Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lan Sizhui isn’t a particularly vivid dreamer -- not in the way he sometimes hears Ouyang Zizhen describe his dreams, like an entire play inside his mind -- but the impressions are often enough. Currently, his dream is hazily pleasant, warm and rounded at the edges. He would be content to linger there until dawn, but then something echoes, like a boulder shaken loose. There’s a brief moment of respite, and then it happens again. And again. Growing louder each time. 

He wakes up with a groan to find the noise belonging to whoever is pounding on his door. 

It takes him a moment to remember that the warm weight plastered against his side is Lan Jingyi, snoring softly. They used to share beds regularly when they roomed together as junior disciples, especially during the winter, but in the handful of months since their promotions to senior discipleship, he’s slept alone. Lan Sizhui had privately been a little grateful when a leak in Lan Jingyi’s quarters pushed him back into Lan Sizhui’s rooms, and by extension, his bed. 

(A spare cot had been supplied, of course, but using it would have involved moving all the furniture that Lan Sizhui had finally settled, and Lan Jingyi was more likely than not to sneak into his bed anyway, so really it was a logical matter to share again. Lan Jingyi certainly didn’t seem to mind, if the way he fell asleep on top of Lan Sizhui was any indication.)

Tonight, Lan Jingyi mumbles unhappily as the sound of knocking continues. As if trying to escape it, he burrows closer, which is difficult given how close he is already.

“Jingyi,” Lan Sizhui whispers, voice still rough with sleep. He shakes his friend gently by the shoulder and receives a groan in response. “Jingyi, you need to get off me. I need to answer the door.” 

For a moment he thinks Lan Jingyi is still too soundly asleep to hear him, but then he slurs, “Can wait ’til morning.”

The urgent knocking continues. Evidently, whoever is outside disagrees. 

“Come on,” Lan Sizhui says gently, wrapping his arms around Lan Jingyi and easing them upright together. Lan Jingyi is no help at all, a dead weight in his arms, and he flops right back onto the mattress the moment Lan Sizhui removes his hands. 

“Head disciple!” the voice outside the door says. 

Lan Sizhui drags a hand over his face and finishes extracting himself from Lan Jingyi, stopping by his desk on his way to the door to collect his forehead ribbon and tie it on. As an afterthought, he shrugs on an outer robe over his sleep clothes, too. His hair is beyond saving, creased badly where Lan Jingyi had fallen asleep on top of it, but he can at least save his visitor some embarrassment. 

When Lan Sizhui slides the doors open, he finds one of the disciples assigned to patrol duty for the evening. Lan Xiuying is younger than him, having only been a junior disciple for a year or two, but she’s well-trained and polite. 

“Xiuying,” Lan Sizhui says, trying to discreetly rub the sleep from his eye as she executes a hurried bow. “What is it?” 

“I’m so sorry to wake you,” she says, and Lan Sizhui watches her eyes flicker past him to where Lan Jingyi is once again soundly asleep. “But protocol says to alert the head disciple if we see something amiss -- ”

Protocol for nightly patrol does say that, and Lan Sizhui has woken up his share of head disciples, but he still has to breathe through a flash of irritation. He loves being head disciple. He truly does. He would just love it a little more if this wasn’t the third time this month he’d been roused in the middle of the night. 

Vacantly aware that Lan Xiuying has rambled her way into uncertain silence, Lan Sizhui asks, “Is the eastern bamboo grove making weird sounds again? Because if so, I told Guanyu last week, I’ve investigated it personally and it’s definitely the wind -- ”

Lan Xiuying is already shaking her head sharply. “It’s not, head disciple.” She takes a deep breath. “There’s something at the gate.”

He blinks at her, more awake by the second. “Which gate?”

“The innermost one,” she says dutifully. “The wards are holding, but…” 

But. But the inner gate has some of the weakest spellwork; it waxes and wanes with the curfew, in sync with the hours of the day, and checks for the presence of a jade token. The outermost wards are of a similar strength, watered down due to their size -- they mainly protect the mountain against low-level spirits. It’s the central wards that truly protect Cloud Recesses, an ancient array of spellwork that is so strong it even gave Wen-shushu trouble before adjustments were made. 

And whatever is at the inner gate -- a something, not a someone -- has already passed clean through them. Which means whatever it is, it isn’t barred from entry. It’s waiting. 

“Do we know what it wants?” Lan Sizhui asks, the kick of his heartbeat speeding up and pushing him the final few steps towards wakefulness. 

Lan Xiuying bites her lip. “That’s the thing, head disciple.” Her worried gaze slips into a wince. “We spoke to it through Inquiry and -- it’s asking for an audience.” 

“An audience,” Lan Sizhui repeats. Do not use frivolous words, a voice that sounds like the Grandmaster’s whispers in his ear. 

Lan Xiuying nods. Fear and uncertainty are written in every line of her face. Lan Sizhui forces his own mouth into what he hopes is a comforting smile and says, “I see. Well, we had better give it an audience then.” His expression must be genuine enough, because some of the tension leaves Lan Xiuying’s shoulders. “Give me a moment to collect a few things and I’ll head down to the gates with you.” He turns, ready to slide the doors shut, then pauses. “Well done, coming for help,” Lan Sizhui adds. It was something the previous head disciple told him on the several occasions Lan Sizhui had to wake him in the middle of the night, and he remembers appreciating hearing it said aloud. 

It seems Lan Xiuying does, too. She flusters slightly and then bows. “Of course, head disciple,” she says fervently. 

Lan Sizhui tries not to shut the doors on her too hastily, but the moment they close his smile falls away. In his bed, Lan Jingyi has, somehow, fallen completely back asleep. He supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised, since he once watched Lan Jingyi fall asleep during a handstand, but he can’t help but feel a bit exasperated as he gently shakes Lan Jingyi’s shoulder for the second time that night, whispering, “Jingyi. Jingyi, get up.” 

There’s a sound that could either be a snore or a groan of acknowledgement, and Lan Sizhui takes it as a sign to shake him a little rougher. “Jingyi. I need your help. Please.” 

Lan Jingyi stirs, then, blinking at Lan Sizhui like he’s never seen him in his life. He makes a garbled noise that might be a question, but he slowly drags himself upright. Lan Sizhui lets out a breath. 

“Xiuying is outside,” he tells him, voice pitched low. Lan Jingyi blinks at him again, swaying slightly, but makes another noise to show he’s listening. Feeling confident that he won’t collapse back into bed, Lan Sizhui stands up and begins to search for another robe. “We’re needed to investigate,” he adds, pawing through his wardrobe. 

Lan Jingyi makes another unintelligible noise before managing to string together the sentence, “If it’s the fucking bamboo grove again -- ”

“It’s not.” An interruption for a swear: it’s only fair. “Something made it through the outer and central wards.”

“Oh shit,” Lan Jingyi mutters, scrubbing at his face and at least trying to wake up. “That’s -- shit. Not even Wen-qianbei could do that before Wei-qianbei fiddled with the wards, right?”

This is technically a secret, as the elders would never have given Wei-qianbei permission to alter the wards. (Perhaps if Zewu-Jun had been there to sway them, but -- ) There had been an entire argument about it between Wen-shushu and Wei-qianbei during his first winter in Cloud Recesses when Wei-qianbei arrived and found out that Wen-shushu couldn’t make it up the mountain. Wen-shushu had sworn up and down that it wasn’t a problem, that he could meet Lan Sizhui outside the wards, but Wei-qianbei was insistent. Lan Sizhui still isn’t sure exactly how the situation resolved, only that Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei disappeared for a day, which normally wouldn’t have caused more than some blushing and tittering whispers -- except Lan Sizhui had caught Hanguang-Jun carrying Wei-qianbei back to the Jingshi that evening. Lan Sizhui’s offer to help had been solidly rebuffed, and he’d been forced to hover at the property line of the Jingshi, listening to the notes of the Song of Clarity, followed by Rest, echoing out. It had continued through the rest of the night, long after Lan Sizhui begrudgingly sulked back to his quarters, and Wei-qianbei had looked slightly worse for wear in the morning, Hanguang-Jun hovering closer than normal at his side. 

Three days later, Lan Sizhui found a note and some homemade dumplings from Wen-shushu on his pillow. Lan Jingyi had hooked his chin over Lan Sizhui’s shoulder and said, “Guess the wards like him now.” And that had been that. 

Two years later, Wen-shushu is still very particular about when he’s willing to visit, despite the jade token Lan Sizhui gave him and Hanguang-Jun’s standing invitation. He comes up for Lan Sizhui’s birthday each year and whenever Wei-qianbei requests his help or company during the months they’re both in Gusu, but other than that, Lan Sizhui goes to him in Caiyi. Lan Sizhui takes a moment to be worried that it’s Wen-shushu at the gate, trying to be polite, but then shakes off the notion -- Wen-shushu knows most of the disciples, and with those he doesn’t, he knows to ask for Lan Sizhui by name. 

Lan Jingyi pats around for his forehead ribbon as Lan Sizhui finishes packing a qiankun pouch with the essentials: flares, talismans, and his guqin join his kit of bandages and tinctures that Wen-shushu helped him put together. Normally he’s better stocked, ready to go at a moment’s notice, but he hasn’t had a chance to replenish his supplies since their last night hunt the day before. He packs a pouch for Lan Jingyi, too, just for good measure, and then starts pulling a set of his robes for Lan Jingyi to wear, since he will absolutely wander down the mountain half-asleep and half-dressed if given the chance. Lan Jingyi has outgrown him, but the fit should be passable. 

When Lan Sizhui turns around, he finds that Lan Jingyi has located his ribbon and is staring at it as if trying to ponder the logistics of using it as a noose. Eventually he gets it tied around his head instead, though that seems like the extent of his abilities. Lan Sizhui takes it upon himself to wrap Lan Jingyi in several layers of robes, helping to guide his limp arms through the sleeves, and finishes by wedging his feet into his boots. More or less satisfied, Lan Sizhui tugs him upright and drags him to the door, fetching his sword from the stand by the doorway and gathering Lan Jingyi’s from where he’d left it leaning up against the dresser. 

Pressing Lan Jingyi’s sword into his hands, he says, “Let’s go.”

Lan Jingyi mumbles something that sounds more or less like an affirmation, and they step out into the crisp night air to greet their mysterious guest.

☽

There are several white-robed disciples, composing the remainder of the evening patrol, waiting for them at the inner gate. They startle at the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow and bow while Lan Sizhui brushes away their apologies for waking him. Lan Guanyu, in particular, looks apologetic. 

“Head disciple,” Lan Xiuying says, gesturing for him to lead the way to the gate. The other disciples part hurriedly to let Lan Sizhui through. 

He exchanges a glance with Lan Jingyi, who finally looks awake and pink-cheeked thanks to the bite of the winter wind. Lan Jingyi nods, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and Lan Sizhui approaches with Lan Jingyi close behind. 

In the guttering light of the fires lit just outside the gate, an indistinct shadow looms. Tendrils of smoke seem to curl off its form, and the wards glow silver where the smoke touches them. It certainly feels resentful, at least at the edges, but it makes no move to charge as Lan Sizhui comes to stand before it. He takes a moment to observe, watching as it expands and contracts slowly, the lung of a giant breathing in and out. It could be a yao, born of a corrupted animal from the mountain’s forests, or perhaps a guai, although it doesn’t seem feral enough. There’s a patience to this spirit that unnerves Lan Sizhui slightly, like whatever this is, it’s too clever.

Well. Best to meet it with politeness, then. Clever things tend to know when they’re not receiving the respect they deserve. 

Having reached the end of what he can discern from sight alone, Lan Sizhui brings up his sword and bows neatly. When he rises, the shadow remains unchanged. 

Maybe it requires conversation, then. He clears his throat and says, “Hello. I am the head disciple of the Gusu Lan sect. What is your business here?”

“Oh, head disciple, don’t -- ”

Whatever Lan Guanyu was about to say is drowned out by a piercing shriek. Every set of hands jump to cover ears, Lan Sizhui included. The shadow seems to pulse as it screams, and then it abruptly stops, returning to relative stillness and quiet. Warily, Lan Sizhui removes his hands. 

“Sorry, head disciple,” Lan Guanyu says, rubbing his ear. “I should have warned you. It does that when you try to talk to it in anything other than qin language.” 

Lan Sizhui bites down a sigh as Lan Jingyi mutters something under his breath. 

“Please include that in the initial report next time,” Lan Sizhui says wryly -- it’s hardly the first time he’s had to remind the juniors this. He fishes his qiankun pouch from his sleeve and settles down into the snow to produce his guqin. Rather than set his sword in the wet snow, he passes it to Lan Jingyi, who already has a hand outstretched and waiting. 

He smooths his hands along the strings, warming them to the cold air. Carefully, he plucks out the phrase, repeating his question from before: What is your business here? 

The answer comes immediately, almost before Lan Sizhui can fully remove his fingers from the strings. He takes a moment to translate the notes before he tells the group, “It’s consistent. It says it wants an audience.” 

“Well, we’re here,” Lan Jingyi grumbles. “Unless we’re not the audience it wants?”

Lan Sizhui nods, then plays: An audience with whom? The notes reverberate in the quiet hush brought on by the fresh snowfall. Somewhere nearby, an owl hoots. The nearby stream gurgles along despite the cold. 

His guqin remains silent.

Lan Sizhui can’t help the spark of frustration that flares in his chest. Spirits can’t lie to him, but despite his continued training, they can still choose not to answer. It feels a little like talking to the elders, in that his words fall on uninterested ears and he’s brushed off if answered at all. He tucks the thought away, trying to focus on the spirit instead of the feeling that, one day, he could shout his grievances at the top of his lungs in the heart of Cloud Recesses and receive nothing more than an infraction for noise-making. 

“Sizhui?” Lan Jingyi prompts gently from beside him. Lan Sizhui shakes himself. Right. The reluctant shadow, and his silent guqin. Unfortunately, he’s the best player present, so he needs to find a question their guest is willing to answer. 

“Mm,” he says to Lan Jingyi, and then, louder, for the benefit of the group: “It doesn’t seem to want to answer. I’m going to try something else.” Lan Jingyi grumbles something about the shadow being rude that Lan Sizhui doesn’t quite catch.

Who are you? Lan Sizhui plays. 

There’s a noticeable hesitation, but eventually the strings pluck out a handful of notes. It’s a purposefully vague answer: most commonly it means friend. Sometimes ally. Overall, it implies --

“It says it won’t harm us,” Lan Sizhui tells the assembled disciples. 

“That’s exactly what I would say if I was trying to break into somewhere and harm people,” Lan Jingyi replies without missing a beat. Then, more gently, “I know it can’t lie to you, but could it… I don’t know… bend the truth?” 

“I don’t think so,” Lan Sizhui replies, frowning at the strings and the shadow in turn. He hates that its silence reminds him in particular of the Grandmaster’s stony stare, which encourages the person talking to consider that they’ve said something deeply incorrect. 

There’s a beat of silence before Lan Jingyi’s hand settles on Lan Sizhui’s shoulder. He looks up to see the set of Lan Jingyi’s mouth, and knows exactly what he’s going to say before the words are out of his mouth. 

“We need Hanguang-Jun.” 

Lan Sizhui really does try not to sigh. Discipline your own words and behavior and all that. As it is, it’s the middle of the night, and his robes are cold and wet from the snow, and they have a very stubborn guest who might be better classified as an intruder. 

He sighs. 

☽

It’s not the elders. At least it’s not the elders. 

Lan Sizhui repeats this to himself like a prayer as he and Lan Jingyi approach the borders of the Jingshi’s property. They’ve left half the disciples at the inner gate to monitor the shadow, sending the other half to do a sweep of the central wards to check for breaches. It’s standard protocol, followed to the letter, but the real reason is that Lan Sizhui would prefer as few witnesses as possible for interrupting Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei in the middle of the night. 

At least it’s not the elders, Lan Sizhui reminds himself as they crunch down the white stone path. He could be rousing the Grandmaster instead. (That’s not strictly true -- if it comes to waking the Grandmaster, he’s making Lan Jingyi do it.) This is better, he tells himself. Hanguang-Jun has never turned down a genuine request for help. Wei-qianbei loves a good puzzle. Both of them have a soft spot for Lan Sizhui. They won’t be upset. And, given the late hour, Lan Sizhui probably won’t be interrupting anything. Probably. 

“If this gets weird,” Lan Jingyi tells him, sounding tired, “I’m going back to bed.” 

It’s an empty threat -- Lan Jingyi would never leave him alone in the face of a problem -- but Lan Sizhui elbows him in the ribs anyway. They take the stairs up to the door of the Jingshi and Lan Sizhui knocks politely. Then, because one can never be too cautious, he calls softly:

“Hanguang-Jun? Wei-qianbei?”

The Jingshi, like all the buildings in Cloud Recesses, has a number of enchantments built into the walls: for protection, for warmth, for the suppression of noise. But Lan Sizhui can still make out the barest impression of voices, followed by footsteps, before the doors slide open. 

Hanguang-Jun, similar to how Lan Sizhui answered his own door earlier this evening, has an outer robe thrown over his sleep clothes, but he’s lacking any ornamentation: his hair is free of silver, loosely braided for sleep, and it’s tied off with Wei-qianbei’s red hair ribbon. His forehead is bare. 

He surveys them both, appearing quite awake for the late hour, looking first at Lan Sizhui before his eyes slide to Lan Jingyi, who has suddenly found the floorboards incredibly interesting. Lan Sizhui feels a little sympathy for him: he didn’t grow up in Hanguang-Jun’s home, with all the informality that entails. 

“Sizhui. Jingyi.” 

Lan Sizhui shakes himself a bit and bows, Lan Jingyi beside him doing the same. When he straightens, the words tumble out of his mouth in his hurry to explain. 

“Hanguang-Jun, these disciples apologize for bothering you at this hour.” He swallows and forces out the next part. “There is... a matter at the inner gate that these disciples are not qualified to address.” 

Hanguang-Jun’s brow creases ever so slightly. “The nature of this matter?”

Lan Sizhui glances at Lan Jingyi -- still unhelpfully staring at the tips of his boots -- before saying, “There’s a… guest, of sorts, asking for an audience.”

“Sizhui,” Hanguang-Jun says with a small frown. “We do not take audiences in the winter.” 

“This one knows, Hanguang-Jun,” Lan Sizhui hurries to add. It’s a precedent instated after the first winter that Wei-qianbei came to visit. During the months Wei-qianbei calls Cloud Recesses home, Hanguang-Jun does not allow any in-person audiences. Anyone with grievances or pleas for the acting sect leader or Chief Cultivator are welcome to write and receive a prompt response, but no one steps foot on the mountain otherwise. It’s to protect Wei-qianbei, Lan Sizhui knows. But this isn’t Sect Leader Ouyang come to complain about his taxes. “There appears to be a kind of resentful spirit at the gates, powerful enough to breach the outer and central wards. This disciple has tried to communicate with it through Inquiry, but...” He swallows, and the words taste like defeat when he has to admit, “It is beyond this one’s abilities. This disciple requests your skillset, Hanguang-Jun, and perhaps Wei-qianbei’s as well, if he’s amenable.” 

At the mention of the central wards, Hanguang-Jun’s eyes tighten minutely at the edges -- anyone less familiar with him would miss it entirely. As it is, Lan Sizhui dares to say that, with Zewu-Jun still in seclusion, no one else in Cloud Recesses knows Hanguang-Jun’s expressions quite as well. And Hanguang-Jun is concerned. 

“I see,” Hanguang-Jun says carefully, after a beat of silence. “One moment.” 

The doors of the Jingshi slide gently closed. 

“Yeah,” Lan Jingyi sighs, almost to himself. “This got weird.” 

The sounds of shuffling and footsteps inside the Jingshi are more pronounced now, and before long, the doors are thrown open with a bang that echoes in the silence of Cloud Recesses. Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi both jump back.

“What are we talking? Yao? Ghoul? Puppet?” Wei-qianbei asks in a business-like fashion, looking far too awake for the middle of the night. His line of questioning gets cut off, though, by Lan Jingyi immediately slapping a hand over his eyes and howling, “Wei-qianbei!”

Lan Sizhui studiously keeps his eyes on Wei-qianbei’s face, and not the single under robe he obviously threw on in a hurry: the tie is only half done, and it’s gaping at his throat to reveal several marks Lan Sizhui decides not to think about. His hair hangs in wet ropes and he’s dripping slightly onto the floor. Clearly, he’s just been roused from the bath. 

“Good evening, Wei-qianbei,” Lan Sizhui manages, bowing like his senior isn’t half-naked in front of him. 

“Hi, Sizhui,” Wei-qianbei says before immediately turning on Lan Jingyi. “And what’s your problem?” 

“Gods,” Lan Jingyi says, hand still over his eyes. “Have you ever heard of shame, Wei-qianbei?”

“I have been reliably informed that the answer to that question is no,” Wei-qianbei says before turning back to Lan Sizhui. “So? What kind of mysterious visitor are we talking about?”

“Likely some sort of spirit,” Lan Sizhui relays dutifully. “Resentful but not actively harmful. It…” He hesitates. “It told me it wouldn’t hurt us.” 

Wei-qianbei’s eyebrows creep up. “What a polite ghost, to wait so patiently at the gate and then promise such a thing.” His mouth twists into a smile that Lan Sizhui remembers first seeing in Yi City -- grim satisfaction to have a mystery worth solving. “We’d better not keep it waiting.”

Just as Lan Sizhui opens his mouth to suggest that he put on another layer -- or five -- Wei-qianbei looks down and seems to realize he’ll freeze to death if he steps outside the Jingshi in this state. 

“Ah, just -- give me a moment.” He disappears inside, leaving the doors open. Lan Jingyi mutters something under his breath that has an equal likelihood of being either a prayer or a curse. 

A short time later, Wei-qianbei returns with drier hair and another robe on. Hanguang-Jun, having dressed in the meantime, trails sedately behind him, several dark robes draped over his arm, and he continues to ease them onto Wei-qianbei’s shoulders as he gathers his things. He belts the last robe in place as Wei-qianbei ties back his hair. 

At last, when Wei-qianbei is decent enough not to cause a commotion, he sticks Chenqing into his belt and  asks, “Everyone ready?”

Hanguang-Jun is silent as he retrieves Bichen, secures his guqin to his back, and pauses one last time, taking Wei-qianbei’s wrist in his hand. From it, he unspools the white ribbon tied there and calmly ties it around his forehead. “Mn.”

The serious air of the Jingshi relaxes for a moment, and Wei-qianbei beams at him. 

Their seniors set off down the path, leaving Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi to follow. Lan Sizhui is blushing hard enough that he wonders if it might be a fever. Lan Jingyi looks like he’s just watched the seniors deflower each other in front of him. 

“We should -- ” Lan Sizhui makes a vague motion to indicate following them.

“Why not,” Lan Jingyi says hoarsely, visibly steeling himself. “This night is already so fucking weird.” 

“Language,” Lan Sizhui says, but it sounds more like, I know. 

☽

Wei-qianbei is unusually quiet as they make their way down to the inner gate. That’s not to say that he stops talking entirely, but when he does speak it’s in quick whispers to Hanguang-Jun, whose head is turned slightly towards him to listen and occasionally nod. 

By the time they arrive, the disciples sent to investigate the central wards have returned to hover nervously by the inner gate. There’s a flurry of white robes as everyone bows to Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei, apologizing even more profusely than they had to Lan Sizhui, and then Hanguang-Jun is moving forward to greet their mysterious guest. Wei-qianbei follows closely behind, weaving around Hanguang-Jun in a practiced dance as he examines the shadow from several angles. He absently hands Hanguang-Jun a talisman before moving on to tap at a few places on the gate, making the wards glow silver. Hanguang-Jun uses the talisman to burn away a patch of snow until even the mud underneath bakes into hard earth -- only then does he remove his guqin from his back and take a seat, settling the instrument in his lap. Bichen is set aside, remaining within reach in case of trouble.

Hanguang-Jun looks to Wei-qianbei, who wraps up his initial investigation and nods for him to begin. There is a brief pause, only long enough to take a breath, and then Hanguang-Jun begins to play. 

They’re the same notes from earlier, but they ring out richer and fuller from Hanguang-Jun’s strings. The spiritual energy behind the question is a tide washing in where Lan Sizhui’s was a meandering river. 

Who are you?

The shadow doesn’t hesitate this time, plucking the notes out immediately, bouncing along the full range of the guqin. 

“It says -- ah, it’s a little unclear, but it describes itself as someone… grateful? Someone grateful that we’re here,” Lan Sizhui translates for the benefit of the group. He opens his mouth to add more, but hesitates just long enough that Hanguang-Jun turns to look at him. Blushing slightly with embarrassment, Lan Sizhui explains, “It seems… happier to see you, than it did me.” 

It feels silly to say out loud -- childish, even -- but in a night hunt, every detail matters. Wei-qianbei catches his eye and smiles at him. Hanguang-Jun nods, turning back to the guqin. He plucks out another phrase.

What is your name?

A handful of notes. Lan Sizhui opens his mouth to translate, but then the strings pick up again. By the time they finish, Lan Sizhui sees his own frown mirrored on Hanguang-Jun’s face. 

“Well?” Wei-qianbei prompts. 

“It says it doesn’t remember its name,” Lan Sizhui says slowly, as if waiting for Hanguang-Jun to correct him. When he doesn’t, Lan Sizhui continues, “But it knows Hanguang-Jun.” 

“Knows him?” Lan Jingyi repeats, sounding offended on Hanguang-Jun’s behalf that something resentful would dare claim to associate with him. 

Lan Sizhui absently rests a hand on Lan Jingyi’s arm and adds to Wei-qianbei specifically, “It knows him by name.” 

“Which name?” Wei-qianbei asks without missing a beat. 

“All of them,” Hanguang-Jun replies, eyes moving to meet Wei-qianbei’s. Something passes between them and Wei-qianbei’s slight frown deepens. 

“Hanguang-Jun,” Lan Sizhui begins, but Wei-qianbei heads him off. 

“I have a few questions for our suspiciously knowledgeable guest,” Wei-qianbei says, clapping his hands together with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hanguang-Jun, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Hanguang-Jun readies his fingers on the strings. Lan Sizhui is viscerally reminded of Wei-qianbei directing his own Inquiry with Song Lan all those years ago in Yi City. The same chill races down his spine now. 

“First question,” Wei-qianbei says, staring at the shadow like they’re having a conversation. Lan Sizhui remembers its shriek from earlier, bracing himself, but their guest remains quiet. “You know Lan Zhan, but do you know who I am?”

Hanguang-Jun constructs the question with a fluidity that never fails to impress Lan Sizhui. When he was young and still fumbling through chords on Hanguang-Jun’s guqin, Hanguang-Jun had told him: Inquiry is as much a duet as a conversation. Offer a sound that appeals to their ear, and they will be more inclined to respond. 

But the shadow hesitates, now, before eventually replying with a handful of notes. 

“It knows you,” Hanguang-Jun relays. 

“As?” 

“Wei Wuxian,” Hanguang-Jun replies. 

“That will do,” Wei-qianbei says. “Second question: You’ve promised not to hurt the disciples, but will you hurt anyone else?”

The question is so complex that even Hanguang-Jun pauses for a moment before he begins to play. Note after note pour from the guqin, the sparing nature of qin language at odds with the level of specificity required. Lan Sizhui loses the thread three-quarters of the way through. When at last Hanguang-Jun finishes, the silence that stretches out is telling. 

Slowly, glacially, the shadow plucks a cord. Three breaths, in and out, before it plucks another. This is Hanguang-Jun’s spiritual energy pulling an answer from an unwilling creature, and it takes nearly an incense stick’s worth of time before the strings fall completely silent. 

“It is uncertain,” Hanguang-Jun tells Wei-qianbei, who huffs an unamused laugh.

“Alright,” Wei-qianbei says. “That’s fair. Last question, then: Have you hurt anyone before?”

Before Hanguang-Jun can even finish playing, the strings of his guqin begin to vibrate all at once, like something raking its hands desperately over the instrument. It creates an unpleasant cacophony, second only to its shrieking from earlier, and Wei-qianbei tugs his flute from his belt and holds it out in warning. After another terrible moment, the strings fall quiet, and then a single, mournful note rings out. Lan Sizhui feels his heart clench. 

“Let me guess,” Wei-qianbei says, flute still outstretched. His eyes slide to Hanguang-Jun’s. “It said yes.” 

Hanguang-Jun nods. 

Wei-qianbei sighs. “My dearest disciples, I’m going to need everyone to take ten steps back.” 

He only calls them that in letters, or when he’s about to do something ill-advised. Lan Sizhui opens his mouth to offer a blanket opposition to whatever is about to happen when Lan Jingyi’s hand appears on his arm and tugs him back. The other disciples have scrambled back more than ten paces, cowering near the foliage that lines the path. Lan Jingyi doesn’t take them nearly as far, at most half the distance Wei-qianbei instructed, before stopping and drawing his sword. He looks to Lan Sizhui, who nods and does the same. Together, they form the second line of defense after Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei. 

(It doesn’t bear saying that they won’t stand a chance against anything that makes it through their seniors, but they have to try.)

Wei-qianbei brings his flute to his lips and catches Hanguang-Jun’s eye from the corner of his own. When Hanguang-Jun nods, Wei-qianbei begins to play. A soft, eerie melody fills the night, so different from the sounds of flute music that fill Cloud Recesses during Wei-qianbei’s visits. This is older, more forceful, more resentful. 

Their guest hates it. 

The resentful energy cloaking the shadow explodes against the wards of the inner gate, a wave crashing against an unyielding cliff. It shrieks as it had earlier, and everyone present cringes. Lan Sizhui grips the hilt of his sword until he thinks his knuckles might split and beside him, Lan Jingyi shakes his head like he’s trying to rid himself of a persistent fly. 

Wei-qianbei’s song doesn’t so much as falter -- if anything, it grows louder, more insistent. His own resentful energy begins to curl in fragile wisps around his feet, brushing against the hem of his robes like a cat sidling up to its master. He does appear to be getting impatient, though, because before long he unleashes a single, piercing note, the aftershock of which forces Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi back several steps. The resentful energy is cold and sharp against Lan Sizhui’s meridians, and he closes his eyes in a hurried attempt to burn it away with spiritual energy. He feels a pulse of familiar spiritual energy next to him as Lan Jingyi does the same.

“Ah! There!” Wei-qianbei’s voice says, triumphant. A hunter with eyes on their prey. Lan Sizhui’s eyes fly open just in time to see a dark figure in the center of the shadow before the resentful energy rushes back in to obscure it once more. Without the flute music, the shadow falls mercifully silent. Wei-qianbei looks to Hanguang-Jun. “You saw it?”

“Mn.” Hanguang-Jun rewraps his guqin with brisk efficiency and rises to his feet. When it’s secured to his back again, he retrieves Bichen and gravitates closer to Wei-qianbei, who’s looking a little pale.

“You sure are a secretive thing, aren’t you?” Wei-qianbei asks the shadow as he sticks his flute in his belt. Lan Jingyi has just enough time to groan before the shadow shrieks in response. Lan Sizhui gives in and sheaths his sword, holding the scabbard awkwardly as he brings both hands over his ears. It does little to stop the sound. By the time it stops, Wei-qianbei looks unsteady on his feet. He turns to Hanguang-Jun, face uncharacteristically serious, and says, “Seal off this route. I want to look at it more.” 

Then he sways dangerously. Hanguang-Jun is ready, and catches him with practiced ease as his legs give out. Lan Sizhui starts forward out of instinct, and that’s how he notices Wei-qianbei’s eyes fluttering open, trying to catch Lan Sizhui’s gaze. With what looks like significant effort, Wei-qianbei brings a hand to his mouth and mimes whistling with two fingers. It takes a moment, but Lan Sizhui suddenly remembers a cold afternoon from Wei-qianbei’s first winter in Cloud Recesses, when he pulled Lan Sizhui aside and said, “I hope you’ll never need this, but you seem like a bright young cultivator who likes to be prepared. What I’m going to teach you isn’t resentful, exactly, you should be able to do it with spiritual energy, but from the outside it’s going to look bad, so… be careful. In mixed company.” 

Lan Sizhui recalls the notes now and nods to Wei-qianbei, who nods back with a weak smile as his hand flops into his lap. Between one blink and the next, his eyes slide shut and he sags a little further into Hanguang-Jun’s arms. 

It’s quiet for a long moment as Hanguang-Jun watches Wei-qianbei’s face with an expression Lan Sizhui can’t quite place. Eventually, he lets out a soft breath, and turns to Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi. 

“Wei Ying and I will resume investigation in the morning,” he tells them. “In the meantime, set up a perimeter and direct all traffic to the western gate.” 

“Yes, Hanguang-Jun,” they chorus, bowing. When they rise, Hanguang-Jun has shifted Wei-qianbei completely into his arms, as he has a handful of times after difficult night hunts -- but tonight, something about the slackness of Wei-qianbei’s face reminds Lan Sizhui far more of the day Lan Sizhui had stumbled upon them returning from working on the wards. It makes something cold coil in his stomach.

“Once that is done, get some rest,” Hanguang-Jun tells them, not unkindly. Lan Sizhui nods, stowing away the feeling to focus on the task at hand, and Hanguang-Jun, satisfied, leaves, taking Wei-qianbei with him up the path. 

☽

Lan Sizhui sleeps fitfully for a few hours before a gentle hand shakes him awake. He blinks, wondering through the fog of exhaustion why Lan Jingyi’s touch is so cool, and then he realizes. 

“Shushu!” he says, sitting up suddenly and accidentally dislodging Wen-shushu’s hand in the process. His uncle doesn’t seem to mind, withdrawing it to fold it atop the other hand resting in his lap and smiling gently at him. 

“Good morning, A-Yuan,” Wen-shushu says softly. “I’m sorry to wake you so early. It sounded like you had a busy night.” 

Lan Sizhui can’t help but smile at that. Wen-shushu doesn’t sleep, and therefore doesn’t have a concept of early or late. He’s able to keep Lan Sizhui’s usual hours without complaint, which made him an excellent traveling companion during their first excursion to Qishan, and in all their adventures since.  

“Don’t be sorry,” Lan Sizhui tells him, rubbing sleep from his eye. “Did you just get here? Did you get my signal?”

“I arrived a few hours ago,” Wen-shushu tells him, “and yes, I heard your signal. You did it perfectly.” 

Lan Sizhui can’t help but beam at the praise. It’s not like Wen-shushu isn’t effusive -- he’s actually moreso than Hanguang-Jun, and second only to Zewu-Jun -- but sometimes Lan Sizhui feels the need to stock up enough of his compliments to fill the sixteen years he spent without him. 

“Have you already been to see Wei-qianbei?”

Wen-shushu nods. “I went there first to announce myself to Hanguang-Jun.” Lan Sizhui frowns -- surely his uncle should understand what a standing invitation means by now -- but Wen-shushu pushes forward. “Wei-gongzi sent me to fetch you. He’d like to speak with you as soon as you’re ready.” 

Lan Sizhui nods and says, “I’ll bathe and head over.”

“Breakfast, too,” Wen-shushu says. “Lan Jingyi-gongzi -- ” He stops himself, mouth twitching as if remembering a smile, and continues, “Jingyi let me in.” It’s a long standing argument between them, because you can’t call Sizhui by his birth name and turn around and call me gongzi, and we’ve known each other for three whole years now, and literally no one else calls me that. “He went to get you both some food. I imagine he’ll return shortly if you want to get ready.”

Lan Sizhui swallows around a rush of fondness for Lan Jingyi and hurries off to the baths, where he warms up properly for the first time since he sat in the snow last night. He dresses and combs out his hair before walking briskly back to the disciple dormitories, where Lan Jingyi and Wen-shushu are already talking over breakfast. There’s a place set out for Lan Sizhui, and even Wen-shushu has a cup of tea, which Lan Jingyi always insists on serving him despite his inability to eat or drink. 

(“When Sizhui gets married, what are you going to do with the tea they pour for you?” Lan Jingyi had asked once out of nowhere. Especially in their first year of acquaintance, Lan Jingyi had had a lot of questions like that, endlessly curious about the Ghost General, although he’d spaced them out across visits in an attempt to be respectful.

Wen-shushu had blinked, a very pointed gesture since he no longer needed to. “I hadn’t… thought about it?”

“I can teach you how to fake drinking something,” Lan Jingyi had told him earnestly. “I do it like half the time Jin Ling serves me tea. That Lanling shit is disgusting.” 

“Language,” Lan Sizhui had scolded, voice muffled from where his  face was hidden in his hands, blushing furiously.)

“Morning,” Lan Jingyi says around a mouthful of food as Lan Sizhui slides the door shut behind him. “I got us baozi, come eat.” 

They break the rule about not talking during meals since it’s just the three of them and Wen-shushu isn’t technically eating. Lan Jingyi was partway through a recounting of last night’s investigation when Lan Sizhui arrived, so he finishes that thread before grilling Wen-shushu on anything he might know about it. 

“You saw it on your way up?”

“Mm. I came up by a different path, but I went back to investigate once I’d spoken with Hanguang-Jun.” 

Lan Sizhui frowns. Wen-shushu still refuses to use the main paths in fear of frightening anyone, and every time Lan Sizhui mentions how unnecessary that is, his uncle will say, “Perhaps next time, A-Yuan.” He wants to press the issue again, but around him, the conversation has moved on. 

“It’s smoky, right? Like the sword spirit from Mo Village was, but a little different.”

“I… don’t think I was present for that case, Gongzi.”

“Jingyi,” Lan Jingyi reminds him. 

Wen-shushu knows a losing battle when he sees one, which is possibly why he ducks to hide a stiff smile before saying, “I don’t think I was present for that case, Jingyi.”

Lan Jingyi nods, satisfied, then considers this information. “That was the start of the whole mess with Wei-qianbei. I guess I kind of assumed you were there.” He shrugs this off. “Anyway, it was smoky, like how Wei-qianbei gets when he plays Chenqing too long.”

“I see,” Wen-shushu agrees, kindly waiting for Lan Jingyi to arrive at his point. Thankfully, he has a patience tempered by many years of listening to Wei-qianbei brainstorm, and he listens dutifully. Lan Sizhui feels another bloom of fondness for the pair of them and has to wash it down with tea before he completely loses track of the conversation.

“But,” Lan Jingyi is saying, helping himself to another bun, “the shadow at the gate is different from the sword spirit, or even Wei-qianbei. Less… I don’t know. Sharp? Are there, like, different flavors of resentful energy?” 

Wen-shushu considers this. “Maybe. You should ask Wei-gongzi.” 

All in all it’s a quick breakfast, and then they’re off to the Jingshi for the second time in a relatively short handful of hours. Wen-shushu sticks close, and thankfully no one chooses to force the issue today. Lan Sizhui may be head disciple and heir-apparent, but that hasn’t stopped several of the bolder elders -- and indeed, some of the more impressionable disciples who listen to them -- from commenting on Wen-shushu’s presence when Hangaung-Jun and Wei-qianbei aren’t present. No matter how many times Lan Sizhui reminds them that Wen-shushu has permission to come and go as he pleases, they always insist on checking his jade token or interrogating him about his goings-on. Thankfully, with Lan Jingyi’s reputation of having broken the rule about dueling on no less than four occasions, combined with Hanguang-Jun’s steadfastness on the matter, they’re down to only a small group who insist on causing trouble. It helps that Wen-shushu is possibly the politest guest Cloud Recesses has seen in living memory. 

(Wei-qianbei, of course, is not, and so the elders complain most notably about him. Sometimes Lan Sizhui wonders if Wei-qianbei behaves in such a way because it draws eyes away from Wen-shushu. It’s not something Lan Sizhui has ever had the courage to ask, and he doubts he would receive an honest answer even if he tried.)

They pass the Hanshi on the way, and Lan Sizhui can’t help but look for a silhouette in one of the windows. The last time he had seen Zewu-Jun, nearly three years ago now, he’d been sitting on the steps of a crumbled temple, staring at the blood on his hands as the Grandmaster spoke to him in what Lan Sizhui knew was his kindest voice. (Whether his tone was objectively kind or not was a different matter altogether, but Lan Sizhui had grown up around him and knew that he was trying.) Then the Grandmaster had waved Lan Sizhui over to them, and Zewu-Jun had not so much as looked up as he approached. 

“Sizhui,” the Grandmaster had said to him before he’d even risen completely from his bow. “It seems Wangji has discovered some incredibly pressing business that he must attend to and has left without notice.” There had been a moment where Lan Sizhui was sure the Grandmaster was deciding whether or not to acknowledge Wei-qianbei, before he moved around the issue altogether by saying, “I hear he took a donkey with him. If he is traveling by foot, it’s unlikely he’s made it far. Go after him and bring him back.” Another pause. “Please inform him that Xichen will be entering seclusion upon our return to Cloud Recesses, and his duties as heir require his presence.” 

When Lan Sizhui had returned, several months later, from his own travels -- also technically having left without notice, although he did secure Hanguang-Jun’s blessing -- he’d asked if he could visit Zewu-Jun where he was secluded inside the Hanshi. Seclusion allows for select visitors, something Lan Sizhui has vague memories of from his own childhood: Zewu-Jun leaving him with another caretaker -- sometimes Lianfang-Zun, if he was visiting -- and disappearing for several hours before returning, looking tired. 

Hanguang-Jun sends you his best, A-Yuan.

Will he come visit soon?

Not yet. A little longer. 

But when Lan Sizhui asked, Hanguang-Jun had lowered his eyes and shaken his head. Zewu-Jun was taking no visitors, not even the Grandmaster. He saw Hanguang-Jun once every two weeks, but Lan Sizhui inferred that was largely due to Hanguang-Jun’s stubbornness rather than Zewu-Jun’s wishes. 

“It is not personal, Sizhui,” Hanguang-Jun had told him gently. It’s not you, it’s not your fault, the same things Zewu-Jun had told him about Hanguang-Jun’s seclusion. After a moment, Hanguang-Jun had added, “You may write to him, if you wish. I will deliver it.” 

And so Lan Sizhui spent the next several months writing a letter every other week, trying to remind Zewu-Jun of the world he was missing, and the world that missed him in return. He told him about Wen-shushu, about his travels, about the new joke Lan Jingyi came up with that made a novice laugh so hard that she fell into a pond. Each time, Hanguang-Jun would tell him, “He appreciated your letter.” And finally, after almost six months of silence, Lan Sizhui had snapped, “But not enough to write back?”

The look Hanguang-Jun had leveled him with spoke volumes. His own hurt, compounded by Lan Sizhui’s. He’d apologized immediately and profusely, and the matter was dropped. That night, Lan Sizhui assigned himself six copies of the rules in full. The question of whether or not Zewu-Jun would reply did not come up again. 

Other questions have arisen, now, as the years trudge on. The Wall of Discipline features no less than four precepts on the dangers and ills of gossip, but people still talk, and it’s not only Lan Sizhui who feels Zewu-Jun’s absence. Disciples whisper about the sect leader they may never see again. Other sect leaders grumble that they would have far preferred to work with Zewu-Jun instead of his stubborn, cold-blooded brother. The elders, in particular, have grown vocal this past year, gathering and scattering in turn like tittering birds who shoot furtive glances at the Hanshi. 

The Grandmaster alone does not participate. But in the hazy hours of the evening, Lan Jingyi had admitted to Lan Sizhui that the Grandmaster walks past the Hanshi each day, reliably pausing at the edge of the property, just watching. 

“Does he seem angry?” Lan Sizhui had asked quietly, soft on the edge of sleep.

Lan Jingyi had shaken his head. “He just looks sad.”

Lan Sizhui can summon a small measure of sympathy for the Grandmaster, in that they both have lost the same people to seclusion: for the Grandmaster, the brothers he raised, and for Lan Sizhui, the brothers who raised him. He had always thought of Zewu-Jun as the steady heartbeat of Cloud Recesses, and by extension his own life, present even in the earliest days of Lan Sizhui’s childhood while Hanguang-Jun was absent. The people Lan Sizhui loves are rarely so constant, though, so perhaps he should have expected Zewu-Jun to drift from Lan Sizhui’s orbit as the others had.

Privately, Lan Sizhui wishes that made it ache any less.

As the Hanshi disappears from view -- windows empty, doors shut tight -- Lan Sizhui wonders how he will detail this case in his next letter. How will Zewu-Jun react to knowing there was trouble so close to his doorstep, and that he missed a chance to work alongside his brother to protect their home?

Lan Sizhui already knows the answer, of course. He won’t respond at all. 

☽

The doors of the Jingshi are already open when they arrive, despite the chill of the morning. As they take the steps, Wei-qianbei’s voice drifts out from one of the rooms. 

“I’m just saying, I think a more hands-on approach is warranted,” he’s in the middle of arguing. “There’s a rule for that, I just -- oh! Do not give up on learning. You wouldn’t want me to break the rules, would you?”

They’re close enough to hear Hanguang-Jun’s deeply doubtful, “Hm.” Wen-shushu smothers a stiff smile. 

Lan Sizhui knocks and says, “Hanguang-Jun? Wei-qianbei?” 

“Sizhui! Come in!” Wei-qianbei calls. Lan Sizhui steps inside, and Lan Jingyi follows after a moment of hesitation. When he doesn’t hear Wen-shushu follow, Lan Sizhui turns to see his uncle still on the steps. 

“Shushu?”

“I’m just walking you to the door,” Wen-shushu tells him gently. “I’m patrolling until we know for sure the wards can’t be breached by anything else.” 

Just as Lan Sizhui opens his mouth to protest, Wei-qianbei’s voice says, “Hey, is that Wen Ning?” There’s a brief sound of shuffling and then Wei-qianbei emerges from the bedroom, more dressed than he had been last night but not by much. He zeros in on Wen-shushu and says, “Wen Ning, tell Lan Zhan to let me poke the spirit with my flute.” 

Wen-shushu actually considers it for a moment before he says, sounding genuinely regretful, “I don’t think I can advise that, Gongzi. Not until we understand more about the nature of its resentment.” 

Wei-qianbei scoffs. “I’ve touched more resentful things with my bare hands.”

And it drove you to madness, and then to death, Lan Sizhui specifically does not say. Thankfully, Wen-shushu replies, “All the same, perhaps not.”

Wei-qianbei looks fit to argue before Hanguang-Jun enters from the adjoining room, carrying a pot of tea, and says with a sigh, “Wei Ying, please return to bed.” 

“Do not rise after five,” Wei-qianbei quotes petulantly, eyeing the bedroom with disdain. “I feel fine. I slept.”

“You were unconscious,” Hanguang-Jun tells him, his tone implying those are not the same thing. He sets the tea on the Jingshi’s central table and says, “If you will not rest, then sit.”

Wei-qianbei flops into a sprawling pose at the table, apparently satisfied by this compromise, and Hanguang-Jun gestures for Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui to join him. Wen-shushu bids them farewell and they all take a seat. When the tea has been poured -- Wei-qianbei forgoes his own cup to continually steal Hanguang-Jun’s -- Lan Sizhui asks, “Have there been any new developments?”

Hanguang-Jun shakes his head. “We have reinforced the wards until we know more.” Lan Sizhui nods: it’s a wise decision, as the inner wards are designed to weaken dramatically come dawn. “I must meet with Shufu shortly to discuss the problem at hand, but Wei Ying will accompany you to the inner gate for further investigation.”

“Do you have any ideas, Wei-qianbei?” Lan Sizhui asks politely. 

“About ten so far,” he replies cheerfully. “If Lan Zhan would let me poke it with my flute, I could narrow it down to six.”

Hanguang-Jun’s gaze can best be described as long-suffering as he turns to Lan Sizhui and says, “Do not allow anyone to pass through the wards until we know it is safe.” Wei-qianbei grumbles under his breath and Hanguang-Jun adds smoothly, “Wen Ning is an exception.” 

Wei-qianbei fetches a deep sigh and looks to Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi, saying, “I am curious why it likes you disciples so much, though.” 

“Sizhui said it seemed to like Hanguang-Jun even more,” Lan Jingyi points out, glancing at Lan Sizhui as if for confirmation. He nods, and Lan Jingyi looks back to Wei-qianbei. “But it said -- it wasn’t sure, but it said it still might hurt someone?”

“Yep,” Wei-qianbei agrees readily. “Sure did.”

“So if it doesn’t want to harm us, or Hanguang-Jun…”

“You’ve done the same math as Lan Zhan,” Wei-qianbei says with a nod, setting down his cup. “It isn’t very fond of me. I was the only one present who it didn’t respond favorably to.” Lan Sizhui doesn’t realize he’s frowning until Wei-qianbei offers him a small smile and says gently, “Don’t worry, my feelings aren’t hurt.” He claps his hands together and says with false cheer, “I’m very used to it.” 

Lan Sizhui frowns even harder. Wei-qianbei’s brittle smile wilts under the gaze of three disapproving Lans. 

“Alright, alright. Poor taste.” He relaxes into his sprawl once more and says thoughtfully, “Still, you have to admit. It seems protective of you Lans. And polite to a fault.” Wei-qianbei twists to smile widely at Hanguang-Jun. “Lan Zhan, maybe you should offer it a forehead ribbon and induct it into the clan!” 

Just as Hanguang-Jun opens his mouth to tell Wei-qianbei what he thinks of that, there’s the sound of crunching gravel and fast-approaching footsteps from outside. Everyone looks to the open doors, and Lan Sizhui stands as Lan Xiuying comes flying down the path, fast enough to earn an infraction if the Grandmaster was present. She takes the steps to the Jingshi without pausing and only comes to a stop before the doorstep. Her bow is a whip crack as she pants, “Hanguang-Jun. Wei-qianbei. Head disciple.” Lan Jingyi gets a nod of acknowledgement as she tries to catch her breath.

“Xiuying,” Lan Sizhui says, heart pounding in his chest. “What is it?”

“Head disciple,” she says. She looks around the room, a little helpless. “The spirit has disappeared.” 

Silence rings out in the Jingshi. Hanguang-Jun blinks. Lan Jingyi is staring like Lan Xiuying has just grown another head. Wei-qianbei’s eyebrows creep up, his stolen teacup paused halfway to his mouth. 

“I see,” Lan Sizhui says, because someone needs to say something. Then, shaking himself slightly, “We’ll be along shortly to investigate. Please wait for us at the inner gate.” 

She hesitates only for a moment before dipping into another bow and saying, “Of course.” Then, with the appropriate farewells, she’s gone. 

Wei-qianbei is the one to break the silence. Reliably, he says what they’re all thinking, but don’t want to say. 

“Well that was far too easy.” 

☽

A biting wind whistles through the arch of the inner gate, and everyone present holds their breath as Chenqing’s shrill notes call out into the gray morning. Wei-qianbei’s eyes are closed, a small crease between his brows, as his song dips and rises, searching. 

It’s a tense moment when the music falls away. 

Wei-qianbei lowers his flute and opens his eyes before saying with begrudging authority, “It really is gone. Not just invisible. Gone. I can’t get a read on it. Not even a lick of resentful energy.” He turns to Wen-shushu where he stands beside Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi. “You’re sure you didn’t accidentally dispel it?”

“Certain,” Wen-shushu replies without hesitation. “I was inspecting the central wards and I felt it just… disappear.” He looks to Lan Xiuying, who has bruises under her eyes and looks distinctly harried. “By the time I arrived, Lan Xiuying-guniang said it had been gone for a stick of incense worth of time.” 

Lan Xiuying nods and glances to Wei-qianbei. “That’s correct.”

She, like many of the other junior disciples, has already grown remarkably attached to Wei-qianbei despite the brevity of his stays at Cloud Recesses. Halfway through his first winter, it became possible to track Wei-qianbei by the flock of white-robed juniors and novices hanging off his arms, chattering and laughing and utterly unconcerned about their imminent discipline for doing so. Despite Wei-qianbei’s charisma, Lan Sizhui had privately wondered if the reaction was due really due to the novelty of having someone new in Cloud Recesses, especially someone so unlike themselves. But their fervor immediately returned to its fever pitch upon Wei-qianbei’s arrival at the start of the next winter, and Lan Sizhui was simply forced to admit that no one can charm young disciples quite like Yunmeng Jiang’s former head disciple. 

(“You’re a very different head disciple than I was,” Wei-qianbei had told him kindly as they fed the rabbits one evening. When Lan Sizhui had glanced at him, he’d added, “That’s not a bad thing, Sizhui. We come from very different sects.” 

Lan Sizhui had cracked a smile at that, and Wei-qianbei had nudged him with his shoulder. 

“I also wasn’t a sect heir,” Wei-qianbei reminded him. With a snort, he’d added, “You can get away with a lot when no one ever expects you to lead the sect someday.” Shaking his head as if to clear away the cobwebs of old memories, he’d settled the matter with: “Just look at your Jingyi, hm?”)

Wei-qianbei considers Lan Xiuying and asks, “You saw it disappear?”

“Yes, Wei-qianbei,” she replies dutifully. It brings Lan Sizhui no small amusement to watch the two of them discussing matters so seriously, when only a few days ago he had found them with a group of other juniors, all braiding one another’s hair as Wei-qianbei gave an impromptu lesson on underwater exorcisms. 

“Anything notable? Was it when the sunlight touched it? Any disturbances?”

Lan Xiuying gives this due consideration before she shakes her head. “Nothing. It was there, and then it wasn’t.” 

Wei-qianbei taps his flute against his lips. “And it didn’t leave so much as a trace. This place feels as clean as if you’d purified it for weeks.” He pauses and asks Lan Xiuying, “You haven’t cleansed it, right?”

Another shake of her head, this time immediate. “No, Wei-qianbei.” 

He pouts, and says petulantly, “It’s not allowed to have cleansed itself before I had a chance. Although,” he adds, sounding intrigued, “a self-cleansing spirit…” He makes a thoughtful noise before shaking himself back on track. “Well, thank you, Xiuying. You should head back to your dormitory and get some sleep.”

Lan Xiuying looks like she wants to protest, but when she catches Lan Sizhui’s eye, he tells her, “Go rest.”

“It could return at any time,” Wei-qianbei adds with a smile, “and we’ll need all the best disciples well-rested.”

She turns a little pink at the praise, the same way she did when Lan Sizhui thanked her for waking him last night.

“Thank you, Wei-qianbei, head disciple,” she says, bowing to each of them in turn. Then, turning slightly, “Wen-qianbei. Jingyi-xiong.” 

Once she’s disappeared up the path, Lan Sizhui turns back to see Wei-qianbei back at the inner gate, passing through the wards to scuff at the ground beyond with his boot. His smile has fallen away again, and he’s mumbling under his breath. 

Beside him, Lan Jingyi calls out, “Anything on the other side, Wei-qianbei?”

“Snow and mud,” Wei-qianbei replies, a touch of disappointment in his voice.

“Damn,” Lan Jingyi says with a small sigh. “I was hoping there would be something left over. I wanted to see what you thought about the resentment.” 

Wei-qianbei looks up, curiosity piqued. “Hm?”

“I was talking to Wen-qianbei at breakfast -- the resentment felt, I don’t know, kind of different than when you use resentful energy? Are there different kinds?”

“Interesting question,” Wei-qianbei says, immediately bounding back through the wards. He twirls his flute as he talks. “There’s certainly multiple ways resentful energy can be generated.” His mouth twists into a complicated shape and he continues, “If you have a hundred resentful corpses, it’s unlikely they’re all just angry. Living things are complicated, and that doesn’t stop when they die. Everyone has a unique set of emotions regarding how they were wronged in life, or even in death. One person might be buried incorrectly. Another might have unfinished business. The third might not be a person at all -- it could be an animal tortured to death. Certain types of resentment are more useful for certain purposes, of course. That’s why demonic cultivation requires an understanding of the energy being harnessed and, by extension, who you’re harnessing that energy from.” 

“So if you had those hundred corpses,” Lan Jingyi says thoughtfully, “you’d need to know a hundred people’s stories?” He frowns. “That sounds exhausting.” 

“Ah, you see,” Wei-qianbei says, wagging a finger at Lan Jingyi. “You’ve just stumbled on the reason demonic cultivation isn’t sustainable at scale.”

A hundred corpses, a thousand. Enough to fill Burial Mounds, enough to win a war. Lan Sizhui has a sinking feeling Wei-qianbei isn’t speaking in the hypothetical. 

“But that’s getting too deep into things, perhaps,” Wei-qianbei says with a tight smile. “I don’t want your elders to think I’m putting ideas in your heads. You good little Lans don’t need to know the ins and outs of harnessing resentful energy.”

“They certainly do not.” 

The Grandmaster’s voice is sharp and cold, and Lan Sizhui watches Wei-qianbei’s shoulders tighten as his expression freezes. It falls away, eerily blank, as he turns to greet the newcomers approaching the gate: the Grandmaster, already looking furious, and Hanguang-Jun trailing beside him, frowning at his uncle. 

Lan Sizhui folds into a reflexive bow, and feels Lan Jingyi do the same behind him. When he straightens, Wei-qianbei is wearing a thin, tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Grandmaster Lan,” Wei-qianbei says with a cursory bow. Wen-shushu is bowing too, a little too low, and he stays halfway bent even after Wei-qianbei straightens. “No need to worry. I was only answering a question that might pertain to our strange visitor.” 

The Grandmaster harrumphs at that, eyes flickering to Wen-shushu and darting away just as quickly. His preferred method of interaction with Wen-shushu is to pretend he’s not there at all, which needles something deep inside Lan Sizhui. Beside him, Lan Jingyi tenses, more than willing to earn his latest punishment at the Grandmaster’s hand. 

“Our visitor,” the Grandmaster scoffs at Wei-qianbei. “Wangji tells me there’s been no developments?”

Wei-qianbei’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, his face doesn’t move at all. It reminds Lan Sizhui of how Lianfang-Zun used to listen to people yell at him, and something cold races down his spine. 

“No leads yet, no,” Wei-qianbei agrees. They are approaching five exchanged sentences, which is usually when the shouting starts, and Lan Sizhui edges ever-so-slightly closer to Lan Jingyi, should he need to restrain him. Slowly, so slowly, Wen-shushu straightens from his bow in minute increments, as if someone might notice if he moves too quickly.

“Isn’t this your…” Lan Sizhui watches the Grandmaster’s mouth twist like he’s bitten into something unpleasant as he says, “...speciality?” 

“Yes,” Wei-qianbei says slowly, smile stretching wider but no kinder, and something in his tone makes Lan Sizhui’s mind scream dangerous! “But no doubt Grandmaster Lan is unsurprised to learn that this humble one still has much to learn. I only claim knowledge about my own research.” 

The Grandmaster sniffs. “And you’re quite certain this isn’t your… research?”

“Shufu,” Hanguang-Jun says. A warning. 

“You must admit the timing is suspect,” the Grandmaster says, uncowed. “Barely a week after he arrives and then resentful spirits appear at the gate? I simply mean to ask him what he’s brought to our doorstep!”

Wen-shushu appears to be in the process of trying to fold in on himself. Lan Jingyi is vibrating at a slightly dangerous level, fit to burst any moment -- if he explodes at the Grandmaster, Lan Sizhui thinks he might just join him. 

Wei-qianbei is still smiling, empty and cold, like a shard of glass. 

“I would never bring danger to Lan Zhan’s doorstep, Grandmaster Lan,” Wei-qianbei says, uncharacteristically quiet but cutting all the same, the words coming hard and fast. “I would never bring danger to Sizhui’s doorstep, or Jingyi’s. By extension, I would not bring it to yours, either.” His tone says, ask me what I could bring to your door. His tone says, ask me what would happen if you didn’t share a doorstep with the people I love. His tone says, ask me, I beg you. 

Despite this warning, the Grandmaster does not stand down. He holds Wei Wuxian’s eyes, an unspoken challenge. And then, the Grandmaster makes his mistake. 

He glances, pointedly, at Wen-shushu. 

“Grandmaster,” Lan Sizhui says, in what might be the sharpest tone he has ever taken with an elder. It startles all the seniors present: Wei-qianbei blinks, as if waking from a half-dream, and turns to look at him with eyes that are finally the ones Lan Sizhui recognizes. Hanguang-Jun turns to him as well, as does the Grandmaster. Wen-shushu"s eyes, previously stuck on the ground, fly up to meet his in panicked warning. 

Lan Sizhui can’t be bothered to care. He grips his sword hard enough that his knuckles creak. 

“Wen-qianbei is a valued guest of Cloud Recesses,” he says, enunciating every word with pointed care. “He has the express permission of the Chief Cultivator and acting sect leader to be here. As his patron within the sect, any complaints you have can be directed to me, in writing, to be delivered to the senior disciples’ office during working hours.”

The Grandmaster stares at him, unused to Lan Sizhui speaking to him so bluntly. Hanguang-Jun looks similarly frozen. Wei-qianbei is trying to wrestle down an emotion that looks distinctly like pride. 

“If that’s all, Grandmaster,” Lan Jingyi jumps in, “these disciples are still investigating last night’s incident and should continue with our hunt.” He circles his arms, sword in hand, pausing only to gently bump Lan Sizhui’s arm to prompt him to bow as well, and then they bow in farewell. Lan Jingyi adds, “Wen-qianbei, if you wouldn’t mind accompanying us?” And Wen-shushu nods, a little frantic, and with a hasty bow of his own the three of them are off. To where, Lan Sizhui can’t say, only that Lan Jingyi has a hand on each of their arms, all but towing them away from the inner gate. 

They come to a stop somewhere on the path that winds down the mountain. Lan Jingyi finally lets their arms drop, then turns around and, with nothing but palpable delight stretching across his face, asks, “Sizhui, what the fuck was that!” 

Lan Sizhui glances at Wen-shushu, who looks like he would be blushing if it was still possible. “I -- ”

“I didn’t know you had it in you!” Lan Jingyi crows, grabbing Lan Sizhui by the shoulders and shaking him. “That was incredible!”

“It was inappropriate,” Lan Sizhui says, even though the words don’t feel quite right, and he feels compelled to add, “but the Grandmaster was out of line by insinuating…” He trails off, looking helplessly towards his uncle. “I’m sorry, Shushu. He shouldn’t have said that, and you shouldn’t have had to hear it.” Lan Sizhui takes a deep breath and, shaking off Lan Jingyi, folds into a low, formal bow to Wen-shushu. “Please accept this one’s deepest apologies on behalf of the Gusu Lan sect.” 

“A-Yuan,” Wen-shushu says, sounding at a loss. “A-Yuan, no.” A cold touch is pulling him out of his bow, and he only resists for a moment before straightening. Wen-shushu’s hands disappear, only to flutter uselessly around Lan Sizhui. “Please don’t -- it’s not your fault. It’s a valid concern that I might -- he just means to keep you all safe, and -- ”

“With respect,” Lan Jingyi says in the tone he has that announces he’s about to be anything but, “the Grandmaster was being an old cow about it.” 

Wen-shushu looks helplessly between the two of them. Lan Sizhui remains stubbornly silent. Whether Lan Sizhui is in the right or wrong with his outburst, he won’t correct Lan Jingyi this time. 

“Besides,” Lan Jingyi continues, throwing an arm around Lan Sizhui’s shoulders, “it’s not really about you, anyway, Wen-qianbei. It’s about Wei-qianbei, and the Grandmaster needed a good reminder not to drag other people into it.” He pauses and turns his head slightly to grin at Lan Sizhui. “And I’d say he won’t soon forget that reminder, thanks to this one.” Looking back to Wen-shushu, he adds, “The good news is that I’d bet that the three of them are going to be tied up in that mess for the foreseeable future, so that leaves the night hunt to us!”

“Betting is forbidden,” Lan Sizhui reminds him, but it’s a weak protest. 

“Don’t care!” Lan Jingyi crows. “Now, who wants to catch a disappearing spirit?”

☽

They do not, in fact, catch the disappearing spirit. 

The day is spent in thorough investigation of the mountain, its wards, and any potential weaknesses, but by the time dinner hour arrives, the three of them remain empty-handed. One junior disciple reported seeing the spirit flicker back into existence just after midday, but the other disciple on duty with him didn’t see anything, and it was more likely a rogue shadow than their guest returning. 

“At this point I don’t know what’s worse,” Lan Jingyi groans as they make their way through Cloud Recesses, Wen-shushu keeping close. “It showing up again or it staying gone -- neither is comforting.” 

“I’d rather not have it hanging over our heads,” Lan Sizhui agrees. They’re accompanying him to the Jingshi, Lan Sizhui having received a summons shortly after lunch. He would prefer nothing more than to take a quiet dinner with Lan Jingyi and Wen-shushu in his room, but he also recognizes that words like the ones he hurled at the Grandmaster today don’t come without consequences. 

“I guess the worst case is the elders decide to exorcise the entire mountain,” Lan Jingyi says, rubbing a hand over his face. “That can’t take more than, what, ten years?” 

“Twenty,” Lan Sizhui replies wearily. 

They arrive at the edge of the property and Lan Jingyi squeezes his shoulder. Wen-shushu hovers, unhappy about leaving Lan Sizhui to a punishment that he’s sure is somehow his fault, but eventually Lan Sizhui sends them both on their way. Once alone, he takes a single, steadying breath before starting down the path. 

At the sound of his footsteps, Wei-qianbei steps out of the Jingshi to greet him. Backlit by the warm light of the Jingshi’s lanterns, he says, “Ah, good, you made it. Excellent timing, by the way, dinner just arrived.”

Lan Sizhui’s brow furrows. “...dinner, Wei-qianbei?”

Wei-qianbei hums and nods, turning back into the Jingshi and gesturing for Lan Sizhui to follow. It’s already dark, evening falling early this time of year, and yellow light spills through the open door. With what feels to be a reasonable amount of caution, Lan Sizhui takes the steps and slips inside, sliding the door shut behind him. 

“Sizhui,” Hanguang-Jun says in greeting. He’s already seated at the table, his usual guan missing but his hair still tied up. Lan Sizhui bows to each of them, still slightly wrong-footed, and Hanguang-Jun does nothing to help by saying, “Please sit.” 

Lan Sizhui hesitantly takes the seat across from Hanguang-Jun, setting his sword aside, as Wei-qianbei flops into his usual seat between the two of them. Hanguang-Jun calmly removes the lids off various dishes and Wei-qianbei begins to fill a bowl. 

He feels he should probably say something, before the meal begins and the mandated silence falls during eating. (Well, that won’t stop Wei-qianbei. As far as Lan Sizhui can tell, he has free reign to speak all he likes during meals, as long as he doesn’t expect Hanguang-Jun to answer. But still.) Clearing his throat, Lan Sizhui begins, “I’m -- ”

“If you say sorry,” Wei-qianbei interrupts, filling his bowl with something red and spiced, “I will be forced to bury you in the yard, and not in a cute way.” 

“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-Jun says, in a soft reprimand. 

“Ah, kidding, just kidding,” Wei-qianbei backtracks with a beguiling smile. He pauses in grabbing food and turns to Lan Sizhui, grin falling into something more thoughtful. “We’re going to talk about it, but -- no apologizing, okay?”

Hesitantly, Lan Sizhui nods. 

“Sizhui,” Hanguang-Jun begins. “You were not wrong to defend your uncle.” Of course Hanguang-Jun would take no issue with that piece. The rules say be a filial child. But they also say do not disrespect the elders and maintain your own discipline and be careful with your words and --

“Hey.” Lan Sizhui’s eyes snap to Wei-qianbei, who’s watching him far too knowingly. “I can see you beating yourself up. Lans, I swear.” Wei-qianbei glances at his own half-filled bowl, grabs a choice bite with his chopsticks, and shoves it into Lan Sizhui’s mouth when he opens it to reply. His eyes water immediately at the spice, but Wei-qianbei seems to think he’s overcome with emotion -- Wei-qianbei’s free hand pats Lan Sizhui’s shoulder in a comforting fashion. “Right. Okay.” He sets aside his chopsticks as an afterthought and turns to face Lan Sizhui more fully. “The problem isn’t what you said to Grandmaster Lan. You were right. But…” Here, Wei-qianbei blows out a breath and his mouth stretches into his familiar self-deprecating smile. “If you want him to listen to you, you can’t talk to him like I do.” 

Caught off guard, Lan Sizhui blinks. Brow furrowed, he looks to Hanguang-Jun, who meets his eyes evenly and says, “Shufu is foremost a teacher. He does not respond to volume or harshness.” 

“But he’s the one who -- ” Lan Sizhui catches himself just in time and bites down a sentence he will regret. He takes a brief moment before continuing more politely. “Hanguang-Jun. The Grandmaster doesn’t hesitate to use those methods.” 

Wei-qianbei snorts quietly. Hanguang-Jun ignores him and nods, but says, “How we listen is not the same as how we communicate. He will not respond to those methods.” Hanguang-Jun watches him carefully as he says, “He will listen because you are the one telling him.”

“But I have told him,” Lan Sizhui protests, trying to ignore the fact that his lips have started to feel swollen from the spice. Hasn’t he had the same conversation with the Grandmaster that he’s had with every disgruntled elder? 

Wei-qianbei shakes his head. 

“I’m sure those times you were very polite, and every chi the head disciple and heir-apparent I know you can be,” Wei-qianbei says, not unkindly. “But the heir-apparent isn’t going to sway the Grandmaster.” He reaches over and pinches Lan Sizhui’s cheek. “A-Yuan, though, definitely has a shot. The biggest, saddest eyes in all of Yiling! You cracked the fearsome Yiling Patriarch, and, even more impressive, the terrifying doctor of the Dafan Wen.” 

Wei-qianbei is smiling properly now. 

“I…” Lan Sizhui tries to find the words. Some days, his titles feel like the only tools he has to get people to listen. Lan Sizhui? Easy to brush off. Heir-apparent? It carries a weight, one that he makes sure not to abuse, but a weight nonetheless. It feels childish to say out loud, though, so instead he says, “I don’t think I can make sad eyes at the elders to get my way, Wei-qianbei.” 

Wei-qianbei laughs, then, full and from his belly, as he falls back. “I’d pay to watch you try that on Jiang Cheng when you become sect leader someday,” he wheezes. It takes a moment before he sobers enough to add, “It will be a little different, now. You’re not a little radish anymore, no matter how sad it makes me. But you still have more power than you know. It’s up to you to figure out how to use it.” 

It’s been a long day, his tongue hurts from a spice burn, and the thought of a puzzle to untangle isn’t a very welcome addition in his already full brain, but Lan Sizhui was raised to be nothing if not polite, so he says, “This disciple thanks you for the insight, Hanguang-Jun. Wei-qianbei.” 

“You’re welcome,” Wei-qianbei replies, sounding satisfied, and turns back to his bowl. Hanguang-Jun watches Lan Sizhui for a moment longer before nodding. 

“Should I report for discipline tomorrow?” he asks. 

“No need,” Hanguang-Jun says, returning to lifting the covers off several dishes. 

“Didn’t you hear the part where I said no apologies?” Wei-qianbei asks, popping a piece of bright red tofu into his mouth without so much as blinking. “Well, no punishments, either. Grandmaster Lan won’t be in any hurry to issue you any, before you can worry about that. He knows he owes you an apology, too. Thank goodness that you both needing to apologize cancels out the need! You can both move on having learned a valuable lesson.” 

Lan Sizhui can’t help but share a look with Hanguang-Jun that might best be described as horrified. So much of Wei-qianbei’s relationship with Sect Leader Jiang suddenly makes more sense. Wei-qianbei, oblivious, hums to himself as he adds some greens to his bowl. 

“I will speak with the Grandmaster when this is over,” Lan Sizhui says, mostly to Hanguang-Jun, who nods. Silently, as if the meal has already begun, Hanguang-Jun pours a small cup of tea from a pot by his elbow and passes it to Lan Sizhui. When he takes a sip, he recognizes it as the blend Hanguang-Jun always sends for at the start of winter -- it coats his burnt tongue like a balm. He nearly weeps in relief.

They settle in to eat as Wei-qianbei begins an easy narration of his thoughts on the case. His words mingle with the quiet sounds of chopsticks against porcelain, and in the warmth of the Jingshi, Lan Sizhui can feel the day catch up with him. It’s still before curfew, but he could easily curl up and sleep. When he was small and still staying with Zewu-Jun in the Hanshi, they would do that sometimes in the cold winter months: wrap themselves in blankets and sit before the stove, telling stories until they dropped off, deceived by the darkness of the early hour. The winter after Chifeng-Zun died, they fell asleep that way almost every night. Lan Sizhui would always wake up in his uncle’s bed, carried there at some point in the night, and they would stay there until after they were meant to rise, holding onto one another in the watery morning light. 

Wei-qianbei goes on for some time, but before Lan Sizhui’s bowl is quite empty, he stops suddenly in the middle of describing a similar case involving a grieving widow. Hanguang-Jun looks at Wei-qianbei immediately, and Wei-qianbei looks at the door. 

“Now what’s all this about,” he mutters, springing to his feet and moving to open the Jingshi’s door. When he slides it open, Wen-shushu is standing outside, fist poised to knock. 

“Gongzi,” Wen-shushu says with a quick bow. 

“What’s happened?” 

“The spirit has returned.” 

☽

“I knew it couldn’t be a self-cleansing spirit,” Wei-qianbei says as they pick their way down the path to the gate. He only sounds a little disappointed when he adds, “No matter how cool that would’ve been.” 

“Perhaps next time,” Lan Sizhui offers graciously, adjusting his grip on the lantern. Wei-qianbei throws him a quick smile. Lan Sizhui glances at Hanguang-Jun, whose expression, even in the weak light, tells Lan Sizhui exactly what he thinks of there being a next time. 

“Well, this just gives us a chance to try and cleanse it ourselves,” Wei-qianbei says. He spins his flute thoughtfully and says, “Maybe we try your way first, Lan Zhan? Something from your sect, since it seems so fond of you and so… less thrilled with me.” 

“Mn,” Hanguang-Jun agrees. “It will require something more focused than Rest. Song of Clarity, most likely.”

“Good, good,” Wei-qianbei says, nodding. “Wen Ning, do you mind?”

“Of course not, Gongzi,” Wen-shushu replies. “The treetops?”

“If you like. Wherever’s best.” 

“Mm.”

Wei-qianbei and Wen-shushu do this sometimes, speaking in what feels to be a language all their own. It’s a brisk, business-like dialect, born of a time when they needed to move quickly to protect the ones they loved. Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-Jun have their own language, too, but it’s quieter, more tactile: a raised brow, a low hum, a hand rested on an arm. An extension of the relationship they have. What Wei-qianbei shares with Wen-shushu is more tightly bound, in a way no two living people can be: the symbiosis of a fierce corpse and the demonic cultivator who dragged him back from the dead. 

Wen-shushu nods to Lan Sizhui before flitting off into the darkness of the surrounding woods. For Lan Sizhui’s benefit, Wei-qianbei says, “He’s going to keep watch. Make sure our guest doesn’t try to run for it when we start cleansing it.” 

“You think it would try to run instead of disappearing again?” Lan Sizhui asks.

“I have no idea,” Wei-qianbei says brightly, “but if it does try to flee, I don’t want to feel like a fool for not setting up a perimeter guard.” In the gloom, Lan Sizhui almost misses his wink. “I’ve learned that one the hard way.”

By the time they arrive at the inner wards, there’s a handful of juniors arranged loosely around the gate, the braziers bathing them in red and gold. All have their swords drawn under Lan Jingyi’s watchful eye. His greatest strength as a senior disciple is how much the juniors love him -- half the times that Lan Sizhui arrives at the tail-end of Lan Jingyi’s sword forms class to collect him for dinner, the disciples are laughing as hard as they are sweating. He’s approachable in a way that few senior disciples are, especially within their sect, and pride blooms warm and fond in Lan Sizhui’s chest. 

Lan Jingyi turns at the sound of their footsteps, his relieved smile backlit. “Oh good. Hanguang-Jun. Wei-qianbei.” He bows and adds brightly to Lan Sizhui, “Great news! We probably won’t have to exorcise the entire mountain now.” 

“The entire mountain, hm? That option wasn’t even on my list,” Wei-qianbei says with a small chuckle, playfully tapping his flute against Lan Jingyi’s shoulder as he walks past him towards the spirit. 

Lan Sizhui recalls Wei-qianbei’s ten ideas from this morning and asks, “How many plans are you down to now, Wei-qianbei?”

“Eight!” he calls over his shoulder. “But I could be down to four, if it’s still here tomorrow.” 

Hanguang-Jun lets out a small sigh and moves to follow after him. 

It’s a strange mirror of last night as they take their places: Hanguang-Jun settles in with his guqin, Wei-qianbei at his shoulder. The junior disciples keep back, and Lan Sizhui joins Lan Jingyi as an intermediary line of defense. There’s something about the situation that’s different though, the night taking on a new edge: they’re not as unprepared this time. They know this spirit. Wen-shushu is waiting in the trees to intervene. And, in an underrated upgrade, they’re not about to fight in their sleeping robes. Lan Sizhui allows the small ember of optimism to catch in his chest. 

“At your leisure, Hanguang-Jun,” Wei-qianbei says with teasing formality, his smile and tone at odds with the way he holds himself, ready to launch into action. 

Hanguang-Jun tests a few notes, the strings vibrating with enough spiritual power to make the hairs on Lan Sizhui’s arms stand up -- it’s more energy than he normally applies, and the small clearing hums with it. The last time Lan Sizhui had heard him play with such purpose, it had been alongside Zewu-Jun on another night that required Song of Clarity: the Twin Jades playing for Lan Sizhui’s night hunting group, having been rescued from their mission and choking on resentful energy. Lan Jingyi’s hand had turned corpse-gray during that hunt, Lan Zhihao coughing up something dark and viscous… 

As Hanguang-Jun plays the first note of Song of Clarity, Lan Sizhui glances over to Lan Jingyi, who’s flexing his hand to chase away the ghost of an old hurt, and knows he’s remembering the same night. 

And then --

It’s a novice mistake. The moment Lan Sizhui looks away, towards Lan Jingyi, Hanguang-Jun’s song seems to pierce something deep in the heart of the spirit and it explodes.

Lan Sizhui jerks his head back just in time to watch the shadow come crashing through the wards like lantern paper. Hanguang-Jun’s hands jump from their positions on the strings to a deliver a single, cutting cord that reverbates like a struck bell -- an aborted version of Chord Assassination -- before the gritty darkness slams into him, swallowing him like a storm wave. Wei-qianbei manages one shrieking note on his flute before the shadow crashes down around him as well. Resentful energy floods the clearing around the gate, somehow the worst of water and wind at once, and Lan Sizhui’s catches Lan Jingyi’s panicked “Sizhui!” just before --

A flash of red cleaves through the darkness, and Wei-qianbei’s voice shouts, “Lan Zhan!” Hanguang-Jun does not reply, but the spirit roils at the touch of Wei-qianbei’s cultivation, emitting a piercing, bone-splitting shriek that drowns out everything else. 

No longer a spirit but a storm, it crashes into the surrounding forest and chokes the paths in and out, extinguishing the braziers as it goes. It smells like smoke and tastes like ash, but where his skin expects the lick of fire, there is only a biting cold, which sinks its teeth past his skin and into his very meridians. Lan Sizhui slashes with his sword, putting the full force of his spiritual energy behind it, but it does little to cut through the darkness. 

Without a corporeal form, there is little to attack, and Lan Sizhui struggles for a moment to sheathe his sword as he’s buffeted by resentful energy. He digs his heels into the frozen ground as best he can and reaches inside his qiankun pouch for his guqin, all the while scanning the churning darkness for other disciples. Without the braziers, he can only catch the faintest glow of swords, here and gone again, as his juniors attempt to hold their ground. Stowing his sword into his qiankun pouch and readying his guqin instead, Lan Sizhui wastes no time: the sound of his strings vibrating is lost under the shadow’s screeching, but the blue light of his attack cuts through the dark. He catches a snatch of white before the gritty storm closes back in, but it’s enough -- Lan Sizhui redoubles his efforts, pushing against the winds, and repeats the chord. 

This time, it cuts through the shadow enough to reveal Lan Xiuying. She turns towards the pulse of his attack and shouts what looks like, from the shape of her mouth, to be his name. They fight through the resentful energy between them until Lan Xiuying can grab onto his sleeve. Her hand is shaking, but her mouth is set. 

“Find the others!” Lan Sizhui all but shouts in her ear. “Hold the perimeter!” 

“Okay!” 

Lan Sizhui watches as she fumbles with the qiankun pouch at her hip and produces a xiao in exchange for her sword. She nods to him before blowing a low note that pushes against the storm around them. Lan Xiuying nods again, this time to herself, and darts into the opening she’s created before the darkness closes around her. 

Alone again, Lan Sizhui sets forward, playing with his full power to fight for every step. Every breath is thick with resentment, pouring into his lungs and making his throat burn. There’s something hot and wet dripping from his ears. He won’t last long with the amount of energy he’s expending, both in his attacks and to keep his body regulated. They obviously can’t destroy this spirit with musical cultivation alone, but if he can just get to Hanguang-Jun, or Wei-qianbei -- 

He strikes out with another chord, and from the darkness a hand snaps out and grabs him. Lan Sizhui turns, ready to slam the body of his guqin into his attacker, only to barely catch the words: “Lan Zhan?”

“Wei-qianbei!” he shouts, turning to see Wei-qianbei’s face, ghostly pale against the storm. His dark robes blend in with the resentful energy around them, and it’s impossible to say where he begins and the resentment ends. 

The hand on his grips him a little tighter and for a brief moment, Lan Sizhui isn’t sure that Wei-qianbei is seeing him at all. But then he blinks and shouts back, “Sizhui!” Wei-qianbei looks around, searching, before drawing close to shout into his ear, “Find Hanguang-Jun, we’ll handle this!” 

Before Lan Sizhui can ask who constitutes this we, Wei-qianbei pulls back and blows a shrill note on his flute, all but lost under the screaming -- Lan Sizhui can only tell he’s played at all because of the pulse of red light that radiates from him. In the moment before the storm eats away at the glow, Lan Sizhui catches the faintest impression of Wen-shushu’s face just over Wei-qianbei’s shoulder. 

We. Of course. The resident experts on resentment. 

Wei-qianbei’s attention snaps to somewhere behind Lan Sizhui, and then he’s off, darting into the storm. 

Find Hanguang-Jun, he had said. Lan Sizhui’s heart stutters in his chest as he thinks of the spirit slamming into Hanguang-Jun. He forces himself to play, chord by chord, step by step, praying all the while that Hanguang-Jun is nearby and unharmed and, ideally, still able to fight despite having been hit first and hardest. But there are no further flashes of white robes, no answering call of guqin or bright light of Bichen, and Lan Sizhui begins to panic. 

In a moment of desperation, he pushes everything into his next chord. He can feel the body of his guqin tremble with it, and while the storm does part before him, it reveals nothing. When Lan Sizhui tries to take a step, the world tips as blood rushes to his head, and all at once the storm pushes back at him with a vengeance. Spiritual energy dangerously depleted, Lan Sizhui falls to his knees to brace himself from being blown back, hugging his guqin like a lifeline. He tries to regulate his spiritual energy, to push it back into the correct channels, but there is too little of it compared to the resentful energy that is clogging his meridians like dark sap. It’s all Lan Sizhui can do to try and breathe, and even that becomes difficult as the grit of resentment coats his lungs. 

Lan Sizhui is vaguely aware that he is in trouble, but even that is a distant thought underneath the numbing effects of the storm around him. He is so tired. It seems like a trivial thing, to close his eyes, to rest… 

Everything is in snatches, then, a dream that never quite makes sense. A junior calling out, close enough to be heard, head disciple! A sound underneath the shrieking that might be a xiao, but gone too quickly to tell. A flash of red, glowing and sharp, extinguished by a fresh wave of resentment. A hand closing around a fistful of Lan Sizhui’s robes, yanking him to one side, and a voice he should recognize shouting in his ear, “Stay here!” Before disappearing again. And then --

A familiar hand is wrapping around Lan Sizhui’s wrist, followed by a spark of spiritual energy as its owner feels out who they’ve got ahold of. Even doused in resentment, his spiritual energy recognizes whoever is on the other end and is recognized in return. The hand grabs on tighter, and then another hand is reaching out, and suddenly Lan Sizhui finds his limp body being dragged into a fierce embrace, guqin and all. 

“Sizhui!” he bellows in his ear, louder than any spirit. 

And oh, Lan Sizhui knows that voice. Would know it anywhere. He’s too tired to shout, but he manages to murmur softly, “Jingyi.”

It’s impossible for Lan Jingyi to have heard him, but maybe he feels Lan Sizhui’s lips form the shape of his name against his neck, where Lan Sizhui’s face has been crushed into the collars of his robes. Regardless, Lan Sizhui feels Lan Jingyi’s shoulders loosen in relief as he holds him even tighter. 

“Don’t scare me like that!” Lan Jingyi shouts at him. “I thought I lost you!”

Lan Sizhui wishes he could get his arms to work enough to hug him back, but as it is, he pushes his face further into Lan Jingyi’s neck and lets himself be held. Lan Jingyi, genius that he is, has tied his sword to his back somehow, leaving his hands free to keep a tight hold on Lan Sizhui. 

“Any ideas on how to calm this thing?” Lan Jingyi yells into his ear. 

Before Lan Sizhui can drum up enough strength to shout back, however, a great creaking groans through the darkness, nearly as loud as the spirit’s cries. It sounds like the earth opening up, a bellow deep from the heart of the mountain. The direction of the wind changes, rushing towards a new target, and Lan Sizhui catches sight of a glimmer of red against the darkness. This time, it does not flicker out. 

Wei-qianbei is wreathed in a glow that Lan Sizhui has only glimpsed once, in a memory Wen-shushu had accidentally shown him of Wei-qianbei’s time in Burial Mounds. At the time, it had frightened something deep inside him, but today, surrounded by resentful energy and precious few options, Lan Sizhui finds himself blindingly grateful for the terrifying scope of Wei-qianbei’s powers. The knowledge that they are tempered without the presence of his Stygian Tiger Amulet, that they won’t lose Wei-qianbei to this darkness, is enough to silence any remaining doubts. 

If he focuses, Lan Sizhui can almost distinguish Wei-qianbei’s resentful energy from that of the spirit: the two forces rise to meet each other, seas clashing, well-matched. It is, Lan Sizhui imagines, like watching a riptide from the bottom of the ocean. Beside him, Lan Jingyi clings a little tighter. 

Neither resentment seems to be able to approach Wei-qianbei -- he dodges and weaves, feet never quite touching the ground. His hair and robes snap as he moves, Chenqing at his lips, eyes glowing bright and red. For a moment, Lan Sizhui thinks, in his exhaustion, that the red aura surrounding him is casting a shadow, until he realizes it is not a shadow at all: Wen-shushu darts around Wei-qianbei, defending, protecting in perfect harmony, moving too quickly to be much more than a blur. It’s like watching a single person halved in two and set loose. Each of them is an arm, a leg. They fight as one. 

Something flashes silver and blue near them, forcing the resentment back even further, and Lan Sizhui feels his heart jump into his throat. 

“Hanguang-Jun!” Lan Jingyi shouts, shaking him. “It’s Hanguang-Jun!”

Lan Sizhui wants to weep in relief.

The groaning gets louder, so much so that Lan Sizhui can feel it in his bones -- finally, at last, it drowns out the shrieks of the spirit. All at once, the red aura around Wei-qianbei contracts, the energy surging towards him, and then it’s exploding back out: it slams into Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi, sending them tumbling back. Lan Sizhui finds his cheek pressed against the cold dirt, body curled around his guqin, as Lan Jingyi does what he can to shield him. The wind continues for a moment longer, clawing at their exposed skin, and then it disappears, taking the sounds of battle with it. 

A silence, heavy and stifling, falls over the clearing. Lan Sizhui’s ears are ringing, but he can make out the sound of Lan Jingyi’s ragged breathing above him.

When Lan Sizhui forces his eyes open, the resentful energy is gone, leaving only the familiar darkness of night. He turns and finds Lan Jingyi’s face, pale against the ink-black night, fear etched in every line as he stares down at Lan Sizhui. 

“I’m okay,” Lan Sizhui manages, moving to sit up. Lan Jingyi scrambles to get off him, and then guides him upright. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and they flutter uselessly around Lan Sizhui, brushing dirt from his robes and catching on his hair and face. “Really,” Lan Sizhui tries again, a little louder and firmer. “I’m alright. Just tired.” 

Lan Jingyi grabs his wrist immediately and begins channeling energy into his meridians. His presence washes through Lan Sizhui like a warm tide, the first gentle rain after a drought. But Lan Sizhui sighs, readjusting his guqin to sit in the crook of his arm, and tries weakly to pull away. 

“Don’t,” Lan Jingyi says, head snapping up and frown already in place. “Come on, Sizhui, let me help.” 

“You need your energy, too,” Lan Sizhui reminds him gently. The grip on his wrist tightens. 

“I have more than you. Shush.” 

Unfortunately, it’s true: for all that they’ve been exposed to the same resentment tonight, Lan Jingyi didn’t claw his way through the storm with spiritual power alone. Lan Sizhui sighs again and resigns himself to the care. 

Around them, one by one, like fireflies tentatively emerging, the silver glow of swords appear as disciples use their blades for light. Someone relights the braziers, and everyone present seems to flinch at the bright light after the oppressive darkness of the spirit. 

Lan Sizhui looks back to the gate, where Wei-qianbei is flanked by Hanguang-Jun and Wen-shushu. He’s vaguely aware of Lan Jingyi’s head turning to look as well, although the flow of energy doesn’t stop. On the other side of the gate --

The spirit sits, returned to its original size, as placidly as if nothing had happened at all. It’s quiet enough that Lan Sizhui can hear Wei-qianbei when he says coldly, “Someone needs to wake the elders. I want this gate warded against anything less than a god, and they won’t be pleased if I do it myself.” 

“I’ll stand guard until then,” Wen-shushu volunteers. His robes are ripped, but he appears otherwise whole -- another knot loosens in Lan Sizhui’s chest. 

Wei-qianbei claps Wen-shushu on the shoulder before turning away from the gate and calling out, in a tone one degree off from his usual cheer, “My dearest disciples! I’m going to need you to sound off.” 

Lan Sizhui does shake Lan Jingyi off then, feeling well enough to stand with a little help. He’s unsteady but otherwise unharmed except for the small amount of blood dripping from his ears. He sweeps a critical eye over Lan Jingyi, assessing, before raising his voice to say, “Jingyi and I are okay, Wei-qianbei.”

Wei-qianbei turns to look at them, and that’s how Lan Sizhui realizes there’s an ugly cut stretching across his cheekbone. He doesn’t appear to notice, or is unbothered, as he nods and says, “Excellent. Who else?”

One by one the juniors call out their names: no one is harmed as much as they are shaken. Hanguang-Jun comes to stand beside Wei-qianbei, guqin nestled in the crook of his arm -- all of its strings are snapped. 

“Return to your rooms,” Hanguang-Jun tells them, when at last Lan Guanyu reports nothing but a shakiness in his legs, “or to the Mingshi if you need to be cleansed. You have done well tonight.” 

There’s the soft mutterings of farewells, the rustle of bows being performed, and then the clearing is mostly empty once more. 

“A-Yuan, Jingyi,” Wen-shushu calls softly from the gate. Lan Sizhui goes to him, with Lan Jingyi holding tight onto his arm as if he might fall, and lets Wen-shushu look them over. “You both are really okay?” he asks. “I have tinctures back home for your ears, if you need them.” 

“No need, Shushu,” Lan Sizhui tells him. The blood has already stopped, his golden core whirling away inside him to patch the hurt. Any damage will be gone by morning. He takes a moment to burn away any of the lingering resentful energy in his meridians before saying, “We’re okay.” 

“I’m fine,” Wei-qianbei’s voice insists in parallel from behind them. Lan Sizhui turns to see Hanguang-Jun’s hand hovering over Wei-qianbei’s face, which is obviously leaning away from the touch. “Really, it won’t even scar. Don’t you dare waste the energy on it.” 

“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-Jun says, low and pained. 

Wei-qianbei studies Hanguang-Jun’s expression and, after a long moment, sighs. “If you feel you absolutely must, Lan-er-gege.” Before he has even finished speaking, Hanguang-Jun’s thumb has taken on a faint glow and is set against his cheekbone, running along the length of the cut. It leaves behind a pink line which might have been healing for days instead of moments. Wei-qianbei endures this before asking, not unkindly, “Satisfied?”

Hanguang-Jun does not reply, but his hand lingers on the side of Wei-qianbei’s face. For a moment, Lan Sizhui thinks he might kiss him, but when Hanguang-Jun leans in, it’s to rest his forehead against Wei-qianbei’s. The silence at the gate is oppressive as Hanguang-Jun lets out a single, shaking breath, so deep that his shoulders sag as it leaves him. 

“Oh, Lan Zhan,” Wei-qianbei says softly, letting his eyes fall shut and wrapping his arms around Hanguang-Jun, drawing him closer until his face is tucked into Wei-qianbei’s neck. A hand comes up to stroke his hair, and Lan Sizhui abruptly finds the moment too intimate to watch. 

“The elders will need to be notified,” Wen-shushu says into the quiet, providing an out. “Will you fetch them, A-Yuan?” 

Lan Sizhui feels his stomach plummet. No matter what he tells them, they’re going to start going on about how this is somehow Wei-qianbei’s fault. He sighs and opens his mouth to reply, but Lan Jingyi beats him to it. 

“It’s my turn to get someone out of bed,” he says firmly. “Sizhui needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Lan Sizhui begins, but Lan Jingyi is already giving him a look. 

“You really want to deal with the Grandmaster right now?” he asks. 

Lan Sizhui decidedly does not, but there are certain responsibilities that come with being head disciple. He tugs gently at Lan Jingyi’s sleeve, eyes meeting his, and says, “Together, then. It will be over twice as fast. Then we can both rest.” 

For a moment he thinks Lan Jingyi might fight him on this, but then his shoulder sag and he says, “Fine.” 

Lan Sizhui fumbles through their sleeves to find Lan Jingyi’s hand, and squeezes it in a silent thank you. He glances one last time at Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei, still lost in one another, and when he speaks, it feels like talking around his heart in his throat. “Let’s get going.”

☽

Newer, stronger wards go up at the inner gate, and a hush falls over Cloud Recesses. Several of the elders, including the Grandmaster, retreat to the secret chambers of the Library Pavilion to research the spirit. Classes are put on hold. A stricter curfew is put in place for the younger children and novices.

Everyone braces for the spirit’s next move, but no such move comes. 

This becomes the pattern of their days:

Shortly after dawn, though following no particular schedule, the spirit will disappear without a trace from the inner gate. The disciples on the case -- now including several seniors and the occasional elder -- will spend the daylight hours sleeping, eating, and researching until, come evening, the spirit reappears. It is always at the same spot outside the gate. It shows no interest in forcing its way through the wards again. It continues to shriek if addressed in anything besides qin language. The night is spent trying a hundred different questions, played on different guqins by various disciples, until the spirit vanishes once more. On occasion, Wei-qianbei will be allowed to try a talisman, or a short melody from Chenqing. One night, when Hanguang-Jun is pulled away on other business, Wei-qianbei bullies the elder on site until he finally obtains permission to poke it with his flute. 

None of it brings them any closer to discovering what the spirit is, or why it lingers at the gate. 

Three days pass this way. 

“If it’s trying to starve us out, it’s doing a poor job,” Wei-qianbei says on the morning of the fourth. It’s still before dawn, an hour or so before their guest will disappear and Hanguang-Jun will come to collect them, and Wei-qianbei is sitting in a loose lotus pose before the gate. “I mean, there are other paths into Cloud Recesses, and it disappears during the hours when deliveries would be made.” His face scrunches up. “Maybe it’s trying to avoid people?”

“And yet it wants an audience,” Lan Jingyi says woodenly, munching on a handful of nuts. The nocturnal schedule isn’t agreeing with him -- despite being a heavy sleeper, actually falling asleep doesn’t come as easily to him in times of stress. They’ve taken to hanging multiple sets of robes over the windows of Lan Sizhui’s room to keep the light out. The walls are papered in sound-dampening talismans. None of it seems to be helping much.

“I can ask if it’s avoiding people,” Lan Sizhui offers dutifully. It’s his turn on the guqin tonight. Hanguang-Jun is off tending to his Chief Cultivator duties that have piled up because of the case.

“Sure, why not,” Wei-qianbei says, gesturing for Lan Sizhui to go ahead. 

He plucks out the question carefully. There’s a lengthy pause before it answers, but when it does -- 

“It’s…” Lan Sizhui politely asks the spirit to repeat itself, but it remains silent. 

“What did it say?” Wei-qianbei asks, perking up. 

“It… apologized?” Lan Sizhui replies, glancing at Wei-qianbei and then to Lan Jingyi. “Why would it do that?”

Wei-qianbei shakes his head. “You Lans and your polite hauntings, I swear.” Lan Sizhui remembers the other night, the air thick with resentful energy, and bites back a comment on how it didn’t seem very polite then. Perhaps Wei-qianbei’s standards are very, very different. He did grow up with Sect Leader Jiang, after all. “Hey, tell the spirit I said it’s the politest intruder I’ve ever met.” 

Lan Sizhui reluctantly does, but no response comes. Without the force of Hanguang-Jun’s spiritual energy to drag responses from it, the spirit never replies to Wei-qianbei. It’s something they discovered on the third night, and it brings Wei-qianbei an endless amount of amusement. Even now he watches the spirit with a curious glint in his eye. 

“You really don’t like me, hm?” he asks, tilting his head as he observes it. Like he has to ask, with the pink mark still healing on his face. As expected, the shadow lets out a horrible shriek, and Lan Sizhui numbly fetches the pieces of wool he’s kept to storing in his sleeve and stuffs them in his ears. Beside him, Lan Jingyi does the same. A handful of senior disciples hanging further back make aggrieved noises that are more or less drowned out by the spirit.

“If only it liked me, that would actually narrow things down,” Wei-qianbei says conversationally once it’s stopped. Lan Sizhui removes the wool from his ears and sighs. “Though the fact it doesn’t seem to mind Wen Ning is interesting.” 

Wen-shushu can walk around the spirit, even through it, with no reaction, despite their bitter battle the other night. Whatever grudges the spirit holds, they seem limited to Wei-qianbei and his flute alone. 

“You think it can even properly recognize Wen-qianbei as the Ghost General?” Lan Jingyi asks, not for the first time. They’re treading the same ground over and over, like Wei-qianbei’s donkey stomping down all the grass in her enclosure. It’s infuriating, but Lan Sizhui is at a loss of what else to do. 

“Not sure,” Wei-qianbei says, sounding just as worn down. The mystery is growing old for all of them. Lan Sizhui knows better than to say so around Hanguang-Jun, but at least the attack was something. Actions they can learn from -- monotony gives them nothing. He knows Wei-qianbei feels the same. 

Lan Sizhui makes sure the other senior disciples and today’s elder of choice are well out of earshot before asking softly, “Do you think it made it through the central wards because of the, ah… allowances for Wen-shushu?” 

Wei-qianbei scrubs a hand over his face and says, mindfully quiet, “Lan Zhan thinks so. But I really don’t think it’s related. The tweak I made -- and it was a tweak, incredibly small, virtually invisible unless you’re looking for it -- well, it’s specific to Wen Ning. Not even another sentient fierce corpse could make it through.” He means Song Lan. “I specifically designed it to be as minor as possible, and if it’s been working for the past two years, why would something get through now?” 

Lan Jingyi shrugs. Lan Sizhui hates his next question before it’s even out of his mouth, but -- 

“Does the Grandmaster know?”

“Not exactly,” Wei-qianbei says, blowing out a breath. “He’s poked around the central wards, though -- all the elders have. If there was something wrong, they would have spotted it.” 

“They didn’t notice you’d messed with them?” Lan Jingyi asks, low enough to keep his voice from carrying. He sounds genuinely impressed. When Wei-qianbei shakes his head, Lan Jingyi lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You do good work, Wei-qianbei.” 

“Well, if it gets out that I can’t even dissipate one measly spirit, it won’t matter how good the rest of my work is,” Wei-qianbei says with a small, self-deprecating smile. “My reputation will never survive it.” 

Eventually the sky begins to lighten, and the spirit blinks out of existence: never the same time each day, always there and then gone. Wei-qianbei sighs as he stands, popping his back and then slapping a few fresh talismans on the inner gate. The elder wanders over to refresh the additional wards, mumbling something about breakfast. By the time Lan Sizhui packs up his guqin, sliding it back into his qiankun pouch, Hanguang-Jun has arrived to walk them back. 

“No change,” Wei-qianbei tells him with a shake of his head. They let the others go ahead so that they can speak freely, and as the last senior disciple starts up the path, he says, “I think we should revisit plan three.” 

Currently, Wei-qianbei is down to three plans. It should be noted that no one likes any of them. 

The first plan centers around the hypothesis that the spirit is tied to Wei-qianbei somehow. He’s suggested packing his things and heading out to Yunmeng for a few weeks to see if it follows. Hanguang-Jun in particular hates this plan, although if the elders were given the choice, they’d likely throw Wei-qianbei a farewell banquet. 

The second plan involves appeasing the spirit. It wants an audience, but never seems satisfied with the assortment of cultivators present, so Wei-qianbei has suggested parading every person in Cloud Recesses before the shadow to see if they can find who it’s looking for. Wei-qianbei is the first to admit that the scale of said plan makes it difficult and, while many of the junior disciples have already enthusiastically volunteered, no one is in any hurry to offer up the infants from the nursery to a resentful spirit. There are, as Lan Jingyi so helpfully pointed out, entire myths as to why this is a very bad idea. 

The third plan is simple: Wei-qianbei wants another pair of eyes on the problem. The issue is that he wants Zewu-Jun’s eyes, specifically. 

“We can’t take this outside of the sect,” Wei-qianbei had reasoned. “I mean, I definitely would, but I know the elders would rather abandon Cloud Recesses altogether than lose that much face. So it needs to be someone already here, and you and I haven’t figured it out, Lan Zhan, and none of the elders know. Who else is left to ask?”

But Hanguang-Jun had shaken his head, and only replied wearily, “Xiongzhang’s seclusion is not to be interrupted. We will find another way.” 

Hanguang-Jun seems just as resolute today as he pins Wei-qianbei with a tired, pointed look. Lan Sizhui has watched this argument play out on no less than three occasions, and those are only the times it’s happened in public. It only gets worse as the disagreement drags on.

Lan Sizhui joins Lan Jingyi in studiously pretending to inspect the wards as Wei-qianbei says, low but carrying, “Three years, Lan Zhan. Surely, you -- you get it, right? Remind me how long they -- ” A pause as his voice goes lower, and Lan Sizhui has to strain to hear. “ -- how long they locked you in the Cold Pond Cave?”

“Wei Ying.” A warning. 

“Three years,” Wei-qianbei repeats, frustration bleeding into his voice. “And Zewu-Jun’s seclusion isn’t even enforced, he’s choosing -- ”

Lan Sizhui is not ignorant about Hanguang-Jun’s time in seclusion. The sect is tight-lipped about it to the extent that word of Hanguang-Jun’s punishment never left Cloud Recesses, but more than one senior disciple was present for his whipping. One of them was Lan Jingyi’s father. 

Hanguang-Jun has only discussed it with Lan Sizhui once, shortly after he had moved to the dormitories for junior disciples and begun hearing whispers about himself, about his status as Hanguang-Jun’s ward, about Hanguang-Jun’s seclusion. After a gentle review of the rules pertaining to gossip, Hanguang-Jun had made them both tea as they sat in the Jingshi. 

“I broke the rules,” Hanguang-Jun had said, eyes on his cup. “I had my reasons.” Looking up, he had finished simply with: “I accepted the consequences.” 

And that had been that. 

Lan Sizhui can’t imagine that the same conversation with Wei-qianbei went nearly as well. He wonders, sometimes, if that’s why Wei-qianbei treats the Grandmaster with such singular contempt: of course he torments all the elders, but to the Grandmaster alone he is cruel, sometimes. (If you want him to listen to you, you can’t talk to him like I do, Wei-qianbei had said.) Lan Sizhui is nearly certain the Grandmaster’s own scorn is rooted in the same soil. Two men, facing off, with a disdain for each other which has stretched across war and death, each believing the other to have caused Hangaung-Jun the pain he carries with him. 

The Grandmaster picks apart Wei-qianbei but truly means, you corrupted him. 

Wei-qianbei fires back, but it sounds more like, you let the whip fall. 

Lan Sizhui doesn’t know exactly what role Zewu-Jun plays in Wei-qianbei’s complicated equation of blame, only that the Grandmaster is a variable, as is Wei-qianbei himself. All Lan Sizhui can do is guess at the blanks left by what Wei-qianbei does not say: namely, that when he speaks of Hanguang-Jun’s whipping, it is the Grandmaster’s name he invokes, but also that he has never singled him out as the executor of Hanguang-Jun’s seclusion. Perhaps it is easier for him to divide the two punishments among the two men who ordered them. Or maybe he knows what Lan Sizhui does, a forbidden piece of knowledge smuggled from Lan Jingyi by way of his father:

Zewu-Jun was not present for Hanguang-Jun’s whipping. He was sent away by the Grandmaster before the first lash even fell, weeping openly for his brother, although he did not speak out against the punishment. Hanguang-Jun, they say, did not even spare him a glance. 

It’s an impossible game to play, wondering what Wei-qianbei knows and what he doesn’t. He could talk for an hour and tell you nothing. All Lan Sizhui knows for certain is that right now, Zewu-Jun’s seclusion is the issue Wei-qianbei has decided to press, and it stands between him and Hanguang-Jun like a physical barrier. 

“We do not need to disturb him,” Hanguang-Jun is saying. Lan Sizhui risks a glance at Lan Jingyi, who’s grimacing. “Seclusion is designed for reflection, uninterrupted by worldly concerns.” Then, with a touch of desperation. “Wei Ying. We can handle this ourselves.”

“You always say that!” Wei-qianbei hisses. Lan Jingyi’s eyes squeeze shut, as if that will help him from hearing this. “You said that about being acting sect leader, and then about being Chief Cultivator, and you’ll say it about every single thing they throw at you, as long as they tell you that you’re doing it for him.”

Lan Jingyi looks distinctly panicked now, eyes opening to search out Lan Sizhui so he can mouth, Your dads are fighting. Lan Sizhui offers him a helpless shrug and an expression that he hopes communicates, What am I supposed to do about it?

The thing is, Lan Sizhui gets Wei-qianbei’s point. If it were up to him, he would kick down the door of the Hanshi himself. The rules say do not mix public and private interests, and yes, maybe bringing Zewu-Jun out of seclusion is a private interest of Lan Sizhui’s, but the rules also have some choice words about abandoning your sect to face danger alone. 

(“I’ll help you break in, you know I will,” Lan Jingyi had said when Lan Sizhui told him this, “but also I’d prefer not to be exiled. We’d have to show up at Jin Ling’s doorstep and ask to be inducted into the Jin sect. Imagine how embarrassing that would be.” 

Lan Sizhui, in a very uncharacteristic moment of stubbornness, born of days without proper rest, had said, “Zizhen-xiong would take us.”

Lan Jingyi had slapped his thigh. “You’re absolutely right. Sizhui, you genius. Let’s go break into the Hanshi.” 

And Lan Sizhui had been forced to grab his hand and pull him back down, admitting to himself in the process that his plan might not be possible.)

“I will carry Xiongzhang’s burdens during his seclusion,” Hanguang-Jun says, low and resolute, “as he once carried mine.” 

“Yes, but! You’re missing the point! Voluntary seclusion, Lan Zhan, he’s choosing this, he’s been choosing this for three years while you pick up the slack.”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Jingyi is gripping his sword with both hands so tightly that Lan Sizhui is worried for the sheath. Silence falls over the clearing at the gate. 

Lan Sizhui hates to be right: each repetition of this argument is getting worse. He can only imagine how the fights they have in private about it are going. 

There’s a sigh, tired and a touch sad, before Wei-qianbei says, “I’m sorry. That was -- well, not wrong, I stand by my point, but… Sorry. I need sleep.” 

“No need for apologies between us,” Hanguang-Jun replies, barely above a whisper.

“If you think plan three really is impossible,” Wei-qianbei says, “then we should fall back to my first idea. I swear I -- I’m not trying to guilt you into anything, but those are our two best options. We do one or the other, and if your brother really can’t be disturbed, then we only have one option.” The silence rings, until: “How about this: give it one more day. If we don’t have any more answers by tomorrow morning, I’ll -- I’ll go. Just for a few weeks! And then we’ll be certain.” 

“Wei Ying…” It flays something in Lan Sizhui’s heart to hear Hanguang-Jun use that tone -- it’s a miserable, tender thing. Wei-qianbei seems to hate it too if the way he hurries to speak again is any indication. 

“Hey, no, let’s… let’s talk about it more later, okay? At home, privately? I’m tired. I know you must be. Let’s get some sleep and we can think about it with fresh minds.” 

There’s another stretch of silence before Hanguang-Jun utters the saddest mn Lan Sizhui has ever heard. Lan Jingyi looks like he might actually be on the verge of tears. He’s always been deeply attached to the relationship Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei have, loudly telling anyone who will listen that he wants a love like that someday. Once, he apparently went on long enough that Jin Ling fell asleep. Lan Jingyi has often claimed that Ouyang Zizhen is the only one who gets it. 

“You two!” 

Lan Sizhui nearly jumps before turning around to face them. Beside him, Lan Jingyi does the same, but keeps his eyes firmly on the ground, probably on account of how shiny they are. 

“Finish up and head back, alright?” Wei-qianbei says. One of his hands is tangled with Hanguang-Jun’s, who’s staring at their joined fingers like Wei-qianbei might disappear if he looks away from the point of contact. 

“Yes, Wei-qianbei,” Lan Sizhui manages, followed by one of the sloppiest bows he’s executed since childhood. Lan Jingyi’s is barely any better. When at last they’re alone at the gate, with not even their ominous spirit to watch, Lan Jingyi lets out a breath that shakes so badly, Lan Sizhui waits for it to become a small sob. It doesn’t, though, only disappearing into the cold morning air as fog.

Lan Sizhui allows himself a moment to scrub his hands over his face. He -- he -- 

“Let’s get back,” he croaks. 

They walk back in silence up the mountain. Around them, the rest of the sect is just finishing breakfast, and Lan Sizhui can’t help but feel that everyone else belongs to a different world entirely. 

Once the door of Lan Sizhui’s room closes behind them, still covered in yesterday’s silencing talismans, they set aside their swords, kicking off boots and shucking off outer robes in slow, ungainly movements. Lan Sizhui isn’t surprised in the slightest when Lan Jingyi crawls into bed behind him and burrows close. The robes over the window keep out the worst of the sunlight, the goings on of Cloud Recesses muffled by talismans, but sleep dances just out of reach. Eventually, chest in knots, Lan Sizhui turns over to find Lan Jingyi still awake. He watches him as Lan Sizhui tries to get comfortable, tucking his arms in front of himself. They bend around one another, bare foreheads nearly brushing and tangled at the ankles. 

“Are you okay?” Lan Jingyi asks him, eyes still suspiciously shiny. 

What a question.

“I -- ” Do not use frivolous words. “I just -- ”

“I’m not okay,” Lan Jingyi tells him honestly. He does this sometimes, when the words won’t come, like something deep in Lan Sizhui is barring them. A poisonous thought, perhaps, with roots stretching into his very marrow, assuring him that if he can find the right words, cite the right rule, be the perfect model of a disciple, then he will be listened to and understood. He was raised by two brothers who were -- still are -- judicious with their words, inside a sect that values thoughtfulness and restraint, and never thought to question such teachings. Until -- 

Lan Jingyi. Lan Jingyi, whose thoughts pour like water from his mouth, unending and relentless. It’s why he hates so scathingly and loves so deeply -- there’s nothing in between what he feels and what he says. He doesn’t have the walls Lan Sizhui does, but he understands them, and that’s why he will say the forbidden word or express the forbidden feeling or whatever needs to be done for the dam to break inside Lan Sizhui. It’s one of the greatest kindnesses Lan Sizhui has ever known -- as he struggles to be correct, to be good, Lan Jingyi will always assure him: I’m here. I’m listening. I’m with you, in this jagged moment that doesn’t quite fit between the neat lines of rules carved into the Wall of Discipline. I’ll sit with you while you’re imperfect, and I’ll sit with you because you’re imperfect. 

So Lan Jingyi says, “I’m not okay.” And then Lan Sizhui can finally unlock his teeth and let out a shaky breath, which carries in its tide the words, “I hate this.”

Lan Jingyi makes a noise to show he’s listening. 

“I hate this spirit,” Lan Sizhui whispers angrily, mortified to hear his voice growing thick, “and I hate that Zewu-Jun isn’t here to help and I hate that Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-Jun are fighting about it -- ” Here, Lan Sizhui forces another shaking breath. “ -- and I hate that the Grandmaster is blaming Wen-shushu and I hate that I lashed out at him.” And here, tears do begin to slide down his face as he realizes: “I hate that I can’t fix this.”

The shiny look in Lan Jingyi’s eyes from earlier is joined by something else that Lan Sizhui can’t place as he reaches out and drags Lan Sizhui closer, tucking his head into his neck. There, Lan Sizhui cries into the collar of his sleeping robes as Lan Jingyi’s hand smooths over his hair. When he speaks, Lan Sizhui can feel the timbre of it in his chest, and he hears the telltale unsteadiness of tears there. 

“Since when did it become your job to fix everything, hm?” Lan Jingyi asks. “You’re not sect leader, not yet. You’re not an elder. Sizhui…” He squeezes him a little tighter. “You’re only responsible for yourself, and the juniors if you’re leading a night hunt, and maybe me, occasionally, but only when you want to be.” 

I always want to be responsible for you, Lan Sizhui thinks hazily. Then, out loud, he says, “But we’re senior disciples now, and I -- I feel just as useless as I did as a junior.” Sometimes, when he passes a bronze mirror, he feels like he’ll see a ten-year-old drowning in his senior robes, fumbling with an overlarge sword. That"s how it feels like others see him.

“Sizhui,” Lan Jingyi says, sounding fondly exasperated. “Haven’t you noticed that everyone on this case is just as useless? It’s not like the elders are solving it any time soon. Even Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-Jun are stumped. Look at me! I’m literally forbidden from playing the guqin where other people can hear. Are you going to tell me I’m useless?”

“No,” Lan Sizhui grumbles into Lan Jingyi’s robes. He knows he’s been played. 

“Then stop beating yourself up,” Lan Jingyi says, unknowingly echoing Wei-qianbei from the other night. “This is a tough case, but we’ll crack it.” Then, he adds, “Have a strong will and anything can be achieved.” He’s never found comfort in the rules the way Lan Sizhui has, but he knows they help Lan Sizhui focus when his attention starts to fray. “We’ll find our way out of this one.”

That’s the thing about Lan Jingyi: he’s so earnest that you want to believe him. Even after so many years of friendship, it still works on Lan Sizhui.

“Okay,” he whispers, burrowing closer. “Thanks, Jingyi.”

A hand appears to pet his hair. “Anytime. Now sleep.”

He does. 

☽

For the first time since Lan Xiuying came to his door in the middle of the night, Lan Sizhui wakes up of his own accord. Normally Wen-shushu comes to collect them, or a disciple has a report for him, or an elder needs something for the case, or, or, or… but today, the room is quiet and dark, and there’s a hand still absently combing through his hair. 

“Jingyi?” he mumbles. 

The hand pauses. “Yeah?”

Lan Sizhui turns so he can blink groggily up at Lan Jingyi. “Did you sleep?”

“A bit,” he replies, hand resuming its finger combing. 

“Why haven’t I been woken up to sign paperwork or something yet?” 

Lan Jingyi smiles, a touch mischievous. His hair is still down. “Oh. I worked a bit of magic.” 

“Magic,” Lan Sizhui repeats. Normally Lan Jingyi’s brand of working a bit of magic violates no less than five rules and guarantees an afternoon with the Grandmaster. 

“Don’t worry,” Lan Jingyi says, taking his hand from Lan Sizhui’s hair to gently flick his nose. He looks a little too proud of himself when he explains, “I stuck a notice on your door, saying your roof has a leak, too, and that you’ve moved into the other wing temporarily.” 

Lan Sizhui’s brain, still waking up, processes that. “The other wing is empty, though?”

“Exactly,” Lan Jingyi says. “They’ll think you’re already gone for the day.” 

“Jingyi.”

“Are you complaining?” he asks seriously, like he’ll bound out of bed immediately to rip the sign down if that’s what Lan Sizhui wants. 

Sometimes Lan Sizhui can’t handle him. He buries his face back into Lan Jingyi’s thigh and says into the fabric, “No. It’s -- that was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Lan Jingyi says, satisfied. “Now come on, I have more surprises.” 

Lan Jingyi has apparently had a productive few hours while Lan Sizhui slept. A full tub waits behind the courtesy screen, still steaming with the help of a few heating talismans. After his bath, Lan Sizhui is treated to a noodle dish while Lan Jingyi combs out his hair. 

“So while you were asleep, I was thinking,” Lan Jingyi says, once he’s installed himself at the other side of the table with his own breakfast. Technically, this is what the kitchens are serving for dinner, but their nocturnal schedule has thrown everything into disarray. The sun is setting, a pink and purple smear on the horizon, and their spirit will return soon. “We’ve been looking at this wrong, somehow. The case. We’re getting caught up in the same details. I think we should start over.” 

“As in… pretend we don’t know what we know?” Lan Sizhui asks, fiddling with his chopsticks. 

“Exactly,” Lan Jingyi nods. “Maybe…” He jumps to his feet and fetches a piece of paper, an inkstone, and his brush, the one that Lan Sizhui brought him back from Qinghe. Returning to the table, he sets them out beside their dishes and grinds a small amount of ink. Finally, brush poised, he looks up at Lan Sizhui and says, “Pretend we’re writing a letter to Jin Ling, or Zizhen. What would we tell them about the case?”

Lan Sizhui considers this carefully before saying, “There’s a spirit at the inner gate of Cloud Recesses.” Lan Jingyi begins to write, nodding along. “It can pass through the outer and central wards, and the inner ones if provoked, but prefers to wait outside the gate.” 

“Hold up,” Lan Jingyi says, pausing. “We don’t know that it made it through the other sets of wards, do we? It only made it through the inner wards, before they were reinforced, and it hasn’t really moved otherwise. Just appears and disappears, unless it’s exploding.”

It’s Lan Sizhui’s turn to nod. “Fair point. Okay, so it might have made it through the stronger wards, but maybe not.” He tries to stick to the facts, things he knows for certain are true. Observable data. “It appears and disappears at different times each day, but it generally appears after dusk and is gone shortly after dawn. It says it wants an audience but won’t say who. It hates anything other than qin language -- ”

“Does it?”

Lan Sizhui blinks. “Well, it screams. A lot.”

“Maybe that’s just how it talks,” Lan Jingyi reasons. “Think about when we saw it properly angry. Like when Wei-qianbei tried to play for it on the first night. Or when Hanguang-Jun tried to cleanse it.”

“Right.” He considers this, and says thoughtfully, “For a resentful spirit, it seems to have a wide range of emotions. It was happy to see Hanguang-Jun, angry at Wei-qianbei, sad or at least regretful when we asked if it had hurt anyone. Even with what Wei-qianbei said about different types of resentful energy, it seems…”

Lan Sizhui trails off, uncertain. 

“It seems too... dynamic to be dead,” Lan Jingyi finishes for him. “There might be different types of resentment, but you’re still -- sort of stuck, when you die? On one emotion?” He processes that for a second and asks, “Do you think we’re wrong about it being a ghost? Could it be some kind of yao?”

“It seems human,” Lan Sizhui replies, shaking his head. “It looked humanoid, too, based on the glimpse we saw.” 

“Not a ghost, not a yao… Sizhui.” Lan Jingyi looks stricken when he asks, “Do you think it could be a living person?” 

“I -- ” Lan Sizhui finds himself at a loss. The evidence is spotty at best, but they’ve explored all the other options so thoroughly that this might be all that’s left. He’s heard stories where the root cause turned out to be a human pulling the strings, but it’s rare. “Maybe?”

“Run with it,” Lan Jingyi advises. “If we assume it’s a person, a living person, then who? What do we know about them?”

“They’ve hurt people,” Lan Sizhui begins. “They don’t seem to resent Gusu Lan necessarily. They like the disciples well enough, at least, and they really like Hanguang-Jun. They just want to be… heard? Acknowledged?” 

“Okay,” Lan Jingyi agrees, writing all of this down. “If the shadow is someone tied to a person, then they must be -- projecting it, somehow?” 

“Consciously?”

“Probably not,” he replies. “Remember how they didn’t even remember their own name? If you were going to purposefully project, you’d be more conscious. I think it’s happening unintentionally.” 

“Dreaming,” Lan Sizhui says suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The shadow appears around bedtime and disappears at the time someone might wake up,” Lan Sizhui explains in a rush. “Maybe the person is projecting in their sleep, completely unaware.”

“Yes! And we know they can’t be a Lan, because they don’t rise and sleep at the usual times,” Lan Jingyi says, nodding excitedly and continuing to write. Lan Sizhui feels breakfast curdle in his stomach. 

“Jingyi,” he says faintly. 

“It would have to be someone in Caiyi -- nowhere else is close enough, and it would take pretty strong spiritual energy to project even that far -- ”

“Jingyi.”

He stops, eyes locking onto Lan Sizhui’s. His brow creases in concern at whatever he sees there. “Sizhui?”

Lan Sizhui swallows and lets his gaze fall until he’s staring into the remains of his food. 

“Jingyi, I -- I think I know who it is.”

“What? Who?”

Lan Sizhui forces his eyes up to meet Lan Jingyi’s. 

“There’s one person in Cloud Recesses not following curfew.”

☽

They tear down the path, robes half-tied and hair barely pinned back. It’s a miracle they remembered their ribbons. 

Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei are already at the inner gate, waiting for the spirit. Wei-qianbei, instead of being dressed in his usual attire, which involves at least one item stolen from Hanguang-Jun, is dressed in his thick black travelling robes. He’s speaking to Wen-shushu in quiet tones as Hanguang-Jun warms up his guqin. Thankfully, it’s just the three of them for now. When Wei-qianbei spies the two of them sprinting towards them, his eyebrows shoot up. 

“Hey, slow down, slow down,” he tells them as they nearly trip over themselves coming to a halt, bowing quickly. “Where’s the fire?” 

“Wei-qianbei,” Lan Sizhui says, nearly out of breath. He notices Hanguang-Jun stand and approach, guqin in hand. “We think we know who the spirit is.” 

Wei-qianbei shares a quick glance with Hanguang-Jun before he says, “Alright, let’s hear it.”

“It’s Zewu-Jun!” Lan Jingyi blurts out. Every eye in the clearing snaps to him immediately, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. Lowering it, he adds weakly, “Sorry, we were going to ease into it, but -- ” He cuts himself off, glancing apologetically at Lan Sizhui. 

“Explain,” Hanugang-Jun says, sounding stiff. 

Lan Sizhui hurries to do so. “We thought the shadow felt too dynamic to be dead -- and then we realized it could be a cultivator, a powerful one, projecting as they sleep. But the hours are wrong for most of the sect, except for -- ”

“Except for someone in seclusion,” Wei-qianbei finishes, staring at them. Hanguang-Jun’s eyes fall shut, and his expression is pained. Silence hangs for a moment. Wei-qianbei’s eyes are distant, but his brow is furrowed, as if trying to balance an equation. And then, he blinks, and turns to Hanguang-Jun. “Lan Zhan,” he says softly. Hanguang-Jun forces his eyes open to meet Wei-qianbei’s. “The Song of Clarity.” 

Lan Sizhui isn’t sure what he’s referring to, but Hanguang-Jun looks downright gutted. It’s in the particular tensing of his eyes, coupled with the tightness of his jaw. He swallows but says nothing.

“If we’re unsure,” Wen-shushu says softly, when the silence stretches, “why don’t we ask him?”

Everyone turns to see Wen-shushu nodding to the gate, where the spirit has returned. There’s still an hour before curfew, but not an impossible time to sleep, especially for someone in mourning.

Slowly, with uncharacteristic stiffness, Hanguang-Jun turns and sits. There’s a moment where he takes a breath that escapes his mouth as fog, and then he plays a handful of notes that break Lan Sizhui’s heart. 

Xiongzhang?

The shadow ripples, but doesn’t scream. It seems to be thinking, or perhaps, waking up. Then, with aching slowness, it plucks out a reply. 

Wangji?

Hanguang-Jun lets out a breath that ever-so-slightly shakes at the edges. Wei-qianbei drifts closer and sets a tentative hand on his shoulder. 

“Fuck,” Lan Jingyi says lowly, but with feeling. He catches Lan Sizhui’s eye and says, even softer, “I kind of didn’t want to be right.” 

Lan Sizhui nods. He knows the feeling. 

“So do we… go wake Zewu-Jun?” Lan Jingyi asks, looking between Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-Jun. 

Wei-qianbei looks at Hanguang-Jun, but he’s staring at his hands resting atop the strings. Clearing his throat, Wei-qianbei says, “Maybe, but if we do, then it will probably just happen again. We need to -- to handle it.” 

It’s Wen-shushu who says, “Gongzi. When we were discussing types of resentment a few days ago… what does this feel like to you?”

Wei-qianbei looks older than his years as he looks at the shadow. “Grief,” he replies, voice hollow. 

“Mm. That’s what I think, too.”

Wei-qianbei sighs and scrubs his free hand over his face. “Well, shit.”

“I’ll stay here, with the shadow,” Wen-shushu says softly. “Maybe Jingyi could stay with me?”

Wen-shushu is trying to be tactful, trying to distance himself from what is rapidly becoming a family matter. Lan Jingyi droops a little, likely disappointed to miss out on the conclusion of the mystery, but he nods. “I don’t… Zewu-Jun probably doesn’t want more spectators for this, huh?”

Lan Sizhui shakes his head sadly and reaches out to gently squeeze Lan Jingyi’s hand. A silent thank you for Zewu-Jun’s privacy. 

“Well then,” Wei-qianbei says. “Sizhui?”

Lan Sizhui hesitates for a moment, not because he doesn’t want to see Zewu-Jun, but because he isn’t sure what good his presence will do: whatever grief his uncle is suffering to have projected the shadow at the gate, Lan Sizhui isn’t equipped to help him. He’s been trying, sending letter after letter for nearly three years at this point, but nothing has come of it. But -- if Wei-qianbei is inviting him along, there must be a reason, so Lan Sizhui nods. 

Wei-qianbei nods in return and squeezes Hanguang-Jun’s shoulder before withdrawing his hand. It takes a moment, but Hanguang-Jun stands, and they wait as he methodically rewraps his guqin. When he’s attached it once more to his back, he turns a heavy gaze to Wei-qianbei, whose mouth presses into a line. He reaches a hand up to rest against Hanguang-Jun’s cheek, his thumb swiping along his cheekbone, just as Hanguang-Jun had done for the cut on his face a few nights ago. 

Lan Sizhui averts his eyes. We’ll find a way out, Lan Jingyi had said, and now they have. Lan Sizhui only wished it hurt a little less. 

☽

Under the silver light of a quarter moon, they make their way to the Hanshi. The dark wood under their feet creaks in the otherwise silent evening. Hanguang-Jun goes first, then Wei-qianbei. Lan Sizhui brings up the rear. 

They pause at the door, and Wei-qianbei sets a hand on Hanguang-Jun’s arm before saying softly, “You go first. We’ll wait out here.” A slight pause, and then, “Call for us, if we can help.”

Hanguang-Jun nods and breaks the seal on the door -- a harmless mark, more of a sigil to indicate that the household is a place of seclusion -- and disappears inside. Lan Sizhui finds the more cowardly part of himself oddly relieved at the prospect of only being backup. Still, there’s a piece of him that wants to charge in on Hanguang-Jun’s heels, to see his uncle with his own two eyes and seek out the warm circle of his arms. 

Perhaps Wei-qianbei senses the battle inside him, because a hand settles on Lan Sizhui’s shoulder and squeezes gently. 

“Let them talk,” he advises in a low voice. “Jade to Jade and all that.” 

Lan Sizhui hesitates for a moment before he nods, resigned. He understands, at least in theory, that there are certain ties between siblings that others can’t fully understand. Just because he has no memories of his own sister, long dead, doesn’t mean he’s oblivious to the way that Wen-shushu still calls Wen Qing jiejie with a wistful softness. The same way that Sect Leader Nie frowns with accusing eyes at all of Jinlintai, just as Sect Leader Jiang sometimes looks at Wei-qianbei. 

He still remembers Zewu-Jun the day Hanguang-Jun emerged from seclusion: how tired, but how relieved his face had been as they approached the porch of the Hanshi where Lan Sizhui -- then only A-Yuan -- had waited. A reunion that felt more like an introduction, organized by Zewu-Jun to take place somewhere familiar to Lan Sizhui. Hanguang-Jun’s hair was still drying from the bath, and he’d worn so many layers of billowing white that when he walked, he reminded Lan Sizhui of a fog rolling in. Lan Sizhui remembers the skittering fear that raced through his stomach when Hanguang-Jun’s cool expression turned its full attention to Lan Sizhui -- it took several months to learn to read the man he would come to consider both father and brother. On that day, though, Lan Sizhui had been brave, not for himself or Hanguang-Jun, but for Zewu-Jun, who had said with a sort of naked desperation, “A-Yuan, this is Hanguang-Jun. The Hanguang-Jun we talked about. He is all better now.” 

And Lan Sizhui had looked at the strangely blank features of the man who looked like Bofu but wasn’t, and compared him to the man in the stories who Zewu-Jun also called Wangji or didi. He’d liked the man in those stories because Zewu-Jun liked him, and so that day, he decided to like this Hanguang-Jun, too. 

It feels like a strange, inverted parody of that day as Lan Sizhui stands on the same porch, waiting as Hanguang-Jun intrudes on Zewu-Jun’s seclusion. Wei-qianbei hums an errant melody, eyes trained somewhere far away as the muffled sound of voices stir inside the Hanshi. The only thing that gives him away is the white-knuckled grip on his flute where his arms are crossed protectively over his chest. 

(“Seclusion,” Wei-qianbei had told him last winter, “is a very Lan answer to a very simple problem.”

“How so?” Lan Sizhui had asked, watching Wei-qianbei hack a little harder than necessary at the arrowhead he was carving. 

“Everyone grieves, Sizhui,” he’d said, eyes trained on his task. “But you didn’t see Nie Huaisang or Jiang Cheng heading into seclusion.” The arrowhead shattered, struck too hard, and he’d sighed. When he looked up, his eyes were tired in that way that seemed to be tethered to a weariness in his bones. “Voluntary seclusion is a luxury, and it doesn’t actually do anything. You just stew in your own misery insteading of going out and doing something about it.”

“Sect Leader Nie hatched a murder plot,” Lan Sizhui had reminded him gently.

“And Jiang Cheng rebuilt a sect and raised a kid,” Wei-qianbei had countered. “Productive.” 

The next words had slipped out of Lan Sizhui’s mouth without his permission. “And you…” 

Wei-qianbei’s smile had been an awful thing. “I went and invented demonic cultivation, yeah.” Truthfully, Lan Sizhui had been thinking of Wei-qianbei’s untimely death, but it seemed imprudent to correct him. Instead, he’d nodded slowly, and Wei-qianbei had looked away, saying with a forced, hollow lightness, “I’ll bet you good money that Zewu-Jun won’t come out of seclusion with nearly anything as cool.”)

The voices inside the Hanshi grow louder, though the building’s wards make their words indistinct. Wei-qianbei’s eyes slide to the door, his humming continuing. The tune, Lan Sizhui thinks, sounds a bit like Rest. He readjusts his grip on his sword, palm grown slick with sweat despite the cold. 

And then --

There’s the muffled sound of something heavy hitting the floor, and Wei-qianbei springs into fluid movement all at once, saying, as he rushes past Lan Sizhui through the doors of the Hanshi, “Nope, nope.”

Lan Sizhui follows immediately behind him, heart hammering, and at least has the mind to slide the doors shut behind him. He finds himself tucked by the doorway, caught in shadow, as Wei-qianbei smoothly steps between Hanguang-Jun and -- and --

He cannot remember a time when he’s seen Zewu-Jun look as he does now. His hair is long and loose, rumpled with sleep, and his forehead ribbon is missing. Lan Sizhui eyes trace down his arms -- too thin, even in the gauzy sleeves of his sleeping robe -- and there, tied around his wrist, is his uncle’s ribbon. It hangs loose enough that it’s tangled in his fingers: a man clinging to his control by his fingertips.

Zewu-Jun’s eyes -- exhausted, weighed down by dark bruises pressed like thumbprints into the sockets of his skull -- dart between Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-Jun’s guqin, laying on the floor. That’s what they must have heard fall. Lan Sizhui catches a glimpse of his uncle’s unmade bed in the other room, and Bichen leaning against it, likely discarded when Hanguang-Jun woke him. 

“I -- ” Zewu-Jun’s voice is a rasp, a whisper. “Wangji, I -- I’m sorry, I didn’t -- ”

Hanguang-Jun’s back is to Lan Sizhui, but he can hear all too plainly the pain laced in his voice when he says, a little helplessly, “Xiongzhang.”

“Okay,” Wei-qianbei says, slow and gentle, the way he once talked Ouyang Zizhen through shoving his arm back into its socket during a particularly nasty night hunt. “Why don’t we…” He trails off, moving slowly as if to make it obvious where he plans to move, and collects Hanguang-Jun’s guqin from the floor. “Here, Lan Zhan. Let’s put that away, hm? Doesn’t seem to be the answer here.” 

Hanguang-Jun waves a hand, and the guqin disappears into the qiankun pouch in his sleeve, completely out of sight. Zewu-Jun is still frozen and pale, all the color having drained from his face. 

“There we go,” Wei-qianbei says, sounding satisfied. “Now, we’re very sorry to interrupt your seclusion, Zewu-Jun.” Wei-qianbei drops into a loose bow. It’s strange to watch him like this, slow and careful where he is usually overflowing with movement and noise. It sets something in Lan Sizhui on edge, until he realizes: it’s one note off from watching Wei-qianbei interact with the Grandmaster. Zewu-Jun, for his part, blinks as if not sure what to do with Wei-qianbei in front of him. Wei-qianbei steps back, falling into his perpetual orbit at Hanguang-Jun’s side and brushing his sleeve back until he can squeeze a few of Hanguang-Jun’s fingers. 

Lan Sizhui watches Zewu-Jun’s eyes track the movement, and his stare lingers where their hands touch.

Hanguang-Jun’s shoulders square as he takes a breath, and his voice is steady when he says, “Xiongzhang, please. If I cannot play for you, then perhaps Shufu -- ”

But before Hanguang-Jun can finish, Zewu-Jun says quickly, “No.” It comes out rushed, as harried as his expression as his head jerks up to stare at his brother. Lan Sizhui watches him gather himself, even going as far as to try -- and fail -- at his usual pleasant smile before he says, “Thank you, Wangji, but I -- I can manage it. I will meditate on the issue.”

“Meditation will not be enough,” Hanguang-Jun replies slowly, sounding a touch confused. Lan Sizhui can’t remember the last time he’d sounded so uncertain. “The projection at the gates is too resentful. Exorcism and cleansing are required to -- ”

“I have no unbalances that cannot be solved by meditation,” Zewu-Jun interrupts -- again -- with determined politeness. His tone is closest to the one Lan Sizhui has heard him use with overstepping sect leaders all his life: once he had thought of it as glass, smooth and unyielding. Tonight, it feels like a thin crust of ice over something deep and terrible. “If what you face is truly so great, then I believe you are mistaken about its source. I wish you luck with your night hunt.”

He does not need to gesture to the door, nor finish the thought out loud: everyone in this room has been raised in sect politics and knows a dismissal when they hear one. 

No one moves to leave. 

“We are not mistaken,” Hanguang-Jun says firmly. “Xiongzhang, you mentioned your dreams -- ” 

“Coincidental,” Zewu-Jun says, folding his hands behind his back, ribbon tucked away from view. Beside Hanguang-Jun, Wei-qianbei’s entire body is held taut as a bowstring, but he doesn’t intervene. Jade to Jade, Wei-qianbei had said. Lan Sizhui wonders if he’s remembering his own advice now. “I apologize. I was incorrect about the connection. You had just awoken me and I wasn’t yet coherent.”

“We are not mistaken,” Hanguang-Jun repeats, resolute. Lan Sizhui watches Zewu-Jun’s expression turn a shade brittler as he parses the we from his sentence. 

“Ah,” he says, barely above a whisper. His eyes rest on Hanguang-Jun as he says, “Is it to be Wei-gongzi’s word against mine, again?”

Lan Sizhui isn’t sure what Zewu-Jun’s words are in reference to, only that it produces a strong reaction: he swears he hears Hanguang-Jun’s knuckles crack where his fist turns white, just before Hanguang-Jun begins, “Xiongzhang -- ”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei-qianbei’s hand has moved to grip Hanguang-Jun’s arm. His eyes don’t move from Zewu-Jun, but he squeezes Hanguang-Jun gently. When he speaks, his voice is sharp. “Sect Leader Lan. In that situation, it was my word against -- ” Wei-qianbei catches himself, posture tightening, and the ugly silence hangs for a moment. Lan Sizhui catches Wei-qianbei glance at Hanguang-Jun before taking a breath and forcing his shoulders to loosen slightly. Finally, he mutters, “It wasn’t my word against yours.”

“No?” Zewu-Jun asks archly. “Whose, then? Shufu’s? The elders? How many have you bothered with this matter, Wangji?”

“It was my theory, Zewu-Jun,” Lan Sizhui hears his voice say without his permission. All three men startle, as if they had forgotten he was present. For a moment Lan Sizhui, frozen, wonders if this is how Lan Jingyi feels when he accidentally lets something slip out. It’s not a pleasant feeling. There’s no turning back now, though, so despite the way his heart has begun hammering, Lan Sizhui steps forward and circles his arms in a particularly formal bow. When he rises, three faces stare at him. The remaining color has drained from Zewu-Jun’s. “This disciple apologizes for disrupting your seclusion,” he adds for good measure.

Zewu-Jun’s eyes cut to Wei-qianbei when he says, cold and slightly frayed, “What have you told him to lead him to such an erroneous conclusion?” 

An indignant fire catches in Lan Sizhui’s chest, just under his rabbiting heart. His uncle has missed a great deal -- Lan Sizhui’s appointment as heir-apparent, his promotion to senior discipleship -- but he’s always praised Lan Sizhui’s intelligence and steadfastness. He wouldn’t be swayed without evidence, even if the idea hadn’t been his to begin with. Lan Sizhui opens his mouth to tell Zewu-Jun just that, but then -- 

He remembers the crisp scent of the forest, remembers the cold morning air, and realizes with dull horror that this is his argument with the Grandmaster all over again. Lan Sizhui could speak sharply, defend himself and his theory, and be right, but that wouldn’t do anything except leave a bad taste in his mouth. It wouldn’t sway Zewu-Jun, who is all barbs and rough edges where he stands before Lan Sizhui. The heir-apparent isn’t going to sway the Grandmaster, Wei-qianbei had said. The heir-apparent won’t sway Zewu-Jun either. A-Yuan, though, definitely has a shot. 

Lan Sizhui doesn’t feel like he has a shot at all. He imagines all the letters he’s written to his uncle pouring out of his mouth until he chokes on words that failed to reach him. But this is Bofu, and for him, he has to try. 

“Zewu-Jun,” Lan Sizhui says, cutting off whatever Wei-qianbei is about to say. He moves forward, taking slow, deliberate steps until he inserts himself between Zewu-Jun and Wei-qianbei. Zewu-Jun watches him carefully, those haunted eyes raking over his face. Lan Sizhui has grown up, he knows. Lan Jingyi often tells him so, by poking his cheekbones or pretending to measure the width of his shoulders. Zewu-Jun has missed it, holed up here in the Hanshi, as his grief eats away at him. Alone. Hurting. Suddenly, that is far more important than an exorcism, or a shadow. So Lan Sizhui says, voice only shaking a little, “Are you well?”

Shock flits across Zewu-Jun’s face, only briefly, and he blinks. Swallows. Opens his mouth and manages to say, “Sizhui.” 

“You’re thinner,” Lan Sizhui says helplessly. It’s strange to feel the worry flow in this direction, like water moving uphill, but Lan Sizhui sits with the discomfort. He’s done this before, with Zewu-Jun, even. Except he is no longer small and can do more than sit with him before the stove and hold him as they sleep. This time, if his uncle will let him, he can help. 

Hesitantly, watching Zewu-Jun carefully to make sure the touch isn’t unwelcome, he extends a hand and pinches the fabric of his uncle’s sleeve between his fingers. He can hear Zewu-Jun’s ragged breath, loud in the silent Hanshi, and does nothing for a moment, to see if he will be thrown off. When he isn’t, Lan Sizhui tugs, just once. When he was small, it was his way of telling Zewu-Jun he needed something. He didn’t talk very much, in his early days. Just like Wangji, Zewu-Jun had said with a touch of sadness, looking down the length of his sleeve to the child clinging there. 

When Lan Sizhui looks up from the fabric between his fingers, Zewu-Jun’s eyes -- red-rimmed, too bright -- are on him. Lan Sizhui has asked for his attention and received it. There’s too much to say, about the case, about the inevitable exorcism his uncle must agree to, so instead, Lan Sizhui says, nearly too soft to hear, “Bofu. I’ve missed you.” 

Zewu-Jun’s face crumples. 

Lan Sizhui moves without thinking. There’s the clatter as his sword falls to the floor and then his arms are around his uncle, squeezing like if he holds him tight enough, the pieces that shattered at Guanyin Temple might stick back together. Zewu-Jun stands there, frozen, but Lan Sizhui won’t be deterred. He had clung to a far more unwilling Hanguang-Jun the first time they met, he’s been told. Even all the way back then, there has never been a Jade of Gusu he was too afraid to love. 

The moment stretches, long and taut, and then: 

“A-Yuan.” Quiet enough Lan Sizhui might have imagined his uncle’s voice, and then again, more ragged, but also surer: “A-Yuan.”

Zewu-Jun’s head tips to rest on Lan Sizhui’s shoulder, and a shuddering breath works through the full length of his body before his arms come to wrap around Lan Sizhui. 

“I’m sorry,” Lan Sizhui murmurs. For his uncle’s grief. For believing that his uncle needed distance instead of love. For the truth to have come out in this way. “I just want you to be well.” 

Zewu-Jun is shaking, Lan Sizhui realizes. He holds him tighter, through the stretch of silence that follows. It’s not dissimilar to the pause between responses to Inquiry at the gate, and for a moment, Lan Sizhui worries he won’t be able to get his uncle to speak now, either. And then -- 

“I may not,” Zewu-Jun breathes, the words stilted, “deserve to be well, after all that has happened.” 

“You do,” Lan Sizhui says firmly. “Everyone does.” 

“Not everyone,” his uncle rasps. Lan Sizhui pulls back just far enough to see Zewu-Jun’s face. His cheeks are wet, the bones more prominent from lack of good sleep and food, grieving a man he is trying to convince himself is not worth grieving. He can’t quite meet Lan Sizhui’s eyes, and so Lan Sizhui glances over to where Wei-qianbei and Hangaung-Jun stand. It’s simple for Lan Sizhui in a way that it is not for the generation that raised him: everyone deserves something, even the barest scraps of dignity. Lan Sizhui is a cultivator and has arranged proper burials and mourning rites for as many murderers as he has innocents -- his job is to make sure spirits of all kinds are at rest. But the seniors in his life went to war when they were younger than Lan Sizhui is now, have seen and done things that he can’t -- and indeed, has no desire to -- fathom. His assurances to Zewu-Jun would fall empty, and so he looks to Wei-qianbei and Hanguang-Jun now. 

Wei-qianbei’s eyes flicker to Hanguang-Jun, who is watching them with a look Lan Sizhui can’t quite place. There’s pride there, certainly, but grief, too. When Hanguang-Jun speaks, his voice is quiet but firm. 

“No matter the actions,” he says slowly, “a person deserves dignity. Happiness.” Lan Sizhui doesn’t miss how his hand comes to rest atop Wei-qianbei’s on his arm when he adds, “Love.” 

“But I -- ” Zewu-Jun stops himself, eyes falling closed as if in pain. He takes a breath and tries again. “I have -- ” His voice fails him once more, and the room rings with the silence. Lan Sizhui watches Hanguang-Jun steel himself. 

“You,” Hanguang-Jun says carefully, “are not the one who must decide what you are owed.” A pause, before he adds, “That is the responsibility of the people who -- who love you.” Lan Sizhui can’t remember the last time Hanguang-Jun stumbled over his words as he does now, but he watches as Hanguang-Jun forces himself to keep going. “When I believed I had failed, and that I deserved nothing at all…” Wei-qianbei squeezes his arm, comforting, even as his own face creases with pain. “Xiongzhang believed for me. You would come and talk to me although I did not speak. You continued to care for my wounds.” Hanguang-Jun’s eyes flicker to Lan Sizhui. “You brought me stories of a boy who was waiting for me.” Lan Sizhui feels a knot form in his throat, almost too large to breathe around. His eyes sting with tears as Hanguang-Jun takes a deep breath. “You never let me forget that I had a life waiting for me. One where I was loved.” 

Lan Sizhui blinks furiously, trying to clear the haze of unshed tears. Beside him, he can feel the way Zewu-Jun’s body shakes on every breath. Wei-qianbei is looking at Hanguang-Jun with a sort of despairing realization, like he"s just solved a complicated piece of arithmetic, and Lan Sizhui can’t help but think of Wei-qianbei’s mounting frustration with Zewu-Jun over the last few days, the last few years. Lan Sizhui wonders if Wei-qianbei has found the piece he was missing to truly understand the Twin Jades.

“Wangji…” Hanguang-Jun’s name in Zewu-Jun’s mouth is gossamer and fleeting. 

When he speaks, Hanguang-Jun does so for himself, but also for Lan Sizhui. For the Grandmaster, in his complicated grief. For the disciples and the novices, and for the seniors who watched Zewu-Jun grow. 

“Xiongzhang deserves happiness,” Hanguang-Jun says with finality, speaking for all of those and more. “The opinions of others do not matter now.” 

Zewu-Jun trembles where Lan Sizhui holds him. “And the people I love?” He swallows, and Lan Sizhui can hear his throat click. “If I’ve failed them?”

It’s a question that has three faces -- one of them, Lan Sizhui thinks with a sinking feeling, is his own. Hanguang-Jun, shoulders heavy with his brother’s titles, is another. The third, of course, is Lianfang-Zun’s. 

There’s a pained crease to Hanguang-Jun’s mouth when he says, “You have not.” Lan Sizhui doesn"t miss the way Wei-qianbei looks away. Zewu-Jun opens his mouth to protest, but Hanguang-Jun heads him off by shaking his head. “Even if you had, they would forgive you. And you would try again, as you have always done. If that were no longer possible, then -- ” Hanguang-Jun breaks off. He seems to piece together the thought before he continues, “Xiongzhang has always told them what they deserved and loved them well. The rest was their responsibility.” 

“But there was -- ” Here, Zewu-Jun’s rasping voice breaks, but he forces himself to continue. “There was a right way, to love them. And a wrong one.” 

“Xiongzhang?” Hanguang-Jun asks, brow creasing. 

Zewu-Jun just stares at him, long enough that Wei-qianbei looks back up. He searches Zewu-Jun’s face until realization dawns, and he closes his eyes with a quiet, “Ah.” Hanguang-Jun glances at him. Lan Sizhui watches Wei-qianbei take a deep breath before opening his eyes again. There’s something like regret in his voice when he says, “Because I’m here, and Jin Guangyao isn’t.” 

Lan Sizhui feels his stomach drop.

“Xiongzhang,” Hanguang-Jun says, quiet but firm. “It is not like that.” 

“Lan Zhan’s right,” Wei-qianbei agrees, quiet but firm. He pauses, before saying softly, “Love is just soil, Zewu-Jun.” His eyes flicker to Lan Sizhui, who has the vaguest impression of being buried in rehabilitated grave dirt. “It’s not the rain, or the hungry bird, or the storm. The plant that grows is the product of a hundred factors.” 

Love cannot turn the heart or change the mind. Lan Jingyi had read him that, once, from one of Ouyang Zizhen’s books of poetry. Lan Sizhui feels ill as his understanding of his uncle’s pain crystalizes: as the person who loved Lianfang-Zun, who decided what he was owed -- Zewu-Jun had put his sword through Lianfang-Zun’s heart. Before that -- he had believed him worthy of trust as he committed the crimes that led them to that fateful moment. At every stage, Zewu-Jun had evaluated Lianfang-Zun and -- in his eyes -- judged him incorrectly. 

Lan Sizhui looks at Zewu-Jun now and finds his uncle’s face twisted with hurt and something else. It takes Lan Sizhui a moment to recognize anger, true anger, on Zewu-Jun’s face for the first time this evening. Lan Sizhui traces back over Wei-qianbei’s words, trying to find what might have offended Zewu-Jun, and stumbles upon words spoken days ago instead: You can’t talk to him like I do.

And Lan Sizhui realizes: Wei-qianbei isn’t wrong, but he is the wrong person to deliver the words. 

“Bofu,” Lan Sizhui says, drawing Zewu-Jun’s eyes back to his own. Some of the fire falls away from his expression. “If you believe Lianfang-Zun deserves peace, even now, that’s -- that’s okay.” He thinks of Jin Ling, so far away in Jinlintai, with the secret nameplate he commissioned for his late uncle. “You’re not alone. But -- ” He hesitates, not looking forward to bringing up the matter that began this conflict, but unable to avoid it. “But you can’t keep pretending you don’t, if that’s what you really feel. It’s harming you, and -- and the manifestation at the gate is harming other people, too.” He looks up at his uncle and hopes he understands that Lan Sizhui holds no accusations in his heart when he says, “It just wants to be heard.” 

An audience. No one was ever the correct ear because the person who needed to listen was asleep, buried deep in a denial that was eating him away.

Zewu-Jun blinks, fresh tears making their way down his face. Lan Sizhui reaches up and catches them with his sleeve. 

“Once,” he says, carefully mopping his uncle’s face, “a night hunt went very wrong, and you played for me until dawn.” He pauses, letting his damp sleeve fall back to his side, and says, “Bofu. Please. Could I play Rest for you now?” 

Zewu-Jun swallows, lets his eyes fall shut, and nods. 

Lan Sizhui hugs him properly, once more, before stepping away to stand before Hanguang-Jun. There, he dips his head and says, “This unprepared disciple did not bring his guqin, Hanguang-Jun. Could he request the use of Wangji this evening?” 

“Mn,” Hanguang-Jun replies, disentangling himself from Wei-qianbei to produce his guqin. He sets it carefully in Lan Sizhui’s waiting hands, and the weight is a familiar, comforting presence. Lan Sizhui looks up from the cloth wrappings to see Wei-qianbei watching him, pride radiating from every line of his face. 

“We’ll be outside,” Wei-qianbei tells him, although his tone sounds like we’ll speak later. 

“Thank you,” Lan Sizhui says, agreeing. 

Hanguang-Jun’s hand settles lightly on his shoulder, and Lan Sizhui looks over to him. There’s something fierce and grateful behind his eyes, but he says nothing, so Lan Sizhui simply bows to them both in farewell over the bulk of Wangji’s body. Wei-qianbei moves to wait at the door as Hanguang-Jun approaches to speak softly with Zewu-Jun. Lan Sizhui, determined not to eavesdrop, settles in at the low table where he used to take meals and sets the guqin atop it, unwrapping it and running his hands over the strings to refamiliarize himself. When he glances over, Hanguang-Jun has gathered his brother in his arms, and it occurs to Lan Sizhui that this might be the first time he’s ever seen them hug. 

At last, Hanguang-Jun leads Zewu-Jun to the table where Lan Sizhui waits with the guqin and helps him settle onto the cushion on the other side of the table. Lan Sizhui and Hanguang-Jun exchange nods, and then he is alone with Zewu-Jun. 

It has been many years since Lan Sizhui played Wangji -- during his earliest lessons, still learning his notes -- but the instrument seems to remember him. So much of Hanguang-Jun’s spiritual energy has seeped into the wood that when Lan Sizhui begins the first movement, it almost feels like a duet. 

Across from him, Zewu-Jun settles into a lotus position, and his eyes slip shut to meditate. The Hanshi fills with the ringing notes of Rest, and, although he knows the effects of the music are focused on the recipient, Lan Sizhui can’t help something inside of him begin to loosen as well. 

☽

Hanguang-Jun returns a handful of hours later, when Lan Sizhui’s fingertips have begun to ache. He says nothing, only rests a hand on Lan Sizhui’s shoulder, and together they look to Zewu-Jun, still deep in his meditation. A proper exorcism will still need to follow, but this is a start. 

Lan Sizhui relinquishes his spot at the guqin, allowing Hanguang-Jun to take over, and grabs his sword before slipping outside -- returning the favor of privacy he was extended earlier. He isn’t surprised to find Wei-qianbei waiting on the steps of the Hanshi. 

“Sit?” Wei-qianbei asks, patting the empty space on the stair beside him. 

Lan Sizhui takes the seat, setting his sword aside. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Wei-qianbei looks at him with a soft expression and reaches out to thumb away a tear on Lan Sizhui’s cheek. 

“There, there, A-Yuan,” he says, his knuckle appearing until Lan Sizhui’s chin. “I know. It’s been a long night. But you did so well.” 

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” Lan Sizhui says, wiping away the rest of the tears. Are they happy ones? He’s not sure. Mostly he feels like someone has reached in and scooped him hollow. He wants to sleep for a week and listen to Lan Jingyi tell stories and lie in the rabbit field until one of the fluffy creatures comes and sits on his chest.

“That’s okay,” Wei-qianbei tells him. “You found your voice tonight, A-Yuan. That’s bound to take a lot out of you.” 

“My voice,” Lan Sizhui repeats. 

“Mm-hmm,” Wei-qianbei hums. “Didn’t I tell you? You have more power than you know. Your Zewu-Jun listened. Want to guess what would have happened tonight without you?” He pauses, then says, “Whatever the Twin Jades equivalent of a shouting match would be.” Wei-qianbei makes a face, obviously trying to imagine it, and settles on, “Probably a lot of cutting eye contact and saying each other’s names.” 

Lan Sizhui can’t help but snort. It makes Wei-qianbei smile. 

“But instead, good little A-Yuan was the voice of reason,” Wei-qianbei says cheerfully. “You learned from taking on the Grandmaster -- you figured out the secret.”

"The secret,” Lan Sizhui repeats, sounding dubious even to his own ears. What he did tonight didn’t feel like puzzling out a secret. It felt more like cracking himself open, bones and muscle and all, to show all the soft bits he prefers to keep well-guarded. 

“The secret,” Wei-qianbei says, with infinite fondness, “is that you’re so loved, A-Yuan.” Whatever expression his face is making, it causes Wei-qianbei to chuckle, and he explains, “I had this theory, based on the fact that most Lans are secretly giant softies -- if you were willing to be vulnerable with them, their love for you would trump everything else.” He smiles more widely at Lan Sizhui, a touch strained, and continues, “See, it’s very easy to wrap yourself in titles. Get stuck with the name Yiling Patriarch or something and then use the reputation to your advantage so that no one will think you’re too young, or too weak.” The smile falters. “But the people close to you -- they know when they’re talking to a caricature, or a wall, and not the real you. And so they put up walls of their own, and suddenly you’re not really talking to each other anymore.” 

Lan Sizhui can only think of Sect Leader Jiang, of his vitriol, and imagine what happened back when Lan Sizhui was too young to remember. He reaches over and sets a comforting hand on Wei-qianbei’s arm. 

That earns him a smile, wane though it might be, and Wei-qianbei says, “All that’s to say: everyone in the sect wants to see you succeed. Not just Hanguang-Jun, or me, or Zewu-Jun. Grandmaster Lan, the elders, the disciples -- all of them love you, Sizhui.” When Lan Sizhui makes a sound of protest in his throat, Wei-qianbei amends, “Well, maybe not all, but the vast majority. Surely you’ve noticed how every junior in a li radius adores you?” 

“They like Jingyi,” Lan Sizhui replies automatically. 

“And they like you,” Wei-qianbei insists. “Jingyi’s the fun senior, but you’re the one they’re trying to impress. Trust me, they hang around me like magpies, I hear all about it.” 

“The other seniors, and the elders, though, they -- ”

“Are damn impressed, too,” Wei-qianbei interrupts. “Do you know what they’re biggest fear is about me?” He eyes Lan Sizhui for a moment before saying, “They’re worried I’m going to corrupt you.”

“Me?” 

“Of course,” Wei-qianbei says with a shrug. “They already think I’ve ruined Lan Zhan -- ” Another noise of complaint. “ -- and yes, I know, he tells me ten times a day that’s not true. But if Lan Zhan is a lost cause, then who’s the next person they need to protect from the Yiling Patriarch? The good and upright heir-apparent, of course!” 

Wei-qianbei beams at him. 

“Your influence makes me better,” Lan Sizhui feels compelled to remind him as the mix of pride and anger goes to war in his chest. 

“Ah, that’s -- ” It’s difficult to tell in the darkness, but Wei-qianbei squirms, smile falling away into something more akin to grimace, and Lan Sizhui would bet he’s turning bright red. “That’s kind of you to say.” 

“It’s true,” Lan Sizhui says stubbornly. 

“Well,” he says, obviously keen to move away from the subject. “Anyway. I’m saying that you’ve got support at every level of this sect, and if you’re willing to use that good favor that you’ve built up, people will listen. Why do you think the cultivation world has so many fucking discussion conferences? Because -- and don’t tell anyone I said this, I will deny it under the threat of death -- relationships are important. Within your sect and outside of it.” He pauses, and smiles to himself. “That’s why I have so much hope for your generation. Watching you and Jingyi and Jin Ling and that Ouyang boy. They all love you, too. Same principle.” 

“But,” Lan Sizhui says, testing out the thought carefully, “the rules say do not mix public and private interests.”

“That rule,” Wei-qianbei says, mouth twisting, “means don’t go siphoning silver out of the sect accounts to pay your gambling debts. When it comes to people interacting with other people, there’s literally no way to distinguish between public and private interests. We’re only human, and it’s all too messy.” 

Lan Sizhui sits with that for a moment. He’s spent so long feeling unheard, and yet maybe, he’s been ignoring them first. Their loyalties were to Lan Sizhui, and not the head disciple, or the heir-apparent, but he’d felt compelled to operate behind those titles in deference to the responsibilities those positions required. He thinks of the one person who always seems to hear him, and realizes -- it’s because he’s never tried to be anyone else when he’s with Lan Jingyi. 

“I think I understand,” he says slowly. Then: “Thank you, Wei-qianbei.” 

“I haven’t done a thing,” Wei-qianbei says, reaching out to pat Lan Sizhui’s cheek. “But you’re welcome.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence then, watching the map of stars twinkle above Cloud Recesses. From inside the Hanshi, Hanguang-Jun’s guqin plays on. The notes pour out, one after another, forming the melody of Rest. Eventually, the music shifts, and it becomes a lullaby Lan Sizhui remembers Zewu-Jun playing for him often on xiao. 

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Wei-qianbei murmurs, leaning to bump Lan Sizhui’s shoulder with his own. They stay pressed together through the lullaby, then another song, and another. Some are songs designed to calm. Others are songs of cleansing. All are filled with Hanguang-Jun’s spiritual energy, washing out of the Hanshi like a warm, familiar tide. 

At last, as Lan Sizhui’s eyes begin to droop, a dark tendril of resentful energy slithers towards them, and Wei-qianbei holds out a hand. It wraps around his fingers, curling up around his arm, before disappearing into his robes. He closes his eyes, as if listening, and then lets out a breath. 

“There we go,” Wei-qianbei says softly, eyes opening. “Wen Ning says the shadow is gone for tonight. In a few days, it should dissipate entirely.” He offers Lan Sizhui a tired smile. “The worst is over.” 

Lan Sizhui finds it in himself to smile back. 

Not long after, there’s the sound of approaching footsteps, and Lan Jingyi appears. He’s still in his sleep robes, hair loose, but he looks better than he has in days. After a quick bow in greeting, he says, “Wen-qianbei sent me to take Sizhui back to his room.” He smiles. “He told me we’ve earned our rest.” 

“That you have,” Wei-qianbei says, standing up and stretching his back. It makes several popping noises as Lan Sizhui grabs his sword and rises as well. “Shoo, you two, off to get your beauty rest. Hanguang-Jun and I can take it from here.” 

“Thank you, Wei-qianbei,” Lan Sizhui says again, grateful for an entire host of things he doesn’t quite have the energy to articulate right now. He takes one last look at Wei-qianbei’s travelling robes and confirms, “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You will,” he says, giving Lan Sizhui’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Sleep well.” 

Lan Sizhui bows and makes his way to Lan Jingyi, who offers him a tired grin. He wants to rest his head on Lan Jingyi’s shoulder and let out the breath he’s been holding since this entire mess began, but instead he says, “Jingyi?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go home.” 

 His smile lights up the whole of Cloud Recesses, even in the pitch darkness. “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

They set off, the sound of Hanguang-Jun’s guqin ringing out into the night. 

☽

Lan Sizhui makes his way across Cloud Recesses with a skip in his step that he hadn’t realized was missing these past few days. Beside him, Lan Jingyi chatters aimlessly, loosely planning their next visit to Wen-shushu’s house in Caiyi. 

“Hey, do you think I could convince Wen-qianbei to call me Jing’er? It took me like a year to get him to call me Jingyi, but maybe now I’ve got some momentum?”

Probably not, but Lan Sizhui isn’t in the spirit to ruin his good mood, so he hums noncommittally. 

“I’ll work on it,” Lan Jingyi decides as they crunch through the snow outside the Library Pavilion. “My main priority is to get him to agree to accompany us on the Baling night hunt. He will, right? He loved the night hunt with the ghosts, the ones that all hated the same butcher -- ”

“Sizhui.” 

Lan Sizhui feels his smile slide off his face as he and Lan Jingyi turn to see the Grandmaster standing just outside the Library Pavilion, having presumably just finished a lesson. 

“Grandmaster,” they chorus, bowing. 

“Do you have a moment?” the Grandmaster asks, looking -- unfortunately -- directly at Lan Sizhui. 

He’s in the middle of running an errand, but propriety dictates that he reply, “Of course, Grandmaster.”

“Good. A word, if you wouldn’t mind.” And then he turns and disappears into the Library Pavilion. Lan Sizhui has been avoiding this conversation since the case ended, using the excuse of catching up on work and sleep, but it appears that his time has run out. 

“I’ll wait out here for you,” Lan Jingyi tells him loyally. “And if you’re not out in an hour, I’ll get help.”

“Thanks, Jingyi,” Lan Sizhui says softly, offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile before following after the Grandmaster. 

Inside, the Library Pavilion is well-insulated from the chill. Several desks are set up, some still covered in papers. The Grandmaster pauses by one of them to collect the errant assignment and frowns at whatever is written. Lan Sizhui has plenty of his own memories of the Grandmaster looking at his work in a similar way. 

“Shortly after you became a junior disciple,” the Grandmaster begins, still inspecting the paper, “Xichen came to me and asked why I did not select you for lead disciple on the diplomatic visits I conducted. He felt it would be a good opportunity for you, and furthermore, had questions as to why I would appoint none other than Lan Jingyi in your place, who, even then, as I’m sure you recall, spent more time in discipline than on the training ground.” 

Slowly, Lan Sizhui nods. He remembers Lan Jingyi’s hijinks from those days all too well. One involved three sticks of colored ink and a set of under robes. All his discipline had made him closer to the Grandmaster than Lan Sizhui had ever been, especially when Hanguang-Jun went out of his way to keep Lan Sizhui from under the Grandmaster’s thumb. 

(“He is your Grandmaster, and my shufu,” Hanguang-Jun had said once, grave as he always is in things that truly matter. “But he is also a man, with thoughts and flaws.” A pause. “You have a great desire to learn and succeed. It is your strength. But you also have a light in you that you must protect. Certain teachings would damage it, at your age. I do not wish for Shufu to teach you, believing he is helping, and hurt you without realizing.”)

The Grandmaster finally looks up from the paper and makes his way back to his desk, which he settles behind. 

“I told Xichen,” the Grandmaster continues, organizing a set of talismans on his desk, “that I appointed Jingyi because he was reliably loud, crass, and opinionated.” At last, he looks up at Lan Sizhui where he’s lingering near the door. “Meanwhile, you, even then, would be perfectly polite, correct, and respectful, right up until you were not.” There is something like amusement in the corner of the Grandmaster’s mouth. “I would never be able to predict what would set you off. It was a far greater uncertainty than anything that might come out of Jingyi’s mouth.” 

“I see,” Lan Sizhui replies slowly, although he does not.

“All of that is to say, I believe that is what happened several days ago at the inner gate,” the Grandmaster says, sounding tired. “I overstepped, and you reacted in kind, as you have done your entire life.” He sighs. “I was incorrect about my assumptions regarding -- ” He makes a slight face, but forges ahead. “ -- regarding Wei Wuxian and his… associate.” The word pricks at Lan Sizhui, but he stays quiet. There is another pause before the Grandmaster says, “The precepts tell us not to disrespect the younger and to not make assumptions, both of which I failed to uphold. I would be a poor teacher if I did not take stock of where I have made mistakes and apologize accordingly. So: Lan Sizhui, you have my apologies for my conduct against your guest. It was unfounded.” 

Lan Sizhui blinks, feeling vaguely as if he’s been hit over the head with a club. “I -- Grandmaster, this humble one -- ”

“Speak forthrightly.” 

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Grandmaster.” Lan Sizhui understands that it’s no small thing to receive an apology from an elder. Many elders would refuse altogether, but the Grandmaster has extended this, and so he says, “This humble one appreciates your apology.” He bows, briefly, but keeps his hands circled when he straightens. “This one, too, spoke harshly, and regardless of his intent, the way in which he conducted himself was unsuitable for any Gusu Lan disciple, let alone its head disciple.” That should be that, except -- he thinks of his conversation with Wei-qianbei, and the entire ordeal in the Hanshi, and finds himself asking, “Grandmaster, may I speak honestly with you?”

“Honestly?” the Grandmaster asks, stroking his beard. 

“Informally,” Lan Sizhui amends.

If anything, Lan Sizhui thinks he’s intrigued him. “Very well.” 

“Thank you, Grandmaster,” Lan Sizhui says with another quick bow before letting his hands fall altogether. “Wen-qianbei has been my guest within Cloud Recesses for nearly three years now. He is…” Honesty, Lan Sizhui reminds himself. Vulnerability. The things that he has always tried to hide from the Grandmaster and every other elder. He steels himself and continues, “Wen-qianbei is very dear to me, Grandmaster. I consider him my family.” No need to bring up their actual blood relation, a subject which Lan Sizhui suspects the Grandmaster is aware of, but they never discuss. “He is my mentor, my friend, my brother, and my uncle. I hold him in the same esteem as Hanguang-Jun and Zewu-Jun.” After a pause, he adds, “The same esteem in which I hold you.” The Grandmaster blinks, but does not interrupt. “I understand that actions of the past are difficult to move beyond, but Wen-qianbei -- ” He swallows. “ -- Wen-shushu has never caused harm here.” The Grandmaster’s eyebrow twitches at the casual address, but he stays silent. “He has protected both Cloud Recesses and its disciples more times than I can count. He... cares for me, as I do him.” Lan Sizhui forces himself to take a steadying breath. This might be the longest he’s ever spoken to an elder. Normally his place is to be silent and listen. “With this evidence in mind, and also… my personal feelings on the matter, I -- I was wondering. If it would be possible for you to extend a kinder welcome to Wen-shushu.” 

He trails into silence. An emotional plea feels so much flimsier than a rational one, but logic has failed him on this matter. This is all he has left. 

The Grandmaster appraises him, and Lan Sizhui tries not to squirm under the attention. At last, the Grandmaster says, “This matter is important to you?”

“It is,” Lan Sizhui firmly, hoping that the Grandmaster can’t see his hands shaking from this distance. 

The Grandmaster considers this. Eventually, he says, “I never had the opportunity to teach Wen Qionglin. He attended our lectures with his sister but was too young and unwell to participate. Besides the fact that their presence was a pretense under which to survey Cloud Recesses for the upcoming Wen invasion.” Lan Sizhui barely suppresses a wince. “That said, I remember him being a polite, if nervous young man, who happened to be in a very difficult situation.” 

That… is nearly a compliment, coming from the Grandmaster. Lan Sizhui blinks. 

“However, his existence is blasphemous and an insult to proper cultivation,” the Grandmaster continues, dousing any hope that may have begun to spark in Lan Sizhui’s chest. He looks directly at Lan Sizhui and asks, “Do you deny it?”

“Wen-shushu is a fierce corpse,” Lan Sizhui replies, white-kuckled fists hanging stiffly at his sides. “Not of his choosing.”

“Yes, I know quite well whose choice,” the Grandmaster grumbles. “But you acknowledge that he is a fierce corpse, able to be controlled by demonic cultivation, and that he could present risk to this sect?” 

Semantics, then, will get him nowhere. Lan Sizhui squares his shoulders and says, “I do.”

“And your reason, to allow him unfettered access given this information?”

“Cloud Recesses is my home,” Lan Sizhui says simply, “and Wen-shushu is my family.” 

The Grandmaster surveys him for a moment longer before saying, “Very well.”

Horribly wrong-footed, Lan Sizhui asks, “Grandmaster?”

“I will draft a letter of apology to Wen Qionglin this week, although I will not be responsible for the number of elders who can be convinced to sign it,” the Grandmaster says wryly. “I will also bring up the matter with the elders to remind them of our precepts pertaining to guests and hospitality. I expect you to convey the same message to the senior disciples and the juniors. The novices, if you feel it necessary.” He raises an eyebrow. “Was there further action you wished to request?” 

Lan Sizhui opens and closes his mouth several times, no words coming out. Eventually, he manages, “No, I -- I’m very grateful, Grandmaster, I just -- why?”

The Grandmaster harrumphs. “Why. As you have said. You consider this… man your family. You have already sponsored him through the correct channels, and his actions within Cloud Recesses already rest on your shoulders. You have just reaffirmed that you are willing to take responsibility. And he is… as you have said, a decent guest.” The Grandmaster fixes him with a beady eye and says, “This is important to you. I do not wish to give you reason to disappear with him again as you did shortly after the fall of the previous Chief Cultivator. Cloud Recesses is your home, and, someday, if Xichen does not produce an heir, it will be your sect.” 

“I understand,” Lan Sizhui says, feeling a little faint. He drops into a low bow. “Thank you, Grandmaster.” 

When he rises, the Grandmaster is watching him carefully. “I have never had reservations about your appointment to heir-apparent. But now, having watched you grow these past few years, I can say with further certainty: I believe you will make an excellent sect leader.” A pause, and then: “Should Xichen decide it so, he could not ask for a more capable successor.” 

It might be the highest praise Lan Sizhui has ever received from the Grandmaster or heard him say out loud at all. Blushing furiously, he drops into another bow. “Thank you, Grandmaster.” 

“Hm. Do not thank me for the truth. Unless you have other business you wish to discuss, that is all,” he adds, a little gruff. Lan Sizhui can’t help but smile a touch at that. 

“I don’t. Thank you, Grandmaster. This disciple will leave you.” 

He bows again, then slips out of the Library Pavilion, only to bowl directly into someone eavesdropping. Closing the door hastily behind him so as not to alert the Grandmaster, Lan Sizhui looks down at none other than --

“Jingyi!” 

“Sizhui,” Lan Jingyi says, scrambling to his feet. His eyes look distinctly shiny when he grabs Lan Sizhui by the biceps and says, “He’s right! He’s so right, you’re going to be the best sect leader! I’m just so glad he finally admitted it!”

The flush of embarrassment returns in full force and Lan Sizhui has to ask, “Why were you listening?”

“We had to make sure you didn’t need back up!” Lan Jingyi insists, pointing to where -- oh gods -- several junior disciples are clustered a short distance away. Lan Jingyi was obviously chosen as the spy. The blush on Lan Sizhui’s cheeks gets worse as the juniors hurry to bow to him. 

“What are all of you doing here?” Lan Sizhui asks the group. “No lessons today?”

“They finished early!” Lan Guanyu pipes up, unrepentant. “We were on our way to -- ” Here, Lan Xiuying elbows him sharply in the ribs, and he says, “Ah -- anyway! We were passing by and saw Jingyi-xiong looking worried, so we stopped.” He hurries to add, “He didn’t tell us anything the Grandmaster said! I promise!”

“How thoughtful of you,” Lan Sizhui replies, tone a little dry. “And what did you say you all were on your way to do?”

Lan Guanyu glances at the other disciples and wilts under Lan Xiuying’s glare. Lan Sizhui waits until Lan Xiuying sighs and says, “We’re running an errand for Wei-qianbei.” 

He notices several disciples move their sleeves to cover reinforced qiankun pouches at their belts. “What sort of errand?”

“Wei-qianbei is working on the other side of the mountain today while Hanguang-Jun meets with the elders,” Lan Guanyu says slowly. “He asked to have some materials brought over.”

“It’s explosives,” Lan Jingyi says mildly beside him. Chaos breaks out among the group. 

“Jingyi-xiong! You said you wouldn’t tell!”

“They’re minor explosives, Wei-qianbei said so!” 

“We need to go! There’s only a few more hours before Hanguang-Jun is finished with his last meeting!”

“Enough,” Lan Sizhui says, not loud but firm, and mercifully, they all fall silent. He takes a deep breath. The heir-apparent should definitely not let a group of junior disciples take explosives, no matter how minor, to the other side of the mountain. That said, this group of disciples faced down an incredibly resentful spirit this week, and proved themselves well. Lan Sizhui makes a decision and says, “There’s no rule against doing a favor for a senior, but it’s important to be safe. A senior disciple should accompany you, in case anything happens.” He pauses, then glances to Lan Jingyi beside him, and asks, “Do you want to help Wei-qianbei blow some stuff up?”

Lan Jingyi is nearly vibrating. “I want to do that a very normal amount.” Turning to the group, he claps his hands briskly and says, “Say thank you to Sizhui, then let’s get going!”

There’s a flurry of activity as the disciples bow and thank Lan Sizhui fervently. He smiles and nods back, then turns to Lan Jingyi and tells him, “Be safe.” 

“Always am!” Lan Jingyi chirps. “Say hi to Zewu-Jun for me!”

Lan Jingyi hurries the group along, and Lan Sizhui watches them round the corner before he takes the other path towards the Hanshi. It was Hanguang-Jun’s idea to deliver the letter in person, this time. Lan Sizhui hopes it’s a sign of progress. 

His original draft of the letter, started during the case, ended up being scrapped after that night in the Hanshi, so instead, this week’s letter is a mess of good things: funny stories and quiet moments, a handful of half-decent paintings of parts of Cloud Recesses, a recipe, and a small packet of tea. He hopes it will help Zewu-Jun wherever he is at the moment. Hanguang-Jun’s guqin has echoed from the Hanshi every evening for the past three days, and hope is dawning like a sunrise in Lan Sizhui’s chest. 

Tracing the familiar path to the Hanshi, Lan Sizhui takes in the fresh snowfall and the quiet sounds of Cloud Recesses at work -- gone is the strain of the past week, the uncertainty that smothered their day-to-day. More than one person stops him along the way to congratulate him on the case, but at last, he makes it to the Hanshi. Taking the stairs, he steps onto the porch and considers where to leave the letter. It should be somewhere that the disciple in charge of dropping off meals won’t step on it. Lan Sizhui decides knocking and then leaving it at the door is safest, and moves to do just that, except --

At his soft knock, the door slides open, and there is Zewu-Jun. He looks better than he had the other night, his hair pulled back and his face clear, even if his robes are still layers of white silk tied one over the other. Zewu-Jun offers him a small smile, at which Lan Sizhui realizes that he’s been standing there clutching his letter with his mouth open in a small o of surprise. 

“Zewu-Jun,” he rushes to say, folding into a bow. 

“Sizhui. What a wonderful surprise.” He sounds like he genuinely means it. Lan Sizhui realizes with an ache how much he’s missed the sound of his uncle’s voice, not torn with grief or rasping with tears, but clear and calm as smooth water. As Lan Sizhui straightens, Zewu-Jun’s eyes fall on the letter in Lan Sizhui’s hands and he visibly brightens. “Oh! Is this one of your letters?”

“I -- yes, it is, I -- ” Words appear to have completely failed him. They trip over one another, jostling, and then what falls out is: “Are you taking visitors again?”

Zewu-Jun’s smile is the one Lan Sizhui remembers from when he was small: soft and patient. “Not all visitors, I’m afraid. Not yet. But a step in that direction is well overdue, I should think.” His smile grows even warmer as he adds, “I’ve missed my family.” 

Lan Sizhui was trained out of public hugs at a fairly young age, the night in the Hanshi being a notable exception, but relief and fondness are so overwhelming that he throws himself at Zewu-Jun without thinking. His uncle catches him easily, even weak from his grieving as he is, and Lan Sizhui finds himself surrounded by the smell of tea and soap and herbs. It’s a better hug than the other night -- no clinging, no bitter tears -- and it feels like a balm on Lan Sizhui’s nerves. A small part of him was worried things might be different between them, afterwards, but this familiar. It’s good. If there is any change, it’s for the better. 

He squeezes Zewu-Jun a little tighter before pulling back. Lan Sizhui wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, gratified to watch Zewu-Jun do the same, before looking down and realizing --

“Oh, your letter,” he says, holding up the paper that he accidentally crumbled in his fist. “I’m sorry, Zewu-Jun, I…” 

“No harm,” Zewu-Jun says, eyes dancing. “Perhaps you would like to come take tea with me, and we can discuss what you wrote in it.” 

Tea. Tea inside the Hanshi, with his uncle. It feels too good, too bright, like glancing at the sun. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” Zewu-Jun replies, stepping aside to let Lan Sizhui in. “Besides, I’ve been enjoying your stories immensely. I need to know if the eastern bamboo grove actually required an exorcism.”

Lan Sizhui chokes out a wet laugh and steps inside. “Zewu-Jun, it really, really didn’t…”

And the story unspools from there.