her guardians were of two different minds. “Big Blind wants to take him to your hot springs. Song-gege and I want to hold him under the water until he stops moving. But it’s been how long and they haven’t caught him yet?” She huffed and glared at her empty cup. “Well fine.” She sniffed imperiously. “I'll just go with you, then."

"We're also going on a night hunt, meimei," Song Sizhui pointed out.

A Qing sniffed, "Yes.” She smiled. Or, at least, she bared her teeth. “But you're not going to try to stop me from coming, right, da-ge?"

"Not at all," he said truthfully. "It will be good to have extra help."

“Is that wise?” Jingyi asked, bewildered but also holding his own as well as he’d promised. He might’ve been swaying a bit, but then again all of them were.

A-Qing scoffed and pulled her sword from her qiankun bag, resting it against the table. Per Second Uncle’s specifications, Shuangye shared some features with both Fuxue and Shuanghua, albeit considerably smaller in deference to A-Qing’s lithe build. She glared at Jingyi, inviting him to comment.

Jingyi looked his way, curiosity branded in his eyes. He'd only just gotten used to Song Sizhui and A-Ling, after all. How did this new person fit into his newfound family?

Song Sizhui smiled in a way he hoped came across as encouraging. He suspected that once Jingyi and A-Qing had a chance to speak to one another they'd get on very well indeed, albeit likely at an escalating volume considering their respective characters.

"My geges are both quiet people," A-Qing told him once, long after Second Uncle began her training in cultivation. "I need to be brash enough for all three of us." Unsurprisingly, she’d never failed in that endeavour.

The night Second Uncle Song had delivered A-Qing to their door, small and shaking, only a year younger than Song Sizhui but half his size, Baba had left with him. Song Sizhui had been at first distracted by her presence, to the point where he hadn't noticed that Baba was gone-gone. Not just to the village, but well and away for the first time in his memory. He hadn’t hated A-Qing in that moment, but found himself deeply resenting her presence with a fierceness he hadn’t known in the whole nine years of his life leading to that point.

Baba and Second Uncle Song had returned some weeks later, both of them pale and half-dead from exhaustion, ready to collapse at the slightest provocation. But even as Second Uncle pulled an enraged A-Qing into a tight hug and submitted himself to her incoherent anger and flailing hands, Baba had dropped to the floor and gathered Song Sizhui, A-Ling and Ayi all up in his arms.

It was the first time he remembered Baba ever crying in front of him.

"It's gone," he said into Song Sizhui's hair, over and over, as Ayi shifted around until they were all secure in her embrace. In Song Sizhui's memory, her arms were enormous.

Uncle Song left alone a misty morning one week later and didn't return for a full season. When he did come back, it was with a bright moon and gentle breeze ghosting, numb and silent, at his heels. They’d stayed through the spring and left in the summer, A-Qing swinging between them, Uncle Xiao only then remembering how to smile. They visited at least once a year, coming and going with the seasons as reliably as the tides on the sea, chasing down rumours of Xue Yang.

Only once, Ayi suggested A-Qing might find it more peaceful to stay behind. All three of them had seemed so horrified she’d never brought it up again.

“Meimei is an asset in a fight,” Song Sizhui nodded. A-Qing preened under the attention.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a town north of here experiencing some trouble,” Song Sizhui told her. A-Qing shifted in place, but made no comment. “We’re going to look into it on behalf of BalingOuyang.”

“Well good,” she stated. She tipped the remainder of the wine into her mouth, though all that the jar managed to produce came in a tiny trickle. “I need some excitement.”

Arranging themselves with A-Qing in the room proved easier than expected: she took the bed and the rest of them somehow managed to arrange themselves fairly comfortably on the floor, pillowed in a collection of spare robes, blankets, and whatever soft surfaces they scared up from the rest of the room’s furnishings.

Once everyone faded away, before Song Sizhui doused the candles, A-Qing whispered into the darkness,

“I hate it when they leave me behind.”

Song Sizhui rolled over to face the bed. “I’m sorry, meimei.”

“They don’t even know for sure he’s around here. They’re just jumping at shadows again.” She stretched out and tucked her hands beneath her head. “I could hold my own against him.”

Song Sizhui replied, in what he considered to be a very reasonable tone of voice, “I’m sure you could.”

A-Qing gestured rudely and rolled over. Once he felt certain she’d said her piece, he snuffed the candles with a wave of his hand and a flicker of spiritual energy, and allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

The town to the north, looming and empty, felt tense and primed for their arrival. To all appearances it seemed a quiet settlement largely uninhabited by man or beast, abandoned save for the oppressive air hanging over the abandoned houses and empty paddocks. The persistent silence sat oppressive as a funeral, looming around them with air thick enough Song Sizhui thought he might be able to bite into it and not feel it give beneath his teeth.

They fell into line together, five abreast, which still didn’t feel like enough of a wall between them and the sinister shrouded atmosphere. Only a handful of buildings lined the same street, in keeping with what they’d heard; even before the disappearances, with such a tiny population, the place could barely be called a town at all.

“I could have brought more disciples,” Ouyang Zizhen stated. The air stole his words away.

“Not likely,” Jingyi replied. “With the Discussion Conference on. It’s amazing your father let you come along at all.”

“We received notice too late to attend. If we’d been able to get organized in time, I never would’ve managed to get out of it.”

“Aren’t you lucky,” A-Qing said with a bland approximation of her usual cheer, peering across the empty streets before them. “You wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.”

“We should check the houses for any residents,” A-Ling suggested. “See if there’s anyone alive.” He didn’t sound as though he held out much hope for it. Frankly, neither did Song Sizhui.

They started with the buildings dotting the main street, travelling together in a tight knot door-to-door and receiving no answer wherever they knocked.

When they reached the end of the main road they discovered why: bodies lay strewn across the ground, dozens of white-eyed corpses staring blindly into the overcast sky above them. Or so he thought, until he saw one move. Its chest twitched, struggling to draw in a breath through blue lips parted by the barest degree.

“They’re not dead,” Jingyi whispered at his side.

They approached cautiously, a thick aura of resentful energy clouding the air surrounding the bodies becoming increasingly obvious as they drew near. It felt different, however, than anything Song Sizhui had ever encountered. Unrefined in a way that his father would never have allowed, even during the rare incidents he needed to stray into such practices these days; a pale shade of the craft his father had perfected in his younger years.

They paused next to one of the bodies. Still breathing. Still… recoverable? If they could find the source of the problem, then they might be revived. He and A-Ling traded a look and began inspecting the aging man, grey ribboning through his hair. Not signs of poison, no curse marks… perhaps some sort of advanced array? But while Baba would have been able to do something this extravagant—not that he would—he sincerely doubted anyone else could have managed it and it would’ve taken an idiot to even try.

“Da-ge,” A-Ling said, apparently having reached the same conclusion, “What if whoever did this was trying to create puppets but was just really bad at it?”

“Whoever did this was unqualified to practice demonic cultivation,” Song Sizhui agreed. “This is like if a mediocre person got hold of Jingyi’s sword and started imitating him by wildly swinging it around.”

Jingyi gripped Xingyun tightly, as if afraid one of the unconscious civilians would hop up and grab it from him. “That’s even more terrifying,” Jingyi muttered. “The last thing I want to deal with is an incompetent demonic cultivator losing control.”

“On the bright side, it means that whatever is affecting them may wear off in its own time,” Song Sizhui continued.

“That’s good to hear. But, uh,” Ouyang Zizhen whispered frantically behind them, “What about those ones?!”

They turned as one, only to spot a host of undead lumbering towards them. The one in front, an intimidating figure dragging broken chains hanging from manacles binding his wrists and feet and criss-crossing over his chest, twisted its face up in a snarl. Black smoke trailed off him, the twisting signs of resentful energy curling towards them.

“Da-ge,” A-Ling smacked his arm urgently.

Song Sizhui took a bracing breath and drew Chenqing from its place at his waist.

“It will take time to suppress all of them,” he told the others. He eyed the fierce corpse in front and gulped. “Especially that one.” The chains seemed to rattled in response as they unerringly drew ever closer.

A-Ling pulled his bow at the same time the others drew their swords. As the first note drifted out from Song Sizhui’s dizi, the rest of them charged forward. They were probably outnumbered three to one, but the other undead seemed to hang back, caught up in the haunting chords of the music.

The one in front, of course, proved the exception.

It swung the chains as though it were a natural extension of his body, whipping them around fluidly. One caught Ouyang Zizhen and sent him sprawling backwards to the ground, blood dripping from his lips as he coughed through the blow. Jingyi jumped forward, trading only a few blows before it caught him round his neck and lifted him clear off his feet.

The puppet itself wasn’t fighting him, but there was something else going on—another cultivator trying to fight him for control using resentful energy, much more competent than whoever had tried to turn the villagers into puppets. Unfortunately for them, Song Sizhui had learned from his father and knew how to best counteract it. The only problem was how much time and effort it would take.

“Ling-di!” A-Qing screamed.

A-Ling strung three arrows through his bow and fired them at once, each one finding its way through one of the links in the chains and pulling the puppet back and away. They stuck into the side of the nearest house, trapping him for only a moment. Jingyi hit the ground, grabbing his neck and heaving in deep breaths.

Song Sizhui halted his song. “It’s being controlled by a demonic cultivator!” he yelled. “I can try to get control, but not while suppressing the others.”

“Then don’t,” A-Qing replied. She produced a lure flag from the recesses of her robes.

“Meimei, no!”

She, of course, ignored him. “Come on!” she cried, darting forward and smacking one of the puppets with the side of her blade. She took off at a run, the crowd turning to pursue.

“I’ll go with her.” Ouyang Zizhen jumped to his feet. “We’ll circle back to you.”

He narrowly managed to slip into step behind A-Qing before the first of the puppets reached them and they darted down a nearby alley, the puppets in close pursuit.

Before he could do more than take a half-step in their direction, the chained undead hauled itself forward violently enough to crack the wood holding it. It once again began heading their way. The lure flag held no sway. Terrifying, but A-Qing had her own problems to deal with.

Song Sizhui took a steadying breath and once again began to play. The power of the spiritual instrument curled up and through him; Baba had always refused to teach him demonic cultivation, or how to funnel resentful energy through his music. But he knew how to use his dizi well enough to win over control. Sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes, tears springing up to clear the salt from his vision. Whoever controlled the fierce corpse was strong but lacked the precision needed to fight off Song Sizhui’s careful application of power.

A-Ling and Jingyi harried the fierce corpse, distracting it as best they could while staying out of arm’s reach. It swung its chains, but every note Song Sizhui played slowed its movements. It felt bizarrely as though the corpse itself was trying to break the hold of whoever was controlling it, like it wanted Song Sizhui to take over. He rededicated himself to playing, eyes fixed as the undead stumbled close enough to give Song Sizhui a perfect view of its vacant black eyes. With a last, piercing note he banished whatever influence the other cultivator had upon it, and it finally drew to a halt before him.

“It’s done,” Song Sizhui said, lowering the dizi.

Something suddenly tackled his side, sending Song Sizhui sprawling hard to the ground. It only took a moment for him to realize Jingyi had landed on top of him, but before he could ask why he heard the telltale whoosh of a blade cutting through the air where his head had been seconds before.

He and Jingyi rolled over and hopped back to their feet in time to see a cultivator in black whip a jagged blade back to his side. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, a nasty twist of lips that resembled amusement only in the cruelty one might take in toying with a piece of prey.

“Hello young masters,” he greeted, his smile sharpening.

Ice crackled up through Song Sizhui’s veins.

“Xue Yang?” A-Ling gasped behind him.

“Ah, now I’m at a disadvantage. You know me.” He looked at the puppet with a sneer of dissatisfaction. “But I didn’t know there were others who could win over my control.”

“Pfft,” Jingyi scoffed, mostly hiding the tremour in his voice. “Arrogant.”

Xue Yang zeroed his attention on him and swung his sword up and around, still grinning. “I don’t think I’m the arrogant one here.”

He snapped his blade forward viper-quick. Faster than Song Sizhui could follow, the tip of his sword flew at Jingyi, coming within a hairsbreadth of his neck. Jingyi barely managed to deflect it, but the force of the blow sent him flying backwards, skidding along the street until A-Ling jumped forward to grab him. The force of it sent them both barrelling to the ground.

Xue Yang turned again to face Song Sizhui. “You know, when I arrived, I didn’t realize I’d meet such interesting people.” He levelled his sword towards Song Sizhui. “I only ever knew of one demonic cultivator who used a dizi. And he’s supposed to be dead.”

Song Sizhui took a nervous step backwards and Xue Yang grinned in personal triumph.

He rallied his courage. “Do you know what happened here?”

“I know what didn’t happen here: the creation of a puppet army.” Xue Yang sighed. “I just came to have a good time and hopefully have some strong words with an old friend of mine who decided to fuck me over by stealing all my notes.” His smile inched towards predatory. “They’re not here for me to kill, but at least I get to play with you.”

He whipped towards Song Sizhui. In the same breath, Song Sizhui dropped Chenqing and unsheathed Suibian. Do not hesitate, radish his father’s voice reminded him. Your enemy will not.

He caught Xue Yang’s sword with a clash of steel. The power behind the blow sent him reeling backwards; he barely managed to find his footing before ducking out of the way of another strike. He managed to parry, but the edge of the blade came dangerously close to his neck and when he tried to push Xue Yang away the older man barely moved. Xue Yang wrinkled his nose, winked, and then twisted his wrist in a move so fast Song Sizhui could barely follow it, spinning his sword around to score a hit on Song Sizhui’s bicep. He gasped in pain and barely managed to turn away in time to avoid losing his arm from the shoulder down when Xue Yang pressed his attack.

“Da-ge!” “Sizhui!”

A-Ling and Jingyi leapt forward. Xue Yang swung about to catch both their swords on his blade and throw them backwards. In a fluid move he stabbed the tip of his sword into the ground to unstopper a bottle, then swung his arm to whip the contents out.

Song Sizhui threw himself forward, swinging his sleeve out to knock the bottle away. It hit the ground, but brought him perilously close to Xue Yang. The demonic cultivator grabbed his bloodied arm and squeezed. The shock of pain nearly sent Song Sizhui stumbling to the ground. Xue Yang yanked him forward, squeezing until Song Sizhui felt his grip on Suibian weakening.

“Why don’t you and I go have a little fun, hm?”

With all his strength, Song Sizhui ripped himself from Xue Yang’s hold. He tripped backwards, giving Xue Yang all the time he needed to grab his sword up and jump forward. Song Sizhui braced himself; there was no way he’d be able to block the blow on time.

The clatter of steel rang out in the otherwise silent street, followed by the whisper of fabric as a wall of white interposed itself between Song Sizhui and Xue Yang. For a moment Song Sizhui thought Hanguang-jun had arrived to save the day.

It only took a moment to realize his error. “Uncle Xiao?”

Xiao Xingchen’s chin tilted back towards him. “Sizhui.” The corner of his mouth twitched, not a smile, but warm nonetheless. “It’s dangerous for you to be here.”

Before either of them could reply, Xue Yang scoffed. "’Uncle Xiao?!’" he repeated. "Where's Little Blind? Or was she not good enough for you either?"

Xiao Xingchen turned back around, Shuanghua loose in his grip. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard your voice.” Xue Yang’s mouth tightened to a sneer. “Did you do all this, here?”

“And if I did?”

“I would be very disappointed.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Xue Yang lunged forward. His sword bounced off Xiao Xingchen’s as their uncle kept himself interposed between himself and Song Sizhui, A-Ling and Jingyi. Their blades met again and again, a whirling tornado of steel and cloth, evenly matched even with Uncle Xiao’s inability to see.

Xue Yang struck out towards Uncle Xiao’s neck, twisting his wrist at the last moment when Uncle Xiao moved too slowly to fully avoid it.

Had… had he deliberately averted the blow?

“If I had done it, I would have done it right,” Xue Yang snarled. “Not just copied notes I stole and then didn’t properly understand.”

Before Song Sizhui could contemplate it too closely, A-Qing and Ouyang Zizhen blew around the corner from where they’d hopefully dealt with the other puppets.

A-Qing stumbled when she spotted them and screeched. "Stop it ge—Xue Yang."

The older man recoiled as if struck, but an ugly smile quickly replaced the hurt and he returned his attention to Xiao Xingchen. “How good for you, Doazhang, to have gathered a whole family finally worthy of you. So thrilling.” He spoke through his smirk, but his eyes remained furious and wounded; an animal snared and desperate to lash out.

“Not a whole one, yet,” Xiao Xingchen replied.

Xue Yang prepared to attack, only to stumble when Xiao Xingchen sheathed his sword and fell to his knees.

"What are you doing? Pick up your fucking sword, Xingchen."

"I will not," Xiao Xingchen replied.

"What, you think I won't kill you?" Xue Yang took a threatening step forward, but Xiao Xingchen did not so much as twitch.

"Do as you must."

This only seemed to infuriate Xue Yang more. "I will drive my blade right through your fucking heart."

“No!” A-Qing screamed. She started forward, but Ouyang Zizhen managed to catch her around the waist before she made it more than a foot. In a move Song Sizhui did not recognize from either of his uncles’ fighting styles, she slammed her elbow into his nose and tore away from him when he doubled over in pain.

Song Sizhui and A-Ling barely managed to catch her before she threw herself at Xue Yang.

Xiao Xingchen waited, his chin tilted slightly downwards. Xue Yang growled in rage and snapped his blade forward. Song Sizhui cried out, certain he was about to see his uncle die.

Xue Yang froze and stopped with the edge of his blade against Xiao Xingchen's throat. It shook in Xue Yang's hand, the tremors running along the length of the blade knocking into Xiao Xingchen's flesh. A small bead of blood ran down his neck, reddening the collar of his otherwise pristine robes.

"Fuck you so much, Xingchen," Xue Yang whispered. Song Sizhui didn't think he imagined the tears gathering in his furious eyes.

His attention remained so focused on Xiao Xingchen, he didn't notice Song Lan approaching until the taller man struck out with the hilt of his sword, cracking the back of Xue Yang's head hard enough to send him reeling into unconsciousness. He hit the ground with an audible thud.

"Zichen," Xiao Xingchen said reprovingly.

Uncle Song appeared unrepentant. “Some conversations are better had when the other party is tied up."

Xiao Xingchen tilted his head, his lips twitching up in a coy smile.

"You know what I… Stop that," Song Lan huffed.

A-Qing gagged and buried her face against the back of Song Sizhui's shoulder. She began to shake. He turned them away from the others, allowing her time to recover herself before anyone’s attention turned their way.

When Uncle Song finally did shift towards them, he blinked in surprise as though noticing Song Sizhui and A-Ling for the first time. "A-Yuan? A-Ling? What are you kids doing here?" A-Qing sighed and pulled away. “A-Qing!”

"We are on a night hunt, Uncle," Song Sizhui replied. He glanced sidelong at A-Qing. “We didn’t realize we’d be crossing your path.” Suspected, perhaps. Especially when he’d seen the villagers.

Uncle Song fixed A-Qing with a severe glare. She returned it tenfold.

“I told you not to leave me behind,” she snapped.

“We will talk about this,” Uncle Song told her firmly. A-Qing’s chin dipped, a mulish and unapologetic cast to her features. Uncle Song appeared superbly unsurprised.

“Thank you for your help,” Song Sizhui said. “There are other undead wandering the town, and something is going on with the residents, though I believe they’ll snap out of it on their own given time.”

“We’ll see what he had to do with it and take care of them,” Song Lan assured him, gesturing at Xue Yang. Xiao Xingchen had maneuvered Xue Yang’s head into his lap, stroking back his hair. Song Lan’s jaw tightened when he looked at them, but shook it off after a moment. “You should head out. We can take it from here.”

“I will play this one to rest, first,” Song Sizhui stated, gesturing to the chainbound fierce corpse behind them. Throughout the fight Xue Yang had not attempted to wrest back control, leaving it waiting still and silent for Song Sizhui’s next command.

Song Lan caught sight of him and blinked. "Wen Qionglin?"

Utter. Silence.

Until, “The Ghost General?” Ouyang Zizhen asked at a shriek.

Song Sizhui’s gaze swung towards A-Ling. His cousin’s face twisted up, anguish overlapped with rage overlapped with surprise, a dozen other feelings all bound up in an net impossible to unravel.

Song Lan recovered himself first. "The very same.” He placed a hand on Song Sizhui’s shoulder. “You should put him to rest, A-Yuan. Let him have the peace he’s been denied."

"No," A-Ling bit out, before Song Sizhui could. "If he's really the Ghost General from da-jiu's stories, it means he's still got his cognition. Or he should. Whatever they did to him, we can reverse it."

Song Lan frowned, but inclined his head. “You’re of age to make this decision. But be careful. It’s been a long time and there’s no saying if what your father accomplished will carry through. He might become violent again at any moment.”

“Bold words considering that,” Jingyi interjected, gesturing towards Xiao Xingchen and Xue Yang.

Song Lan’s lips twitched. “Fair enough. Safe travels.”

Dodging Second Uncle Song’s disapproval and with a last glare towards Xue Yang, A-Qing walked with them past empty buildings and quiet roads.

“What the fuck,” Jingyi declared once they’d reached the edge of town.

“That’s about the size of it,” A-Qing agreed, miserably. She looked back over her shoulder. “Big Blind says he’s not wholly evil.” Song Sizhui’s mouth pulled into a tight moue as he tried to tap down his disbelief. While Uncle Xiao had claimed as much repeatedly in the ten years Song Sizhui knew him, nothing he’d ever heard about Xue Yang suggested it to be true. “Song-gege isn’t so sure. I guess we’ll see.” Her expression blackened. “If he tries anything, there’s always my idea about the hot springs.”

“Do you want to come back with us?” Song Sizhui offered. It risked Uncle Song’s disapproval, but he suspected that he’d be distracted with Xue Yang’s thing with Uncle Xiao.

A-Qing seemed to seriously consider it a moment before shaking her head. “I have to make sure Big Blind doesn’t do anything silly. Song-gege can’t watch him every minute.” She pursed her lips. “Sorry I dragged you into this.”

“We were already here,” Song Sizhui reminded her. Her face twisted up, as though deciding whether or not he’d accepted her apology. He dragged her into a hug before she could get too into her head over it.

She eventually smacked his arm and tugged herself away. “Well. I’ll see you this winter, then,” A-Qing said. Another glance over her shoulder. “Probably.”

“Definitely,” Song Sizhui assured her.

She hugged him tightly, patted A-Ling’s head and smiled at Jingyi.

“Sorry about your nose,” she told Ouyang Zizhen.

“I forgive you,” he told her immediately, the words tripping out of his mouth nearly before she’d finished speaking.

A-Qing conjured up a small smile and then made her way back to her guardians and their… project. Song Sizhui couldn’t guess if they’d be successful—couldn’t even imagine what they wanted—but no matter what, they were family. Song Sizhui wished them every happiness.

They started down the road, Wen Qionglin trailing silently behind them.

They stumbled back into town after sunset, just before the inn closed its doors for the evening. Song Sizhui and A-Ling stayed with Wen Qionglin while Jingyi and Ouyang Zizhen headed inside to get them another room and, presumably, to open a window for the rest of them to sneak inside.

Wen Qionglin responded to every command, following Song Sizhui’s lead as he guided him with the help of Chenqing. A-Ling refused to look at him, though Song Sizhui could not blame him. Baba had told them all stories of the Ghost General, sweet and loving and seasoned with grief for both him and A-Ling’s father. But while Song Sizhui could keep himself at a distance, A-Ling understood them at a completely different level.

Finally, Jingyi opened a window facing the alleyway in which they’d hidden, and the three of them managed to make their way up and inside.

“I arranged for Zizhen and I to have another room if you don’t want us here,” Jingyi told them at once with a wary look towards the Ghost General. “But we’re just next door, so make sure you holler if you need help.”

A surge of affection drove Song Sizhui to Jingyi, and he hugged him tight. “Thank you.”

Flustered and sputtering, Jingyi returned the hug and then fled from the room.

The three of them stood alone in the room, a shroud of oppressive silence the same shade as that in the village hanging over them.

Since Song Sizhui had seized control, Wen Qionglin had followed him with no sign that any of his spiritual cognition remained. Baba occasionally alluded to his incredible feat in returning Wen Qionglin to full sentience, though he had never explained anything in depth, possibly afraid of exposing them to something others undoubtedly considered evil, but more likely grieving for his friend. Of all the losses his father experienced in his life, Song Sizhui always suspected that Wen Qing and Wen Qionglin, of whom he spoke rarely but with much affection, had hit him hardest.

The problem facing Song Sizhui, however, was that he had no idea what Xue Yang had done to Wen Qionglin, or how to fix it.

"I wish Baba was here," Song Sizhui admitted aloud. "He knows so much about this sort of thing."

A-Ling sniffed, but nodded. He tilted his chin up and rubbed his nose, either unconsciously impersonating Song Sizhui's father or deliberately trying to spur on his thoughts. "If da-jiu were here, he'd start by yelling at us."

"Yelling?" Song Sizhui repeated warily.

“‘You kids! It's not your job to put yourselves in danger. Leave it to the grown ups. Here, let me feed you something inedible as punishment for making your mother cry.’" A-Ling's impersonation left something to be desired, but not because of any inaccuracy. Song Sizhui carefully did not notice how A-Ling’s voice cracked at the mention of his mother. “‘While I destroy a perfectly simple dish, I'll tell you a story about Hanguang-jun that seems completely irrelevant but eventually sneak attacks you with a point.’"

"I don't think Hanguang-jun ever dealt with anything like this," Song Sizhui said grimly.

"Didn’t he?" A-Ling demanded. "Baba told us when the Ghost General first woke up he attacked everyone nearby!"

"But it's not the same. This time he was being commanded by Xue Yang," Song Sizhui muttered. Baba's stories of the Ghost General centred around the good he'd done; Song Sizhui had been almost fifteen before he and A-Ling had finally been told the story of Jin Zixuan's death.

"So why is he like this now? Xue Yang's not even here, and you were able to control him better anyway.” A-Ling crossed his arms, annoyed. “He might be susceptible to the commands of demonic cultivators, but it should have faded by now.”

"A-Ling," Sizhui breathed. He jumped up and crossed to where the Ghost General stood. He very carefully reached into the tangled mass of poorly-kept hair at Wen Qionglin’s nape, searching with the tips of his fingers until they finally pressed against the cool heads of the twin nails driven into his skull. "That's it!"

A-Ling blinked in surprise at himself but quickly nodded. "Of course it is." He took a deep breath and eyed the Ghost General closely. "You're just going to pull them out?" Before Song Sizhui could reply, he spun around to stare out the window. "Do it, then."

Song Sizhui almost did, his fingers twitching on the cool iron, but withdrew his hand at the last moment.

A-Ling's shoulders tensed. "Well?"

Song Sizhui crossed to him instead, pressing up along his cousin's side to share his view and his burdens. After a long moment of stubborn resistance, A-Ling leaned against him with a sigh hard enough to wrack both their bodies.

“It’s easy to forgive a dead man,” A-Ling finally declared.

Song Sizhui pulled A-Ling into a tight embrace. His cousin stiffened again before he half-collapsed against Song Sizhui.

“We could wait,” Song Sizhui offered. “Bring him to Baba.”

“No. That’s not fair to him. We shouldn’t— I just— I don’t know how to feel!” A-Ling finally yelled. His lower lip trembled and tears began streaming down his cheeks. “He killed my father! But it was da-jiu’s fault! Mama has forgiven him and I never really thought about it because I never really knew him and it’s all fucking bullshit! Because now there’s him and he can’t even say he’s sorry.”

“A-Ling,” Song Sizhui whispered, “From everything Baba’s ever told us, if we return his cognition, he will.”

A-Ling heaved an enormous breath. “But what does it matter? My father is dead anyway!”

“Well,” Song Sizhui said slowly, “Maybe you’ll just feel better if he’s able to apologize to you.”

A-Ling yelled angrily and yanked himself out of Song Sizhui’s arms. He paced the room, furious, mouth pinched tight enough his lips looked white. Song Sizhui waited; A-Ling struggled to be at his best during times of uncertainty.

“Take them out,” he finally said, glaring at the Ghost General. “But I don’t want an apology.”

Song Sizhui moved to kneel down next to the Ghost General’s head. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to avoid it,” he said.

With painful care, he pulled the first nail out of the back of his skull. When Wen Qionglin began to shake, A-Ling narrowly managed to throw up a silencing talisman the first of the screams tore its way out of him. Song Sizhui’s hands trembled violently as he inched out the exposed metal until finally the first nail came free accompanied by a gut-wrenching cry.

“How many are there?” A-Ling asked in an unsteady voice.

“Only one more,” Song Sizhui replied.

The next one proved even hard to tease out. Song Sizhui had to brace his other hand on Wen Qionglin’s shoulder as he dragged it out of the bone. He let it fall to the floor as Wen Qionglin’s head snapped back and he unleashed one last wretched holler of anguish.

Song Sizhui had never heard a dead man scream before. He hoped to never hear it again.

Wen Qionglin swayed. A-Ling darted in just in time to catch him before he collapsed. They barely managed to make eye contact over the Ghost General’s shoulder, but they waited with him braced between them until he finally seemed to regain some sense of balance.

“Hello?” he asked in a shockingly soft voice.

Song Sizhui carefully released him and shifted around to stand beside A-Ling. Wen Qionglin speared him with a searching look which flitted away towards A-Ling just as quickly.

“Wen Qionglin,” Song Sizhui said. His own voice trembled; something about the man before him… “This one is Song Yuan, courtesy name Sizhui. This is my cousin, Song Ling, courtesy Rulan. We…” He held up one of the nails, still covered in blood. “We freed you from Xue Yang.”

Before Wen Qionglin could offer an answer, the door slid open and Jingyi and Ouyang Zizhen tumbled inside. Wen Qionglin spun around, throwing his arm out as if to protect them, though his head tilted in confusion when he spotted the would-be attackers. Song Sizhui and A-Ling came round to flank him, Song Sizhui silently hoping to ease some of his confusion. Who knew how long he had been under another’s control?

“It got really quiet,” Jingyi stated, eyes fixed on Wen Qionglin.

“We’ll get dinner,” Ouyang Zizhen offered. He grabbed Jingyi and tried to drag him out of the room again.

Jingyi shook him off, “We’ll order up! We shouldn’t leave them alone.” He pinned the Ghost General with a suspicious glare, under which Wen Qionglin seemed to shrink.

“Don’t worry, Ghost General,” Song Sizhui insisted. “We won’t harm you. But we would like to know what happened.”

“...And that’s all I remember from when we reached Koi Tower,” ‘please, young masters, I am Wen Ning,’ finished. “Until only recently, when I thought I heard my sister’s voice saying it was time for revenge.” His face shifted; any living thing would have frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense. A-jie never demanded revenge. It reminded her too much of our days in Qishan. We only wanted to be left in peace.”

A-Ling shook beside him. “That’s it?”

Wen Ning’s eyes fell. “I’m sorry. I’m sure there is more, but it all feels far and away.”

Song Sizhui touched Wen Ning’s arm. “Of course.” Wen Ning turned his gaze, and the same familiarity curled up through the back of Song Sizhui’s mind, a tickle he barely recognized as real feeling. “Maybe my father will be able to help.”

Wen Ning’s lips twitched. “If you say so, Song-gongzi.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll head home tomorrow morning,” A-Ling stated.

Song Sizhui’s lips pressed together thoughtfully. “I wonder if Hanguang-jun will beat us there.”

Chapter Text

As far as sect gatherings went, the emergency ones tended to be most poorly organized. Only the main four sects had the ability to support a sudden influx of cultivators without proper preparation. Even when such things could be arranged, the representation from the smaller sects was minimal at best. One could generally rely on Sect Leader Yao showing up, though Lan Wangji suspected it was because he’d long since given over the daily responsibilities of running his sect to his eldest daughter—unacknowledged, unappreciated, and never included when decisions were to be made—so he might spend his hours ingratiating himself to others, making himself an unqualified cornerstone for such affairs. His absence proved a welcome change. Lan Wangji hoped Jingyi had succeeded in his mission to retrieve Ouyang Zizhen and spirit him out of Bailing before he could be pulled into what would surely be a painful ‘chat’ between Sect Leaders Yao and Ouyang.

Lan Wangji had arrived with Xichen earlier than most of the other sects and had been obliged to wait for the rest to appear. It had been a long few days, but everyone had finally arrived and gathered to hear what the new Jin Sect Leader had to say.

The death of Jin Guangshan had not been unexpected. For years his health had been in decline and in the past few months it had taken such a rapid downturn that even Lanling’s best doctors could do nothing but try to make him comfortable. Jin Ziyu wore the mantle of leadership poorly, obviously uncomfortable in his place at the head of the room despite years of preparing for this eventuality.

His presence, however, did not draw the eye as much as the boy beside him, who Lan Wangji estimated to be younger than twelve. He seemed hesitant in ways Jingyi had never been; casting flummoxed looks around the room, wide-eyed and uncertain.

Once everyone had been seated, Jin Ziyu stood. He shook under the combined attention of the people around him and when he spoke it echoed the uncertainty of the child at his side.

“Thank you for attending. My father proved himself one of the greatest sect leaders in our living memory,” he stuttered. Lan Wangji remained impassive only through force of will and the inability to parse his rage from his disbelief. “He served as Chief Cultivator for almost twenty years, after his instrumental contributions in the downfall of Wen Ruohan during the Sunshot Campaign. I am sure he would feel very honoured to know how many of you have joined me to recognize his achievements.”

Across the room, Jiang Wanyin openly scoffed. For the first time in many, many years Lan Wangji allowed a moment of generosity in estimation of his character. Only a moment.

Jin Ziyu’s stammer became more pronounced in face of the disbelief, veering towards what seemed to be a panic attack. Lan Wangji briefly wondered if he wasn’t about to pass out from the rapid breaths that couldn’t truly be filling his lungs.

“I vow before you all to maintain the ideals to which he held himself and my sect.” His voice shook so much Lan Wangji actually found himself reluctantly impressed at his ability to articulate the words at all, though the content left much to be desired. “Um. I.” He closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself. “I have two orders of business to bring to the attention of the distinguished people here.

“First, as the leader of Lanling Jin, I acknowledge and name my nephew, Jin Rusong, as my heir.”

The boy, whose attention had been wandering, snapped straight and he smiled up at Jin Ziyu with obvious adoration.

“While my brother, Jin Guangyao, was executed and died in ignominity, I believe his actions and motivations to have been misunderstood and his character unfairly maligned.” Beside Lan Wangji, Xichen stiffened. Lan Wangji evaluated the words with silent detachment, questioning as to whether Jin Ziyu possessed the required qualities to have produced such a speech on his own. “My father was well-intentioned, but led astray by his own mortification. It is my desire to request an independent investigation of his death so we can truly understand why he was executed.”

Lan Wangji felt his own jaw clench, though he maintained his veneer of icy neutrality as the eyes of the attendees flickered towards and away from him. Thank heavens Jingyi had not come along; his son would not allow such words to go unanswered.

“You speak of unfair malignment, but the Twin Jades of Lan are the ones who brought his crimes forward. Can you truly expect us to believe they deliberately misrepresented him? Especially when he was Zewu-jun’s sworn brother,” Nie Mingjue demanded.

Jin Ziyu did not quite cower in the face of Nie Mingjue’s tone, but his words came in starts and stops as he stumbled over them to force them out. “I acknowledge that Zewu-jun is of unimpeachable character. I only seek to find out the truth.” Jin Ziyu scrambled, “And if the truth is that he was in the wrong, then there should be no reason to deny such inquiries.”

Xichen stood. The dissenting voices immediately quieted around them, deferential in ways Jin Ziyu’s presence could not hope to command. When he spoke, as always, people listened. “While I have never understood what motivated his actions, I grieved very deeply for the loss of my brother. If this investigation can provide insight regarding his betrayal, Gusu Lan welcomes the inquest.”

Jin Ziyu seemed to shrink in on himself, shoulders hunching practically to his ears. Unsaid went the fact that in light of this demand for investigation, and with himself closely involved, Xichen would not be considered for the role of Chief Cultivator. Even if the rest of the world agreed to invest him, his brother would decline the honour to avoid any suggestion of partiality.

Ultimately, unless things veered sharply in an unexpected direction, this also meant Nie Mingjue would likely become the Chief Cultivator. Xichen would be satisfied with the decision, at least, insomuch as he believed in Nie Mingjue’s uprightness and integrity, unlike those qualities everyone found lacking in his would-be predecessor.

Perhaps this was Jin Ziyu’s purpose all along, though Lan Wangji could not fathom why he might be reluctant to have the honours passed onto Xichen. To the best of Lan Wangji’s knowledge, Jin Ziyu never even met Jin Guangyao, but nor could he possibly have reason to dislike or distrust Gusu Lan in general or Xichen in particular. Had, in fact, spent an unusual amount of time around Xichen of late. If another son of Jin Guangshan hoped to manipulate his brother’s better nature, Lan Wangji would make such an example of him as to dissuade anyone else who might think of doing so in the future.

Jin Ziyu waited until the murmuring had settled down. “For the second order, I bring terrible news: I have discovered that the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian, lives.”

Lan Wangji’s heart stopped in his chest.

“What?!” Jiang Wanyin barked.

Jin Ziyu continued, “To further prove my dedication to justice, I have dispatched a large contingent of my cultivators to wipe his scourge from our world at last to finally see justice done for my eldest brother and all those who suffered due to his cruel and unnatural ways.”

The entire room descended into the barely-constrained chaos they had narrowly avoided with Jin Ziyu’s previous proclamation. Cultivators of all sects leapt to their feet, respects to decorum lost in the uproar and nearly swallowing Jin Ziyu’s words in the swelling din. Almost. They wrapped around Lan Wangji’s lungs like iron and trapped the air in his chest until he felt he would suffocate beneath their weight.

“Wangji,” Xichen said, breaking through the sharp surge of panic.

Lan Wangji stood. While he certainly wasn’t the first on his feet, the flash of white robes drew more than one eye. His brother fixed his attention Lan Wangji. And then, with horrified dawning of understanding, to his bare forehead.

“Wangji, please, you haven’t—” Xichen began. His face twisted up as whatever realization occurred. “Where is Jingyi?”

“I must go,” Lan Wangji stated. He allowed no time for a response, collecting Bichen and quickly making his way to the door. Across the room, he noted Jiang Wanyin’s murderous gaze centred upon him, but made no effort to acknowledge it as he left through the doors of Koi Tower, focused on immediately taking flight.

Four days to Wei Ying’s home if he flew at a leisurely pace. If he pushed himself, he could potentially make it in two, but at least he would outrun the cultivators, assuming they weren’t dispatched much earlier. Ugly desperation sat heavy in his stomach, trying to weigh him down as he took to the sky by sword, his flightpath a direct line between him and Wei Ying. He should no longer have to feel this desperate, clawing fear. Wei Ying had left the cultivation world behind. He should have been beyond the reach of their cares. Their ignorance and petty need for revenge. Sixteen years removed and they could still allow him no peace while he lived.

This time, Lan Wangji decided, would be the last time his zhiji came under threat by those who could not possibly hope to understand him.

He stopped late into the night only because his not-insubstantial reserves of strength began to run dry. Bichen had been slipping lower and lower as the flight wore on, until he barely skimmed the treetops in his hasty trip south. He set down in the first break in the trees, a small clearing he resented (albeit unreasonably, he knew himself well enough to understand that much, at least) where he settled in for meditation and rest. A small, packed meal he took with him whenever night-hunting, in the case of being unable to find anything substantial on the road.

Lan Wangji waited only until he felt confident enough to make it the rest of the way before rising again.

Late into the evening on the second day, he reached Wei Ying’s home, his spiritual reserves once again nearly completely depleted. If the Jin cultivators had beaten him to Wei Ying he would have to rely on his reputation to stop them. He sheathed Bichen with no small amount of effort, his arms weighed down by exhaustion, but he did not allow himself to demonstrate the slightest weakness as he strode into Wei Ying’s courtyard.

Empty.

He had made it in time.

This late, Wei Ying, Jiang Yanli and the boys would be settling in to prepare dinner (if the boys had returned from their night hunt, anyway) and he made his way directly to the kitchen, the scent of osmanthus hanging in the air around him. He hated that he would have to upset their hard-won peace and uproot them from their home, but he could not conceive of a way for them to remain here while the cultivation world was still hounding for Wei Ying’s blood. Jiang Yanli certainly wouldn’t stay behind. Perhaps the village elders might be able to convince the Jin cultivators they had misunderstood and send them back to Lanling. The prospect of relocation would not be so onerous, if it was only temporary.

All such thoughts flew out of his mind as he stepped through the door and found Wei Ying—bruised, bloodied, obviously furious—and Jiang Yanli, outward calm belied by her furious eyes, seated with Su Minshan looming between them, blocking their view from one another, sword out and waiting. The sight was infuriating enough for him to nearly miss the room’s other occupant, seated slightly back from the table, daintily sipping from a cup of tea.

“Hanguang-jun,” Qin Su greeted pleasantly. “You made excellent time. I imagine your spiritual energy is mostly depleted from the quick trip, yes? Unless you would like Su Minshan to finally prove himself your superior, I suggest you seal what remains of your spiritual power. Now, if you please.”

Lan Wangji considered the distance between him and Su She. The former Lan disciple had never been the quickest, nor the brightest, but Lan Wangji judged the space too vast for him to cross before his would-be opponent could do some damage, especially considering his sword was already out. If Jiang Yanli came to harm, Wei Ying might not ever forgive him (or, more troublingly, forgive himself). They sat with reluctant obedience at the table, pushed back far enough to render the contents inaccessible and providing Su She enough room to maneuver his naked blade

Qin Su took another small sip of her tea, eyes fixed on Lan Wangji in a sharp way that reminded Lan Wangji unpleasantly of her late husband. The thundering sound of dozens of footsteps outside filled the room. The cultivators, presumably, hidden away in the nearby forest or behind the house to prevent him from seeing them upon his descent. She waited until they had finished organizing themselves into a wall of gold between the kitchen and the front gate before taking another sip of her tea.

“Su-xiong, I believe you had something particular to express.”

With his spiritual power so depleted, there existed every chance that Su Minshan might actually be able to land a palpable hit. He saw it the moment Wei Ying realized.

“No!” Wei Ying snapped. He started to rise from his seat and the flat of Su She’s blade smacked across his chest. Not from the first time, the way Wei Ying absorbed the hit as though expecting it. He grabbed for Su She’s arm to stop him, the blow glancing off and Wei Ying catching the corner of Sue She’s robe instead.

“Stop,” Lan Wangji said with calm he did not feel. He dallied no longer, sealing what remained of his spiritual power with efficient movements. All at once, the strain of the prolonged flight flooded his body, weighing him down as effectively as rocks lashed to his limbs. He did not allow himself to stagger, but only through sheer force of will.

Qin Su must have sensed the weakness, for her gentle smile tilted smugly at the corners. She raised a graceful hand and gestured for him to sit.

He took the place next to Wei Ying, though closer to the table and mostly blocked by Su She’s body. If Su She tried to hit him again, Lan Wangji might be able to block the blow (assuming he would be able to move his arms). Qin Su poured him a cup of tea.

“I am a simple woman, Lan-er-gongzi. My husband found it to be endearing, I think. He always needed to be the cleverest man in the room and I cannot think of a case in which he wasn’t. But he told me he found my… uncomplicated nature to be a breath of fresh air.”

She smiled beatifically, the soft pull of her lips belying the anguish in her eyes. Ten years removed, it seemed, had not assuaged her grief. Lan Wangji felt a single moment of empathy; he had not been able to overcome his, either.

She continued, a bite creeping into her tone, “He treated me with kindness and respect. We were very happy. And you stole that from me.”

“Do you plan to kill me, then?” Lan Wangji asked calmly. If this was a personal grudge, perhaps he could exchange himself for the safety of Wei Ying and Jiang Yanli.

“No, Lan-er-gongzi. I am going to expose you for hiding and protecting the Yiling Patriarch. Your peerless reputation will be in ruins. Since it was based solely that reputation that drove them to execute my husband, I will be able to seek justice for him in death. It is less than both of you deserve, but it is all I can do to bring appropriate honours to his memory.”

Her plan was flawed. His brother, his uncle, Jingyi… all of them had been witness to Jin Guangyao’s actions. While he had never admitted a thing, too busy casting wide-eyed and betrayed looks towards Xichen, Lan Wangji had not been the sole voice of accusation and bringing to light any failings of his character—which he refused to acknowledge as such—would certainly not have the result she desired.

“No one ever showed me the respect and care he did. And no one has since. Do you know he wasn’t dead a day when Jin Guangshan approached me? Told me I would be allowed to stay, that my child would be permitted to grow up in Koi Tower, only if I showed him certain revolting considerations. I refused him, and returned to my father to live in shame. I would still be there if I hadn’t been determined to uplift myself. I realized I needed to ingratiate us to the new Jin heir and gain access to my father-in-law while on his deathbed. And once that was done I might finally find a means of avenging myself on Hanguang-jun.”

She snapped an ugly glare his way. "I know you, Hanguang-jun. I know of your jealousy, when A-Yao gave your brother the love and warmth you never could and how dear to Zewu-jun he became. How it consumed you. I knew you must have arranged for him to be lured into the GusuLan library and then demanded his execution. All because you knew Zewu-jun valued my husband more than he ever did you."

The words stung, if only because Lan Wangji had often believed as much himself. In the aftermath of the Sunshot Campaign, after Wei Ying's disappearance, when his grief followed him like a physical presence ever at his side he had turned from the comfort his brother offered too frequently to count. Of course Xichen looked to Jin Guangyao for love and filial affection. He had two sworn brothers who had willingly tied themselves to him; what need did he have for another who only ever pushed him away?

He refused to let the damning truth of his thoughts show, tucking himself back away into an icy veneer he had tried to avoid since adopting Jingyi.

Qin Su cast an absolutely venomous look towards Lan Wangji, as though she could kill him with her gaze alone. She looked at him the same way across Jin Guangyao’s pyre, as Lan Wangji recalled, as though she could mutilate him with her eyes and use what remained of his body to help fuel the flames. "Everyone knows the Second Jade of Lan has no love in his heart."

"You are wrong," Lan Wangji finally replied. "I have loved. Not always well, but devoutly."

"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying whispered.

“Disgusting,” Su She muttered with a roll of his eyes.

“How did you even get involved?” Wei Ying demanded.

“I sought him out, of course,” Qin Su stated. “Him and Xue Yang, to help me. Xue Yang refused to be of any assistance, but Su-xiong has proved himself as dedicated to my cause as me.” Of course he would, Lan Wangji thought spitefully. Jin Guangyao was the only one who saw fit to validate his undeserved ego. “He took the materials he needed to learn Wei Wuxian’s wicked paths to put them on equal footing—” From Xue Yang, presumably; if he lived, the younger man must be furious “—and helped discover you here.”

Unable to contain herself any longer, Jiang Yanli spoke, “I understand your grief. My husband—”

“Was killed because of him,” Qin Su hissed, pointing at Wei Ying. “You cannot tell me you don’t hate him for it.”

“I have never hated him,” Jiang Yanli replied, though her voice trembled.

“How could you not? He placed the curse upon Jin Zixun which drove him to attack on Qiongqi Pass.”

Wei Ying, his gaze entirely aimed at Su She, huffed out a small laugh of quiet disbelief. “...but I didn't cast it, did I, Su Minshan?"

The full weight of the room's collective attention turned his way. Su She frowned, brow pulled in a war between anger and confusion before he huffed and rattled his sword in Wei Ying's direction. "What are you even talking about?"

“It was you,” Wei Ying continued, chuffing out a deeply unamused half-laugh. Su She looked down, following Wei Ying’s gaze, his own attention slipping over the disfigured skin on his chest. “Was the ambush on Qiongqi Pass part of his plan? Get me to Koi Tower knowing Jin Zixun would come after me for cursing him?”

Qin Su's vicious triumph faded towards confusion only a moment before she visibly collected herself. "What does it matter?" She sounded unsure. "If Su Minshan cast the curse? Surely this crime is outweighed by the trespasses of Wei Wuxian? His use of demonic cultivation ended in the death of Jin Zixuan!"

“It’s not unfair to imagine that if he cast the curse, it was at the orders of the person behind him.” Jiang Yanli wiped a tear away from the corner of her eye. "A-Xuan only went to Qiongqi Pass to stop Jin Zixun from fighting with A-Xian," she whispered. More tears slipped silently down her cheeks, as though her grief had been melted down and cast anew. "You were the reason he was there."

It paved the way for Jin Guangyao to step into the role of Sect Leader, which he would have if he hadn’t been discovered trespassing in the Lan’s forbidden library. It went unsaid, but loomed large in the room around them.

"I only did what I was told to do," Su She snapped at her. He turned wide eyed towards Qin Su, gentling his voice, "How could I not? Jin Zixun behaved cruelly to Jin-gongzi. The curse was easy to cast. And we just let him assume that Wei Wuxian was the cause of it."

"A-Yao would never!" Qin Su snapped.

Wei Ying sniffed with the sort of exaggerated arrogance he employed when trying to get a rise out of his opponent. "You need to believe that, don't you? Because if you believe it, it means he was also innocent of the crimes the Lan accused him of." Why he felt the need to aggrieve Qin Su, Lan Wangji was unsure, but he trusted that Wei Ying had something of a plan.

"He didn't deserve to die," Qin Su insisted.

"Lan Zhan didn't kill him. Falling out of favour with Jin Guangshan did."

Jiang Yanli, still in tears, reached out across the table towards Qin Su, though the other woman snatched her hands back and away. "He was a wicked, horrible man. There's every chance that he ordered Jin Guangyao to betray his sworn brothers."

"How convenient," Su She spat. "To come up with a conspiracy perpetrated by the dead, who will never be able to confirm or deny it."

For a moment, Lan Zhan feared he would be volunteered to reach out to Jin Guangshan via Inquiry. While he could see the practicalities of it, he hadn't even cared for the man while he had been alive and doubted death had provided him with any substantial improvements to his character.

Thankfully, Wei Ying seemed to have set upon a different strategy. He cast a sly look towards Lan Wangji, catching his eye for only a moment. The same expression crossed his face when he’d decided to aggravate Wen Chao and whenever Wei Ying had been determined to get attention through aggravating those around him.

"If only Jin Guangyao had someone dependable he trusted. Someone clever and brave, on whom he could rely. Someone who stood head and shoulders above the rest of the world." Su She seemed to straighten, chest puffing out but slightly, the smallest smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Lan Wangji wanted to strike the expression from his face, but Wei Ying did it just as effectively with his next words: "Someone like Hanguang-jun."

"You—!" Su She growled, deflating like an emptied water skin.

Wei Ying continued relentlessly, "Too bad he didn't have anyone like that. I beg your pardon, Jin-furen, but perhaps if your husband hadn't been failed by those he trusted, he might still be alive."

"I never failed him! I told him that the library was heavily guarded, but he—" Su She's words ground to a halt.

"Su Minshan?" Qin Su frowned and rose from her seat. "You cannot… He was not truly guilty?”

Su She offered no reply, glaring furiously at Wei Ying. Lan Wangji did not believe he had sufficient strength to best Su She in a fight. While the other man never occurred as a worthy opponent—or worthy in general, truly—even an unexceptional cultivator such as Su She would not fail in defeating an opponent who could not use his sword.

“All this time you knew?" Qin Su continued.

Su She continued glowering at Wei Ying in a way that made Lan Wangji want to unsheath Bichen, despite the absence of his spiritual power. "If you didn't, it was deliberate blindness on your part," he gritted out. "You saw how Sect Leader Nie treated him. He deserves to die."

"No." Qin Su shook her head. All Lan Wangji’s doubts that she truly believed in her husband's innocence laid themselves to rest. While the truly deceptive could fool him, he did not believe her to feign the pain welling in her eyes.

Lan Wangji had assumed all this—her insistence upon Jin Guangyao’s innocence and her fury at Lan Wangji exposing him—had been performative. A means of justifying herself and her actions to the world. He’d no idea she trusted her deceased husband to such an extent, to believe him infallible in the face of both evidence and Lan Wangji’s own integrity.

Buried deep in the Jin dungeons and awaiting trial, Jin Guangyao had only requested his er-ge be allowed to see him. Xichen had readily gone, eager for some proof of Jin Guangyao’s innocence, or at least an explanation that made sense. Nevermind he’d seen his sworn brother hold Jingyi hostage with a garrote. In Xichen’s mind, there had to be an explanation that would excuse his actions. Had to be. How else could Xichen have placed such trust and admiration and love and devotion in someone unworthy?

He had returned with a defeated slump dragging down his shoulders. “He asked me to help him escape. Begged me. I have never seen him so desperate,” Xichen confided in him. “Wangji, is this right? To allow him to be executed?”

Lan Wangji had thought of Jingyi’s neck stained red, and made no comment. For all Wei Ying had given him the strength to question a world of black and white morality as determined by the unworthy, Jin Guangyao’s execution felt righteous.

Xichen and Qin Su had more in common than their complicated love of a complicated man. However Jin Guangyao had secured their loyalty, it ran taproot-deep, coiling around their hearts and locking them in place. Xichen still grieved for a person who ultimately proved undeserving of his devotion.

Casting her in the same light as Xichen proved eye-opening. And yet, he would not forgive her if Wei Ying or Jiang Yanli came to harm.

Qin Su’s face contorted in dismay and she pressed a hand to her sternum. “You couldn’t have told me?” she whispered.

Su She frowned. “What does it matter what he did? Lan Wangji still killed him.”

Lan Wangji did not openly scoff. Nor even allow the minutest change in expression. He did, however, expect his contempt to be obvious. He’d never seen the point in hiding it; lying was forbidden.

Qin Su turned her face. “I want justice. Not revenge. And if A-Yao did commit the crimes of which he’s been accused…”

“What crimes? Reading?”

“You know the consequences of trespassing in the forbidden section of the library,” Lan Wangji said mildly.

Su She snorted. “You compromised the rules long before he did. Jin-gongzi told me all about it. All for nothing when your ‘friend’ refused you.” Across the wall his body interposed between them, Wei Ying stared at Lan Wangji, eyes wide with regret. “And yet he’s dead, and you’re still sitting here.” His sword twitched in his hands. “But not for long.”

A cry arose from the courtyard. Wei Ying sprung to his feet, only for Su She to shove him back into his chair, his sword tip whipping around to press against his heart. Lan Wangji half-rose from his seat, but Wei Ying caught his eyes and shook his head.

Outside the door someone screamed about a fierce corpse.

“What are you doing?” Qin Su demanded. “More of your wicked tricks?”

Wei Ying shook his head. “Not mine.” He pinned Su She with a meaningful glare.

Su She scoffed and turned to sneer at Lan Wangji. “Do you know what I thought about? After your brat avoided the beast I sent for him and I followed you back here?” Lan Wangji’s fist clenched hard enough to nearly rip the skin across his knuckles. “That killing him to make you suffer wasn’t enough. I needed to do it in front of you. But since your son’s not here,” he drew his blade back and spun to face Wei Ying, “he’ll do.”

“Su Minshan!” Qin Su gasped.

Su She swung his sword around, a quick flick of his wrist twisting it around towards Wei Ying’s neck. With all the limited strength still at his disposal, Lan Wangji leapt forward, already knowing it would be too late. Su She was too close to Wei Ying; and his blade was already drawn. At best, Lan Wangji might be able to turn the blow from Wei Ying’s heart. His love was already pushing backwards, tipping over in his seat to try and duck away from the blow, but Su She had obviously anticipated it and overextended his arm in response.

Qin Su cried out.

And Su She froze. In the heartbeat before Lan Wangji managed to interpose himself between Su She and Wei Ying, he thought Qin Su’s yell might have stopped him. And then Su She’s next breath stuttered out, a glob of blood sticking against his lips for only a moment before trailing down his chin.

Every eye in the room turned to the dagger Jiang Yanli had driven into his side beneath his arm.

Nanping dropped from Su She’s shaking hands and he collapsed after it, hitting the ground as the last few breaths rasped out of his lungs. Jiang Yanli had struck true; Su She was dead.

Another yell. “It’s the Ghost General.”

Wei Ying stiffened, but with a look from Jiang Yanli remained still.

Qin Su stared at Su She's body, though he doubted she truly saw anything. Picking apart the battleground of emotions in her eyes would be like plucking single strings from an elaborately embroidered cloth. She turned a desperate glance at the doorway, to the courtyard beyond, where a dozen Jin cultivators doubtless awaited her command.

For a moment, he wondered if they wouldn't still have to flee. If she would push this further, lost in her anguish.

And then, a very quiet, "Sister." Everyone looked to Jiang Yanli, who had her gaze fixed on Qin Su. "Listen to me," Jiang Yanli begged. She rounded the table and grabbed for Qin Su's hands, though they were pulled violently out of her grasp by the other woman. "I know," she said, voice choked with tears. "What it means to lose the love of your life. To have him stolen from you. You and I share that grief."

"I am not your sister," Qin Su whispered.

"You are," Jiang Yanli insisted. "You are my sister. A sister I never knew I had. I'm sorry you've had to shoulder this grief on your own. You are allowed your anger. I am still angry that A-Xuan was taken from me. But I have my son, as you have yours. Do not, do not, let your revenge rob your son of his mother when he's already lost his father. Don't leave him to shoulder his burdens alone."

Qin Su stared at her, as though not comprehending the words. Her face began to crumple under the weight of her despair. "How do you bear it?"

Jiang Yanli stroked the side of her face, this time unrebuffed. "Some days will be harder than others. There will be days you will rage against the world, and wish that you had done what you came here to do. You will hate the world and everyone in it. Or you will have to force yourself to rise on days when everything you do will seem impossibly difficult. You'll bleed, walking around with an open wound no one sees or cares to tend.

"Meimei, you must tend to those wounds yourself."

Qin Su buried her face in her hands. "I only ever wanted a life with him. I told my father I'd die without him. It feels like I did."

"But you didn't," Jiang Yanli reminded her. "You live. And you must live for yourself."

"How?"

"I can help you. I will help you."

Lan Wangji looked to Wei Ying, who stared at his sister. "Shijie," he whispered, as fragile as the most delicate porcelain.

"It's all right, A-Xian. I've had sixteen years to grieve my losses. I can help our sister shoulder hers."

The use of 'our' had to be deliberate. Not for the first time Lan Wangji found himself admiring Jiang Yanli's canniness in connecting with the people around her.

“I killed Jin Guangshan,” Qin Su admitted. “I told him I agreed to give him what he wanted, and then I served him poisoned tea and watched him choke on it.” She shook her head. “It didn’t help.”

Jiang Yanli’s lips pressed together hard enough to make them white. “Sometimes nothing will. It’s the nature of loss.”

Qin Su nodded and stood, Jiang Yanli's hands falling away as she moved across the room to the doorway. In the yard beyond, chaos had descended on the Jin cultivators, the horde of them brandishing swords and every one failing to land a blow on the single figure in black weaving his way through their masses.

“Wen Ning?” Wei Ying gasped. He grabbed the back of Lan Wangji’s sleeve.

Before he could do much more, Qin Su stepped forward. "Stop," she said, almost too low to be heard.

The order cascaded amongst the gathered cultivators, starting with the one closest to her, who froze with his sword still raised, until his stillness infected the rest like a virus until only one remained, a single woman with her sword raised against Wen Ning, a scorpion prepared to strike.

"Jin Fangjian, lower your weapon," Qin Su said, loud enough there could be no doubt of her command.

The woman slowly dropped her sword until the tip brushed the ground. Wen Ning bowed to her and then withdrew, jumping well out of the reach of any of the gathered crowd who might look to engage him despite Qin Su's command.

"There has been a mistake," Qin Su told them. Her voice carried admirably and every eye turned towards her. "This is not the home of the Yiling Patriarch." She glanced at Wei Ying over her shoulder. "He is dead."

"Then why is the Ghost General here?!" Jin Fangjian demanded.

"A question which could only be answered by my late father-in-law, who supposedly oversaw the execution," Qin Su answered calmly. "I ask you all to return to Koi Tower and report these truths: the Yiling Patriarch is gone. The Ghost General will be eliminated by these good people whose peace we have interrupted. And I shall return when I am able. Please assure Sect Leader Jin and my son, the sect heir, that I am safe."

The leader of the cultivators dropped into a deep bow, sword held in front of her. "Allow me to remain as a safeguard to your welfare."

"That is unnecessary, Jin Fangjian," Qin Su stated, regal in ways Lan Wangji had never seen from her before.

Jin Fangjian looked past Qin Su to where Jiang Yanli stood, Lan Wangji and Wei Ying not far behind her. She showed no recognition when her eyes traipsed across Wei Ying. "Will Hanguang-jun guarantee your safety?"

"I will," Lan Wangji replied evenly.

The woman still seemed uncertain, but inclined her head and ordered the group out of the courtyard. They marched out with military efficiency, a swath of gold disappearing towards the sunset as they made their way back to the main road. It would take them more than a week to reach Lanling if they continued on foot.

From behind them, Wei Ying emerged from the house. "Wen Ning?" he whispered again, as though afraid his eyes had deceived him.

"Young Master Wei," Wen Ning replied. He neither smiled nor frowned, but there was a fondness in his expression nonetheless.

Wei Ying strode over to him and grabbed his arms, staring as though he’d woken from a dream, and the sleep still clung to his eyes. “I don’t…” He shook his head. “How?”

"Mama!" A-Ling interrupted, jumping down from the roof. He half-tackled her in his eagerness to return to her arms; only by the grace of Lan Wangji's quick reflexes did they remain upright. Sizhui and Jingyi followed close behind, more sedate but no less eagre to see their family. The Ouyang heir appeared at the rear, hanging back and observing the reunion with wet eyes and a trembling lower lip.

Jiang Yanli turned to Qin Su. "Come. I want you to meet your Auntie Qin."

As though just realizing there was a stranger amongst them, all four boys snapped into smart bows, perfect complements to one another. When they rose, confusion and uncertainty danced between them, weaving light-footed and unsettling.

"Auntie," Song Sizhui said, recovering first and stepping forward to offer Qin Su a gentle smile. "This one is Song Yuan, courtesy name Sizhui. We are all very pleased to meet you. May I introduce my cousin and friends?"

Wei Ying grinned broadly, starshine bright with pride. He dragged Wen Ning back to Lan Wangji’s side and grabbed his hand tight. Lan Wangji offered a gentle squeeze in return.

"Please," Qin Su agreed, the smallest of smiles gracing her lips.

Introductions completed, Wei Ying—unbearably close to tears—roundly declared them all in need of a drink. Jiang Yanli nodded.

(They both seemed thrilled when Qin Su appeared able to hold her liquor at least as well as they did.)

Wei Ying laughed, attention flitting between Lan Wangji and Wen Ning, disbelief written on his face even as he tried to entertain them one and all.

Qin Su initially sat back, watching them. In her face was something Lan Wangji recognized from his own years of grief: gentle curiosity as she considered whether her life might be worth living despite all her losses. The realization that, perhaps, it could be. While she had been prepared to see Wei Ying dead, Qin Su had fallen into the same trap as many who had come before her: allowing Wei Ying to speak to her for more than half an incense stick’s worth of time, and being ultimately charmed into enjoying his company. Eventually she smiled, sweet though still unsure, and even laughed once, a quiet twitter of amusement quickly hidden behind her sleeve.

Lan Wangji pretended not to see his son snagging a cup of wine as the boys took turns telling the story of how they had come upon Wen Ning. Of course, the telling did not go without its foibles. It seemed that, on the way home, the boys had encountered something of a problem, as Song Ling recounted at a significant volume.

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have stopped and let me change after I fell into the mud pit while the rest of you laughed your stupid heads off!”

“Well, young mistress, maybe if you had stayed behind to tend the fire when we asked you to, you wouldn’t have slipped in the first place and we wouldn’t have had to drag you out!” Jingyi shouted back.

None of them had escaped unscathed save Wen Ning, who had apparently been instrumental in getting them home in one piece. His fond expression reminded Lan Wangji of the short time they had known one another before the Sunshot Campaign, when blood still coursed through his veins, though his inner warmth remained undiminished.

Qin Su looked mildly concerned. Lan Wangji might’ve told her not to worry; it felt oddly pleasing to know that Jingyi had finally found his match in both volume and sass. It would make it an easier transition when they ended up permanently relocating.

There could be little doubt of the necessity: though he believed Qin Su’s orders would be fulfilled, and the rest of the world would take the word of the returning Jin cultivators as true, Xichen would never believe it when he had seen Lan Wangji in those horrible moments after Jin Ziyu’s proclamation. While he might condescend to keep the secret, Lan Wangji knew his brother well enough to know that his scrutiny towards Lan Wangji and Jingyi’s comings and goings would increase, probably to the point of drawing more attention. Eventually someone would decide to attempt to curry the Lan Sect Leader’s favour by investigating and stumble upon this precious secret.

Truly, Lan Wangji could acknowledge that these impositions could be overcome, but they served their purpose: a reason to stay instead of leaving Wei Ying.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, Sect Leader Jiang, but no one in this town matches the descriptions you’ve provided.”

The town elder possessed excellent stoicism, which might have rivalled GusuLan, had he not been wildly gesturing at his daughter, lurking at the corner of the room in a way he obviously considered to be subtle.

“I see,” Jiang Cheng said slowly. Relief and irritation warred on a level battlefield within Jiang Cheng, doomed to stalemate.

Relief won by the smallest margin. At least his family had settled in a place where they were protected, even though the man before him could learn a thing or two about maintaining his composure.

Jiang Cheng had waited at Koi Tower with baited breath, along with every other sect leader, for news to return of the Yiling Patriarch’s destruction. Hanguang-jun has gone himself to make sure his evil is finally dispatched! they all crowed, as though Lan Wangji was not the entire fucking reason that after sixteen fucking years in hiding they’d been discovered. As though sixteen years of regular visits to Yiling whenever he went on a night hunt suddenly stopped without anyone else noticing. Jiang Cheng had known from the first report of the change that Lan Wangji must have found them. The idea even eased his troubled mind, a bit. No one could aspire to be as dedicated to Wei Wuxian as Lan Wangji. That dedication would extend to A-Jie.

And then Jin Ziyu's announcement, and the subtle shifting of Lan Wangji’s features, his horror and despair all bound up together, because he must’ve realized there was no fucking way that after years of successfully hiding it was a coincidence they'd been found out so soon after Lan Wangji discovered them. He'd led the Jin right to them. Jiang Cheng wanted nothing more than to wring his fucking neck.

He’d spent years declaring that Wei Wuxian and A-Jie were dead, as loudly as he could, in the face of Jin Guangyao's suspicious glances, as though the other man could read his mind and know that Jiang Cheng had personally seen his sister poorly saddle two horses and take off into the night.

Jiang Cheng had only needed a moment of fresh air, after listening to the gathering of such distinguished persons plot out the murder of his… his brother. Trying to figure out if he could somehow finagle things to smuggle Wei Wuxian out of the Burial Mounds and away from them before they could hunt him down. Of course, A-Jie had the same idea, though she’d been quicker about the execution of it. He’d stood on the balcony, watching her ride off into the night, deciding he would do everything in his power to make sure they escaped.

They’d gathered their people and made their way to the Burial Mounds as soon as she was discovered missing, only to find the place an inferno. Jin Guangshan and Jin Guangyao looked absolutely incensed at having their victory ripped away from them, not to mention the loss of the Stygian Tiger Seal.

At the back of the crowd as he ignored the bullshit spewing from their mouths, Jiang Cheng had spotted the hoofprints, mostly concealed by ash, leading south. It took the barest flick of spiritual energy to wipe them away, offering his sister and Wei Wuxian what protection he could.

He’d expected them at Lotus Pier, at first. He’d personally cleaned out their rooms to avoid the servants asking unnecessary questions and waited for them to arrive. Days turned into weeks. An entire month had passed before he quietly came to the realization that they had no plans to return to Yunmeng.

The ensuing hangover nearly killed him, but he’d decided through the pounding in his head that it must be his due. A-Jie wouldn’t have done this without him if she hadn’t somehow figured out that Jiang Cheng had agreed to the siege and assumed the worst. And it hurt more than anything else to know she’d given him up as irredeemable. But, then, he had the sect. What did Wei Wuxian have with the Dafan Wen dead and gone? Ash and corpses and nothing.

He spent sixteen years protecting his siblings the only way he could: with his ignorance.

And in the span of a single season Lan Wangji fucked it all to hell.

So when the Jin cultivators returned empty-handed and proclaimed Jin Ziyu to have been incorrect, Jiang Cheng smirked as the mortification nearly killed the younger man. Then, because no one except Jiang Cheng seemed to remark upon the fact that Hanguang-jun hadn’t returned, his smirk changed to a scowl and he’d made a point of seeking the other sect leader out that same evening.

"I want to know where they are," he said at a growl.

Jin Ziyu took a shaky breath and refused to meet his eyes. "You heard the news, Sect Leader Jiang. It wasn't the Yiling Patriarch." His hands twisted in his lap. "I was completely mistaken."

"Yeah, and that's exactly what you're going to tell everyone else who asks you the same question. But everyone else is not me." Jiang Cheng felt a bit bad about menacing a man almost two decades his junior, but he wasn't going to risk A-Jie and Wei Wuxian being found out again. However they'd managed to convince Jin Ziyu to back off, they might not get so lucky next time.

With a shaky hand, Jin Ziyu wrote out the directions to the town.

Jiang Cheng spirited the paper away and glared with not inconsiderable ferocity, Zidian flickering at his wrist. "This is the only time you will ever write this down, understood?"

Jin Ziyu nodded immediately. "Understood, Sect Leader Jiang."

"Good. And learn how to lie better. Without flinching or stammering or giving away your obvious bullshit. You're Jin Guangshan's son. It should come naturally."

He waited until spring before daring the trip, leaving Yu Shumiao to handle things, over her protests at him travelling alone. He didn't expect anyone outside of Lotus Pier to remark upon or even notice his absence, though it had taken until after the New Year for it to feel safe. LanlingJin were still scrambling to recover their former glory under shaky leadership. The Lan were in a likewise wrong-footed position, Lan Wangji having all but disappeared (presumably to play house with Wei Wuxian, but ostensibly on a prolonged string of night hunts which apparently kept him from returning to Gusu, all described with such escalating ludicrosity Jiang Cheng could barely believe anyone capable of stomaching such ridiculous horseshit). The Nie were in the strongest position, but with Chifeng-zun acclimatizing to his new role as Chief Cultivator, he'd been increasingly relying on Nie Huaisang to deal with everyday matters, and the other man was effectual but inexperienced. Apparently Zewu-jun barely left the Unclean Realm these days, offering what help he could while leaving GusuLan in his uncle's hands. His presence had done wonders for Chifeng-zun's temper, or so they said. Without their Twin Jades, the Lan seemed diminished in spirit as well as martial power, but until Lan Qiren himself said something about it everyone else saw fit to shut the hell up.

Now, it seemed, he would be returning home with nothing save the reassurance that what remained of his family was being protected.

For Jiang Cheng, it would be enough. But he didn't have to be happy about it.

“If such persons happen to pass through your town, please tell them they will always be welcome at Lotus Pier.”

“I will see it done,” the elder assured him. When Jiang Cheng turned, he noted with complete absence of surprise that the woman who had initially accompanied them had gone.

Jiang Cheng showed himself from the room and wandered towards the market. All around him, people hawked their wares, eager to show off to a man dressed in much finer fare than to which they were obviously accustomed. Honestly, he hadn’t expected much from the town. He’d hoped to find himself traipsing through a village worthy of the home his siblings had decided upon. It was probably too late to wonder if they had enough money. If they kept themselves well. The town couldn't be more than a few hundred people; surely if they lived on the streets, he would have seen them when he made his way to the town elder's. The idea sat so sour in his mind he had to force it away before it could do him real harm.

He walked through the market, picking out small details to gentle the pounding of his heart. One stall sold A-Jie's favourite sticky dates. Another imported Wei Wuxian's preferred blend of chilis, marked up and outrageously expensive.

A glint of sunlight reflecting on gold flickered in his peripheral view and he turned. It only took a moment to pick the romp of teenaged boys from the crowd, and a heartbeat after that for him to recognize Suihua and Suibian. The boys who held them looked hale and well cared-for, accompanied by Hanguang-jun's son and the Ouyang heir. He paused at a vendor selling reasonably good cloth to watch them from the corner of his eye. To look his selfish fill.

Jin Ling, for it had to be Jiang Cheng's nephew currently in possession of Suihua, had fallen into an increasingly loud argument with the Lan boy, both of them trying to appear as though they were genuinely outraged instead of enjoying themselves. Jiang Cheng had long perfected the art of it and truly found it to be the only skill he hated himself for mastering.

"Just because you're going to be my cousin doesn't mean I can't break your legs!" Jin Ling finally yelled, dodging around Ouyang Zizhen, who gamely allowed himself to be used as a human shield without even moment's interruption in his conversation with—

(Who cares you’re my brother? I’ll still break your legs! shouted many times across A-Jie's shoulders as she laughed at them both.)

—the fourth boy. The one holding Suibian, who had a sweet, familiar grin on his face and a hearty, familiar laugh in his eyes. His movements were gentle and contained, full of good cheer and easy affection.

Finally, Jin Ling swung around him and, in a move that made Jiang Cheng's arms twitch with muscle memory from performing the same actions a thousand times, the older boy shifted his leg, cocked his hip, caught the Lan boy around the waist, and sent him toppling to the ground.

"Sizhui!" Lan Jingyi cried in betrayal.

Jin Ling jumped forward and grinned down at Lan Jingyi from over Sizhui's shoulder, resting all his weight on Sizhui's back to crow out his victory.

"He is my cousin," Sizhui said apologetically.

In a single, smooth movement, Sizhui darted to the side and tilted his shoulder. Without the bracing, Jin Ling toppled down to the ground beside Lan Jingyi.

"And Jingyi will soon be my brother.” His gaze turned to one of pure mischief. “I cannot possibly choose sides."

Wei Wuxian had a son. Who else would wield Suibian? Who else could hope to marry Lan Jingyi's father? He'd always known about Jin Ling, of course, but this new nephew proved a revelation. Jiang Cheng wondered if it was possible to mourn something he never even knew he'd lost.

Sizhui straightened and returned to Ouyang Zizhen, who watched them with quiet envy, quickly assuaged when Sizhui linked their arms together and tugged him along. "As I was saying," Sizhui continued, leaving the two boys behind in the dust, "...A-Qing enjoys candy, but if you truly want to distinguish yourself, gift her with some roasted nuts. Especially ones spiced with chili."

Stunned on the ground, Lan Jingyi and Jin Ling glanced at one another before hopping up and sticking their heads together, presumably plotting revenge.

The merchant in front of him made a questioning noise. Jiang Cheng looked down. He'd grabbed a loose scarf in a death grip. He eased his white-knuckled hold, wincing as blood returned to his fingers. He apologized, offered a few coins, and continued on his way.

With Lan Jingyi present, he decided bitterly, Hanguang-jun must have things well in hand. He wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered coming. There wasn’t anything for him here.

He took a last breath of sea air and prepared to return to Lotus Pier, alone.

And then from behind him, a soft voice whispered, "A-Cheng?"