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Chapter Text

There are times when being Yinyue-jun means Dan Feng becomes a master at the art of lying.

When asked his thoughts on the white, gold and crimson decorations draping over the deep grey high walls of the Skyfairing Commission, he politely offers a nod, a ghost of what could have been a gentle smile and finds them good quality. 

Impossible it would be to not know of this, but should anyone have a doubt, the banners in silver and white in the images and symbols of Lan would give away—mighty arrow spiralling upwards amid the starry sky, the strongest bow in the hands of who was once a fierce soldier, a predator at its finest and holiest state. He knows the Realm-Keeping Commission spent all they had—and didn’t have—on the celebrations. They would hardly gift the Arbiter-General and his troops with less than a ceremonial event.

The hall is hazy with smoke, heavy with the smell of roasted meat mixed with strong incense and sweet alcohol. People come and go with flagons of summerwine, more Cloud-Knights losing a useless battle against inebriation, giving away their drunkenness in their walk and speech, though bittersweet in smell each time they attempt to talk. When offered one more fill of his cup, Dan Feng refuses, shaking his head and thanking the servant. He can still push against his fangs and behind his teeth for the aftertaste, too sweet for him, and his throat begs for a sourer beverage. If he takes another sip of this sweetness in the Xianzhou natives’ favour, he might not be able to feign his liking.

Dan Feng will not complain. Six centuries have passed since he broke out of his egg, and more than thousands have been under the role of High Elder of the Luofu Vidyadhara. At this point, all is unfortunate, and he shall remain indifferent.

It is the fourth hour of the welcoming banquet for the Xianzhou legions from another victory against the Abundance. By now, only Dan Feng remains sitting at the high table on the raised platform, where the High Elder and the Preceptors were received. At the other tables, raised at their level, one should find the Arbiter-General Teng Xiao and his lieutenant, the Sword Champion and vanguard of the Hunt, but he only finds spokespeople of the Realm-Keeping Commission gossiping, hardly heard with all the clangour of plates and cups or the mutter of conversations and joy.

Not only Vidyadhara and the Xianzhou commonfolk revel together in the halls. The coral brothels and dens of vices below Aurum Alley had sent their best bevvy of musicians, so skilled even Dan Feng would be a fool to overlook. Gifted as they are, someone might have thought they genuinely come from nobility and wealthy backgrounds. Amid the dancers, he could find others, arms with knights and diplomats alike. They look anything but nightflowers. If not for the half-moon eyes and bright red lips opened in smiles, he could have ignored them.

He cannot help but softly snort at finally seeing where the young lieutenant is; rather than sitting at the high table, Lieutenant Jing Yuan sways and prances with a painted young lady wreathed in shy pink and purple fabrics, smiling wide at his reddened face. His cheeks cannot hide the heavy wine, but the lazy beam would also.

And there, beyond the line of dancing drunks and ladies, Dan Feng catches the familiar eye of Preceptor Taoran, side by side with the Arbiter-General and the Master Diviner, a lowly commander under his name and the Sword Champion, all followed by a couple of entertainers with theatrical beams. Their jewellery shines from afar, their pulled-up, royalty-like hairstyles enriched by gold, and dresses swirling in a fan of diverse colours. Even Taoran has one of them on his arm, far from behind his companions.

The coral and auric brothels will profit tonight.

Shaoying is not far. Dan Feng barely moves his head, but his eyes find his spy behind a pillar, already staring at her lord with a stern, collected message behind it. She has always been quick on her feet and has a mind clever enough to keep up, which made her more useful than not to him. Dan Feng knows he needed a light feather to stay behind Taoran’s shadow, silent as one, too. She carefully raises the cup, a fine crystalwork full of dark wine, and peers at the Preceptor. 

Dan Feng takes a deep breath and stands, not caring to pick up his empty cup. The closer he is to it, the more he smells the faint cider in the wine, nauseous to his senses. 

While Dan Feng would prefer not to be seen when focused on his tasks, Yinyue-jun has him ignore the people who momentarily watch him make his way through the crowd. Just like the High Elder of the Luofu parts the oceans and deep waters of Scalegorge Waterscape, he also parts the oceans of guests. It is a clean, burdenless path.

Jingliu notices him approaching first, eyes glinting with unspoken relief. “Yinyue-jun, Your Grace.” 

She does not need to bow as others should. With a hand on her sword’s hilt on her hip and another behind her back, she merely tilts her head.

Soon, the others follow. Better would be if you kowtowed, crawling on the floor. It is not lost to Dan Feng the tiny grimace Preceptor Taoran tries to hide, the strained smile when he bows… straight to the waist, avoiding his stare. You, especially.

General Teng Xiao is one of respect, and Dan Feng cuts him before the man greets him. “I had no opportunity to properly congratulate you on your victory, General.” Adorning his most polite smile, Dan Feng tips his head. “May Lan guide you in your future endeavours, arrow as sincere as their will.”

“I appreciate your kind words, Your Grace.” Teng Xiao greets him befittingly, even breaking the conversation with his commander and the Preceptor. 

If he is to be truthful, there is a lingering desire for hope in his words, but rarely does a Xianzhou native live beyond a thousand years without turning into something else. The signs are there: a faint tiredness in his speech, the want to solve predicaments in a game of xiangqi rather than combat, the empty sight wandering random corners of the room. 

Eventually, they all lose a much more important battle that no arrow, blade, or hammer can defeat, death a too-far-gone desire.

Teng Xiao has never been short on etiquette and intellect, and he is not lacking in martial arts. If Lan would have it, Jing Yuan would become nothing less, learning under him.

Dan Feng cannot say the same about his commander, Liu Bei. 

If not for his prowess in battle and on the strategic field, he would hardly meet any glory. The man is unnecessarily pushy, a bother by breathing. He pushes his full cup of wine onto the poor courtesan on his arm, who hides a sigh when he sees the blood-red beverage spilling on her long cerulean sleeve. “Perhaps Yinyue-jun can be of help…”

“How foolish of you to think of that,” Taoran scoffs, still avoiding the dangerous line of Dan Feng’s stare. “Do you really consider Yinyue-jun to have time to worry about this?”

“No man in this ship is unfamiliar with death and loss, Preceptor.” The Master Diviner is more bearable and wiser than most, unsurprisingly. No one becomes the head of the Matrix of Prescience because of a lack of wit. “You speak as if Yinyue-jun knows nothing of it nor knows of battle. More than once, he has dived into the bloodshed.”

“There is no need to dwell…”

“Preceptor Taoran.” When Dan Feng speaks, the conversation ceases. Heavy seconds linger between them, and for once, Taoran finally looks at him. “Would you care to explain the issue at hand? I hate being talked about as if I am not present.”

He drank more than he should have. It is not easy for a Vidyadhara to fall into inebriation with liquor, especially the excessively sweet ones found on the Luofu, and yet, here he is. 

Taoran smells of canned heat, and his cheeks are redder than usual. His hand is not trembling. Taoran is not a hard one to figure out, much too arrogant to notice the slipping edges, the telltales of his opinions. 

“I meant no offense to Yinyue-jun.” Taoran grunts, blinking away. “I speak solely out of sparing you the annoyance, Your Grace.”

“You use too many words and avoid making your point.” 

A perturbed silence follows his reproach, but only between the group. The guests and musicians are unaware of the ghostly cutting-edge stalling on them. A bard begins to share lewd songs, and the people clap and sing along, their dancing footsteps loud and rumbling alongside drunken hushes and breaking cutlery. 

Nonetheless, Dan Feng is too apperceptive to let the pother of the party lead him away. Taoran’s hands might not be trembling, but the corner of his eye is. 

“We speak of the losses taken for this victory, Your Grace,” Teng Xiao breaks the silence with a cold yet polite nod, a deep breath Dan Feng almost feels against his arm. “I am content in the name of the Alliance and the Hunt, but I must speak with the Skyfairing’s Amicassador and the Realm-Keeping Commission to prepare the honour ceremony for the fallen soldiers. Many we had no corpses to retrieve.”

Dan Feng does not know if the bitter taste in his mouth comes from the remnants of the awful wine served at his table or… things he cannot consider. How unfitting. 

No one mentions the fallen soldiers if not for the grieving families and loved ones. Dan Feng sees them when the cyrcranes bring letters and beloved tokens, as well as any remembrance of little objects belonging to the knights and other campaign members. He remembers seeing a crone weeping at the hall entrance, a dirty red fabric in hands, startled as soon as the Arbiter-General spoke to her. She nodded, covering her mouth as she suppressed loud sobs. He did not see her at the banquet and doubts he will see her anywhere.

For some, grieving your fallen comrades is not an act of weakness. Dan Feng watched, back then, as the General expressed his sympathies and left, face cold as stone, akin to granite. 

A General before and foremost. 

“I thought the Matrix of Prescience vowed to foresee the best outcome to avoid losses,” says Dan Feng, crossing his arms. “Master Diviner, how come?”

Preceptor Taoran, never one to fully hide his true opinions much to others’ dismay, huffs, but before he can share a few words on the matter, the Master Diviner interrupts him, answering the High Elder.

“There is always a margin of error. Divination is not an art nor a certain science…” His voice heaves with a light tremor, one that Dan Feng learned centuries later how to recognise as grief. “We aim for the least outcome, but destiny is a fickle, fragile thing, Your Grace. There are things we cannot foresee, even with all the calculations we make.” The man lets out a sigh, clearing his throat. “I had not seen an extra legion coming forward when I should have thought of one.”

“You blame yourself for something I should have prepared for, Master Diviner,” Teng Xiao cuts in. “I thought we had gotten rid of most of Shuhu’s vanguard back in Thalassa. The spies reported nothing suspicious, and I vouched to follow the Ten Lords’ wishes more than overwatch the preparations. My own vanguard paid the price. So did the planet.”

“Victory still came along, unsurprisingly,” comments Taoran, forcing a diplomatic and feigned beam. There is nothing in that smile, Dan Feng knows. He does much of the same. “When the fate of the Alliance is the goal, there is not much we cannot do.”

“A corrupted immortality is no real immortality, after all.” Dan Feng has to resist the need to cough, throat taut by a sourness he can’t expel. “You freed those people from the claws of Yaoshi, General. The lives lost were not in vain. How many?”

“A few thousand, at best,” replies Jingliu in the General’s stead. “Without counting the home casualties. As I said… the price was paid.”

More often than not, belonging to the Xianzhou Alliance meant hearing of planets that were too ruined to save. Even one of their own flagships in the past lost a battle against one so corrupted by the Abundance they had to let go.

“Impossible to avoid?”

“Only if we wanted them to proliferate,” the commander says. Proliferate, much like a plague. “The General knows best. The blessing of the Hunt got rid of all of them with a quick swap of lightning, and that’s what matters.”

Dan Feng will not ask about the number of civilian casualties. Last time, they could not give anyone a number.

“We apologise for the grim conversation, Your Grace.” Teng Xiao’s words make Dan Feng blink. “We appreciate the celebration and wish not to turn it into the funeral ceremony this soon.”

“Why are you apologising?” Dan Feng forces his tone to imitate the still water beneath the Shackling Prison; when something is cold, nothing leaves. “Even if you could predict the attack, casualties were inevitable. The planet is lucky it had not met a worse fate. Such is the way of war.”

An unfamiliar huff comes not far away from him. “And have no sympathies for the dead?”

Dan Feng snaps his head as quick as a viper to look at who would dare---

I’ve never seen these eyes before. 

The Xianzhou receives many colours in the Alliance: amber and sun-kissed, oceanic brushes, sky-blessed visions, umber-made and obsidian, even ichor ones. He had yet, before this moment, to find a pair in the shade of a mauve sweet scabious—especially in a face like this.

Red kohl lines at the corner of these faint amaranthine eyes, thin-lidded but no less piercing, already staring at him with not-so-hidden hostility. The lips, even if tainted by crimson in a perfect heart, are pursed, a light pull at the corner as if attempting—or obviously lying—to smile, demure and quietly. Gracious mouth. The hair, a sea of black, is pulled up in an elaborate bun with hairpins of gold-painted floras, strands falling and contouring his face, looking like a sharp feature with the high cheeks, full of pearl powder. 

Ah, a courtesan, then. If the doll-like make-up were not a given, the hanfu would tell the tale of the unusual youth. Emerald green with embroidered long, wide sleeves, red lotus-flowered with little specks of rubies, or a mockery of the gem. 

Too daunting. 

Not wishing to stare at the shoulders, tempting to be exposed and bare to the world, Dan Feng focuses on the red earrings hanging from the courtesan’s ears, opening his mouth to rebuke, but the courtesan retakes hold.

“Is mourning the dead so beneath you, Your Grace?” The title is spoken with a quiet viciousness, a touch of an unfamiliar accent— foreigner? —, and the courtesan’s eyebrows straighten each word. “The least they deserve is dignity, and theirs was denied in this war, which they had no fault in.”

Dan Feng narrows his eyes, unblinking and refusing to leave the sight of mauve-shaded brushes. “War calls for sacrifices.” 

“How funny most of them are not your people, then. Devastating, truly.” 

Before Dan Feng retorts such haughtiness, Preceptor Taoran grabs the courtesan’s arm with visible strength. 

“Apologise immediately,” he grits between the fangs, any sign of drunkenness vanished in a matter of seconds. “It is Yinyue-jun you speak to. Not even your words should be directed at him!” 

“Where are my manners,” uttered bland and scornful. But the courtesan never once retributes the heated, almost worrisome and full of odium gaze the Preceptor gives him. Always on Dan Feng, icier and icier. “Spare my life after this terrible, horrendous misconduct, Yinyue-jun.” And he offers a mockery of a bow. “This lowly one will seal one’s lips before looking at you.”

Preceptor Taoran grunts when his hold tautens around the courtesan’s arm, messing the fabric between his fingers. When he makes to reproach the courtesan again, Dan Feng halts him with a raised, gloved hand. 

“What do you expect the Xianzhou to do when faced with a disease as the curse of the Abundance, then?” Dan Feng must control his own voice, one too many emotions piling up in his throat. Is mourning the dead so beneath you?, echoing. “Plagues spread. Devastating, indeed, even if they are not my subjects. But there is no victory against a plague that does not cost the lives of many. They were not the first, nor they will be the last…” He gazes at the courtesan from top to bottom and meets a darkened shade of lilac. “I understand this is a hard realisation for one who hears of their first conflict.”

There is a glint, though he cannot know if it is a sign of a single threatening tear or a well-fed hubris. 

“And you understand so much of how flickering innocent lives matter in the grand scale of things when all that counts is an impossible prize of Yaoshi’s head—” 

Another pull of Taoran even causes the courtesan to flinch. Still, there is a dangerous feature in him. Venomous, even.

Even Jingliu’s head snaps at the courtesan, arms crossed over her chest. “The Abundance has cost countless lives home to the Alliance, more beyond,” she comments, cold as her sword. “We cannot falter and risk more contamination.”

“And no regard for them, even after being wiped out alongside your enemies.” The retort is quick as a whip.

“Careful, now,” murmurs Dan Feng. “We might start thinking you flirt with the plagues rather than the arrow.”

That seems more offensive to the courtesan than any contempt. “The last thing I’ll ever be is a puppet of Theirs,” he snarls, so poisonous Dan Feng can taste the words in his own mouth alongside the strange accent. 

The courtesan pronounces each letter taut and precise, dare he say, a softness akin to brushes against his ear. He rolls the r with taste, and Dan Feng thinks he would now recognise the speech anywhere he went. No one talks in that way.

It’s almost luring, but the poison conceals it. “You will never have to worry about dying too soon, Yinyue-jun, how could you possibly see the losses? Too mighty you lot are, never regarding those under you.”

“Even with our long lives, we cannot let our guards down.” Dan Feng slowly falls into a vision of red. Bodies of Vidyadhara subjects he could never retrieve, souls that would never again be met in the cycle of reincarnation, numbers decreasing and decreasing with their knowledge. “Shuhu and his followers never rest, and we cannot allow ourselves to stop and mourn for the casualties. It is for the best that we do not let them slow us down if we can at least keep their dignity.”

“You think some lives are more valuable than the rest?”

Dan Feng does not answer.

The courtesan, instead, huffs, lifting his chin. “The Alliance comes and goes as it pleases, saving planets and helping the hopeless, and yet you find yourself above mourning those who will never reach a tenth of your life. Is death anything to you?”

“I know of death more than you do.”

“I doubt it.” Now, the courtesan smiles in pure arrogance, face closer and closer. “You will live thousands of years and reincarnate a thousand times over, but you will never grasp death as we do.”

In the moment, and only for that moment, Dan Feng wonders if someone is seeing through his lies, and the thought is more than terrifying. Were he a lesser man, his eyes would quiver, he would blink in confusion, and he would splatter curses. 

His hand itches to curl around this arrogant man’s throat, see if he can speak when talons get into his skin, painting his skin the same colour as his earrings, his lips; if he will still look at him with the same defiance which no one would dare look at the High Elder with. Maybe cutting his tongue is better. Dan Feng should not let a commoner affect him this much.

I’m not the only liar in here, is what he thinks afterwards, noting how Preceptor Taoran would kill the short-life being with his eyes if he could. Courtesans only look the part.

“Enough,” grits Taoran. To Dan Feng, “High Elder, forgive this rudeness this… this…”

“Be quiet,” Dan Feng tells him, never stirring from the courtesan’s gaze. 

“But, Your Grace—!”

But Yinyue-jun, he who would never even spare a second of his long lifetime to prove commoners wrongs, finds himself too tempted to give into a curious lividness.

“You are mouthful, are you not?” he asks instead, burying the will to drown a soul for the sake of respect. If he means the courtesan or Taoran, who visibly aches to interrupt him, he has yet to find out. 

“And you, cold.” The courtesan loses his spark there and then. “Maybe they were right about you, Your Grace. You are heartless.”

As gods usually are. It is not the first time he has heard that. “It will not matter, anyway. I will not remember you in a decade when you perish, will I?” 

Indeed, a heartless creature. Dan Feng made peace with it a long time ago, when knowing his blood was more akin to aeons than men. 

“Control yourself!” Taoran, who never remembers his place, shakes his head. “Your Grace, I begged you not to meddle in these conversations, so below you.” Ha, that has been an argument as of late. “Clearly, I was correct.”

Dan Feng arches an eyebrow, mouth nearly curling into a snarl. Taoran’s preposterous behaviour is older than any short-life species spitting angry remarks at him. “I expected better of you. A member of my internal council, giving into the spirit of beverage. Terrible control. Who might he be?” 

Taoran licks his lips, heaving breath. Dan Feng can feel the tense attention the Arbiter-General and the commander have on them, hears the small startles of the girl wrapped around the military arm and forgets about her besmirched fabric. From the corner of the eye, he can see Shaoying peering behind the pillar, pretending to be drunk with a still-full cup of wine. Jingliu returns a hand to the sword’s handle, never leaving from the troublesome courtesan’s perception.

“Your Grace, he…”

“I asked if you know him, Taoran,” Dan Feng interrupts the Preceptor’s rambling. “It is not a difficult question. Yes or no.”

“No.”

Lies.

One thing Dan Feng learned ever since he was of age to keep his council intact is that the Preceptors knew the ministrations of lies as a second art, only losing to diplomacy with the Ten Lords of the Xianzhou Luofu. 

The heart pounds incessantly, and he knows only he is listening to it. When Lady Xuepu still taught Dan Feng the ways and tutored him to become the High Elder, as he was meant to be, the youth soon learned how to deceive those who watch over him. That is when he learned to slow his bumping heart, which was almost impossible to hear. Who would ever punish him for lies when they hear no signs of it?

“You two look close, Preceptor,” he comments, not letting a single emotion out. 

“You may ask the General and his commander, Your Grace, and the Sword Champion as witnesses. I was merely avoiding hostility.” For those outside the Vidyadhara council, he is polite, educated and well-kempt. Chin high, self-control. Dan Feng hears the General humming and the commander agreeing with a nod before taking a sip from the girl’s hand holding the cup. “This boy is simply an entertainer at the banquet, just like any others. I shall take care of it, of his misdeeds, myself, in your name, if you allow me.” 

Taoran tugs on the courtesan’s arm and removes their presence from the group without Yinyue-jun’s permission.

The bard continues to sing lewd songs to the crowd, the musicians follow him with joy, the people continue to gather around and merrily make the most of the banquet, ignorant to the ire building behind an emerald wall. If Dan Feng were not seething before, the wrath climbing up his body as he sees Taoran pushing between the guests with the courtesan in hand does it for him.

From the corner of his eye, he notices Shaoying already moving, but Dan Feng cuts her with a sharp nod and sway of his tail.

“It ain’t the first time a man loses to a pretty face,” murmurs Liu Bei, quickly exchanging gazes with the girl around his arm. She sighs, and Dan Feng wants to snap at the open path left by Taoran.

“Your Grace, regarding your healers…”

“I have matters to solve, General,” Dan Feng grits between his teeth, fangs aching for something stronger than alcohol. He can taste the metallic flavour on top of his tongue, under his fangs. “I bid you farewell.” 

With a lasting look at Jingliu, who simply turns away with a nod, he pushes past them.

How dare he leave without my permission? Dan Feng had men tongueless for lesser crimes than the lack of respect. And in public, nonetheless. Taoran has always been a Preceptor one should be aware of, never letting their guard down and trusting his words unquestioningly, disagreeing with the High Elder every chance he gets. Never, however, had he been so evident outside Scalegorge Waterscape. 

And they call me proud. 

Taoran should know better than to test Yinyue-jun when the Vidyadhara race has an appearance to maintain before the eyes of the Ten Lords, the Xianzhou natives and foreigners. He should know better than to expose himself, or his High Elder, with a weakness whatsoever. 

Stupid, miserable snake.

Turning corners and bifurcations of the palace, fewer and fewer guests aside from secret lovers between their rendezvous, drunks passing out or vomiting their guts out. The hall’s pother becomes numb to his ears at some point, so far he has gone following the trail of—

“What were you thinking?!”

—Dan Feng halts in his steps. 

Taoran’s voice faintly echoes from behind a pillar, just turning on the next entrance to a desert corridor. Cloudhymn flutters between his fingers, silent as a shadow, and Dan Feng slows down his steps, calms his heart until it is numb to the ears of others.

“Yinyue-jun, of all people to argue with!” Taoran continues to scream, though hushed, a terribly omitted secret. “He could demand your head on a plate, and I would be the one to deliver it to him. The audacity! Can that mouth of yours remain silent for once?”

He hears a light thud! Followed by a grunt, the sound of fabrics… though nothing seems to be undressing. Too feathery, too thin, there is no violence in it, nor anything.

“Your attitude can be charming outside of Astrum— curse you, even outside of Starskiff Heaven! But you cannot possibly imagine these people will ever find it amusing like the rest. Not even the rest…” A grunt, then an awfully hidden distaste in the words, “Yinyue-jun is the closest thing we have to a god in this flagship. Do you understand? Or that short-lived brain of yours cannot comprehend something like this? We cannot tell him not to do something most of the time. He is stubborn, much like you. You only had one purpose this evening—not to cause any problems. And you pick an argument with him out of everyone!”

There is a scoff, not so loud to echo but sufficient to tell on tiredness, alongside an undefined accent. “If you wanted a quiet one, you should have picked another.” 

Smack!

“…be grateful he will not remember you in the next ten years.”

Dan Feng does not hear a single word afterwards. Still controlling cloudhymn, he lifts his presence away, feigning entertainment and interest for the rest of the evening.

He is a good liar, after all.

“We would do well in not upsetting the Ten Lords, Your Grace. They have been demanding more of our healers to be sent into the next campaigns…” 

Lady Xuepu is still talking. Dan Feng knows the words she will speak to him about before she even utters them, like the proper Preceptor and Yinyue-jun’s tutor that she is—oh, the spokespeople of the Realm-Keeping Commission with their countless authorisation for Vidyadhara commerce, the requests for potions and herbs from the deep regions of Scalegorge’s Waterscape’s waters, the Divination Commission calling for the Pearlkeepers and aspiring youths… and the Ten Lords’ predicaments. 

So much for having the Shackling Prison underneath his domain, only his, and yet answering to the word of others.

He observes the shimmer of the waters from the grand window amid coral-made walls. The calmness of Scalegorge Waterscape remains under his control, his blood and bones residing where not even deathless beings could ever reach with their Abundance curse, forming the obscure world that no light could ever touch. Today, however, they are too calm, a stillness worthy of lifeless regions, an eerie sight beneath the artificial grey-like sky of the Luofu. If he understands the Realm-Keepers well, it was meant to resemble cloudy weather. 

“Our alchemists have worked on a special kind of venom meant to be presented to the higher-ups,” she continues, and if she realises Dan Feng is only standing her speech out of obligation and no genuine interest, then she shows no sign of it. “A proposition, a biological relic to be given in the hands of the knights for the next campaign to Thalassa.”

“And I am to understand they cannot be satisfied with only a weapon, but the creators, as well,” concludes Dan Feng, not giving away an emotion. “They act as if we would break Yubie’s contract of peace and companionship for a few herbs, a fake sky, and lying oceans.” He feels Lady Xuepu’s judgemental gaze on him and allows a tiny smirk to form on his lips. “We lost three healers in the last campaign. We still have some in training, but they have yet to endure physical training for their own safety. I cannot possibly allow them to pick more of mine for a strategy that has yet to be proven correct.”

“…it was a tragic loss, indeed.” There is genuine grief in her voice. Dan Feng knows better than most. 

They might disagree on one too many matters, but a Vidyadhara is still remembered fondly in an enclosed world as theirs. Her tone, always clear and polite, lowers to a whisper with a touch of resentment. 

She clears her throat and asks, “What should we tell them, then, Your Grace?”

As he turns, he finds Lady Xuepu accompanied by the little scribe, sitting at the tiny table with a scroll in hand and a brush in the other. She is young and one of Sutuan’s students in the art of calligraphy, if he recalls accurately. With someone as firm and meticulous as Preceptor Sutuan, she must be fairly competent, if not the best among his group. 

Behind them, he sees Sutuan watching over his student, severe-looking and not sparing Dan Feng one of his commentaries for the day, collected as a statue. It must be the girl’s first day, the way he acts. Not a single hair out of place, much less in diplomacy behind doors.

Then, there is Taoran.

Contrary to the other two Preceptors, Taoran lacks finesse in hiding his contradictory opinions and cannot conceal his aversion when Dan Feng acts against his offers. Arrogant boy, muttered more often than not when Dan Feng had yet to be of age, and not being allowed to utter it anymore seems to set him on edge. Though never eye-to-eye, he stares at Dan Feng and gathers to himself with a curled hand under his chin, in front of his mouth. The giveaway is the slight quiver of his lids, an erratic leg, and loud sighs out of annoyance.

Dan Feng narrows his gaze at him. 

“We will not send more of our healers.”

Taoran halts the trembles and stares back, huffing and turning away without a word. Sutuan, on the other hand, arches an eyebrow at him. 

Lady Xuepu’s breath stops for a few seconds, but her stance never changes the straightened spine, hands tight in front of her stomach, and her appropriately elevated chin. Never proud, only reasonable. 

“Your Grace, we need to give them something in return should we reject the request…”

“The venom we are creating is not enough, even when pressured? How disappointing for the both of us.” Dan Feng feigns a chagrin as he stalks back to his desk, his gloved fingers brushing the red lacquer surface. “Which, by the way, I stopped receiving notices after I visited the Alchemy Commission. Tell me, did they think I would unauthorise it?”

“Some of the alchemists responsible were part of the last war campaign, Your Grace,” replies Sutuan, turning to face him. “I believe they have yet to complete the venom before reporting to you for approval. Notes were lost, taken to the grave.”

Silences could be loud, sometimes too much. 

“When it is done. I shall approve its use for the Cloud-Knights and the Ten Lords, as they see fit as long as no Vidyadhara labours under it,” says Dan Feng, watching as the little scribe inks the paper with the brush and precise characters are written onto the scroll’s olive paper. As he sits, he takes a deep breath. “And I stand by my answer. No more healers for the moment.”

“They will rain complaints over us,” mutters Taoran, pacing the room. 

“Do you want us to send more of ours to death?” Dan Feng sharply inquires.

“Outrageous!” The Preceptor turns to see him with disquiet. “It would be easier should you accuse me of treason if you thought I would enjoy sending my blood and flesh to a definitive end.”

“Then it is settled,” ends Dan Feng. To the scribe, he says, “I shall let the current healers stay for longer than their former service provided, offer more financial support, but I cannot allow more of them to leave.” And to Lady Xuepu, who carries a worrisome gaze, “Unless I am allowed to engage in battle.”

“Absolutely not.”

Dan Feng knows the familiar taste in his mouth. That lingering spleen that has met his tongue so many times that it has become part of it, part of him. He tastes it behind his teeth, pressing under the fangs with his tongue, on the roof of his wet mouth, and on the smooth interior of his cheeks like a liquor he will forever savour, willing or not.

The taste reminds him of the times he knew the battlefield as a long-seen friend—or foe, more likely—when descending as a god among soldiers, the unrelenting waters and cutthroat-like cloudhymn, rather than waiting for reports on the losses they suffered, knowing details are missing from the couriers and the survivors left behind. 

No more than two centuries ago, he would have been supervising and ending the battles himself with a certain victory on his tail, from the blood and brim of the Permanence. If I had been there, I might have prevented those deaths. I could have brought them home, I could have brought them to the egg. It would not be a stranger, to him, the weight of a different type of immortality. A still, silent one that seems more permanent than Long Themselves. He would be a fool to pretend otherwise, but an even bigger fool for doubting he would not triumph over it.

There is much he could say to Lady Xuepu, the so-nurtured ill-intent that grew roots in him: venomous words, curses, cold rejection, terribly concealed disaffection, the sourness of impossibility, the reminder that he is not much like a god to other higher-ups.

With it, came the intrusive desire of k—

“Then my decision is final, my lady,” he says, calmly. 

Outside Dragonvista Rain Hall, the first drops of true rain begin to fall above the tranquil oceans.

Lady Xuepu, he knows, is conflicted; hating to see her kin abandoned to the hands of fate and wishing to maintain control and friendship… or the closest thing to it they would have with the Xianzhou, the place they oh-so made a home of. Not without a pathetic plea, some would say. It is less than unsavoury.

Sutuan concedes before the other two do. A stern look at his student, she quickly assembles a polite-sounding letter, best fitting for less offenses when rejecting an offer. Ultimately, there is no proper, kind way to say no.

“I shall inform the alchemists you are looking for their creation, Your Grace,” is how Lady Xuepu follows the order, retaking a neutral appearance and bowing to the hip. 

When only Taoran is left, Dan Feng only watches him for a second before asking, “Is there something you wish to tell me, Taoran?”

Not even a word of exclamation, agreement or distaste for my decision. Unusual. 

They have been back and forth with too many disagreements for Dan Feng to expect an attitude. Taoran might be the most volatile of them—or unfiltered, better suit, for Dan Feng finds his own rage more compliant to violence. In contrast, Taoran simply lacks the self-control he so preached about to his High Elder when the latter was young.

But he has never been this telling.

Taoran does not even return his curious gaze when replying, “All I had to say was spoken in the meeting, Your Grace,” a bit too controlled to be natural.

“Even Sutuan spoke more than you this time. I could not help but inquire, so out of style for you.” Dan Feng taps with one of his claws on the desk, smoothing the sound with a light cloudhymn. “Your best interests are also the Vidyadhara race’s, my lord. There should not be animosity when we strive for the same goal.”

No plea or kindness in his voice, as it should be. Perhaps in the times of Yubie—perhaps Yubie himself would have done differently. Dan Feng is not his past reincarnation, though.

Maybe the preceptor realises too late that he turns quickly enough to be desperation, ire-motivated, for he conceals it with a fake cough and the diplomatic appearance for the Ten Lords. 

“…forgive me, Your Grace, but your words deeply wound me,” with a strained tone, as if the words hurt his throat when spoken out loud. “I have only ever had the Vidyadhara in mind when with you, and I only prioritise their welfare—and all of our race. I… I am not against denying more Vidyadhara to be sent to war once more, so shortly after a great loss.”

Great loss. With their numbers decreasing, three lives equate to a hundred, if not thousands. “I understand.” With a nod and a mindless finger gesture, Dan Feng says, “You do well… and you are dismissed.”

“…Yinyue-jun.” And with a final, strict bow, Taoran leaves.

Dan Feng never misses how the Preceptor’s eye keeps twitching at the corner, the smallest pupils with no shine, the deadened demeanour one could find the guards of the Shackling Prison. A puppet girl, dead even before the Xianzhou natives’ time, was turned into a livelier sentient being than him.

Telling that he is being obvious and bordering on carelessness, Dan Feng realises his tighter leash around the Preceptor’s neck is fruitful, even after ten years spent in a blink. Trust a long-lasting punishment for a cold, quiet retaliation when one forgets their place.

“Your Grace?” A muffled voice echoes behind the closed doors, and Dan Feng allows them to enter. Then, he sees Lingyan, the courier, with parchments and letters in hand. “Forgive me for disturbing your sacred hour.”

“Fret not, you have disturbed nothing,” if anything, I was being disturbed earlier, immensely so, but to her, he politely nods. “What have you brought me?” 

Then, he sees not only parchments to come, but a strange dark-red cloth wrapping too big to be a letter and not as thick as a book. It resembles a scroll, longer and curled more ways over. 

“Is it my blueprint for the spear?” With a bit of haste, Dan Feng extends his hand. They kept him waiting long enough. He might have had a better chance at requesting a prototype ready for battle from the Zhuming.

“I believe so, Your Grace,” she shyly replies. The scroll is taller than her head when upwards, and when in his hands, Dan Feng realises it is not as hefty as the papers used by the Artisanship Commission. Nor the same kind of paper, truthfully. 

Then, he sees the unfamiliar seal. The scroll is held tight with a strong black fibre meticulously planned not to damage the paper, but the wax carries a symbol he has never seen. The texture and form of a rose stand amid petals of camellias, similar to a crown, a possessive necklace for the lonely rose. It is not from the Artisanship Commission. 

“Who sent it?” he asks, fastidiously studying the scroll. “Who should have gotten it?”

“It was meant to be sent to Dragonvista Rain Hall, but the specific receiver’s name was blurred, probably from the rain, it is still humid…” It does not look like an accidental blur. “…And the sender is also not written. I assumed it was from the artisans or the Realm-Keepers, Your Grace, I’m deeply sorry.”

“Anything else to be given?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Then you may leave.”

Only when alone in the room again does Dan Feng allow himself to investigate the strange package further.

As he mindfully unwraps the fibres and red cloth, he considers possibilities—no known Commission of the Luofu sent this; could it have been one of the lesser-known groups of the Zhuming, a message from Yanting-jun delivered to his kin? Tianfeng-jun is known for spontaneity and, when not welcome, inconvenience, even being one of the oldest High Elders of the Alliance; is he pulling trying—

Dan Feng’s brain halts.

Full colour and gold on silk, vivid ink on paper with painstaking brushes that Dan Feng could imagine himself doing if he were not deep and speechless over the portrait. A seated courtesan relaxes, on a divan, baring their neck and subtly letting some of the royal, amber-shaded robes fall over their shoulder—a minimal, left-to-the-imagination hints at the static motion of the painting. Still, the sway of movement is unmistakable, much like floating on the silken surface and thin paper. A tuanshan rests on their lap in flowery patterns and, carefree curves of petals and branches, matching the hairdressing pins laid beside them… and the hair, a striking, perfectly swayed ocean of black.

It is when he pays attention to their eyes that any thought—suspicions, threats, curiosity, what more is there for him?—become afloat. He has only ever met one creature with a similar mauve shade of scabious for eyes.

I will not remember you in a decade, will I?

The courtesan’s eyes do not gaze at the canvas, of what would soon be the window to his portrait, but to something beyond the margins, a stagnant longing with the colour of amaranthine for eyes. The shade is wrong. Similar, but incorrect. Dan Feng remembers the shimmer in that pair of glasses; maybe not gold on silk is better, but silver? On the page, the brushes do not make it justice. The portrait’s eyes could not defy him in front of the Arbiter-General and Preceptor Taoran.

Oh. Dan Feng connects the dots.

Just below the portrait, some characters write a little message meant for the receiver. Even the strokes have a different technique, as if floating on the page, but Dan Feng can hear that unmistakable yet unfamiliar accent when reading the words. Something blurs at the end of the text as if written but erased with haste, a despair that made the courtesan not care for the dark stain, as small as it may be, at the end of the roll.

I swear to Them, my Lan, to make you a light in my heart that will not be extinguished, and to make you a staff in my back that cannot be broken, because you are from me and I from you.

So much he stares at it, fangs brushing against the silhouette, marked with gold. He does not hear the knocks at the door, nor the title calling for him.

“…Grace?”

Dan Feng never removes his attention from the portrait. “Come in,” as strained as Taoran’s voice earlier. Is that why you have been so on edge?

“Your Grace, forgive me for disturbing you again, I just received the blueprint for your spear from the master artisans…” 

Lingyan becomes numb to his ears. He did not even remember the miserable blueprint.

“Leave it.” Quick and sharp, Dan Feng rolls the scroll in itself again, careful not to scrape or crumble the delicate paper and risk ruination. The courier bows and leaves as fast as she came, not sparing a second more in the room. 

Something tells him he will not like the blueprint for his requested spear…

I will not remember you in a decade, will I?

…but the portrait, strangely, is more fitting than all the suggestions he received throughout the day. 

With a nod to himself, Dan Feng lies down the scroll, not saying a word of it, not even to the lingering ghosts of Long. Some things are better off quietly solved, quietly kept, and never shared; he knows.

Dan Feng hails for Shaoying the same day he sends Preceptor Taoran for a diplomatic dinner with the Realm-Keepers.

“Shiyun will observe him for the evening,” Shaoying tells him. Dan Feng remembers Shiyun. Young yet too clever to be trusted in others’ hands, but difficult to sway away once her loyalty is settled. Shaoying trusts her, and the High Elder can allow it for a day. 

“The sigil is the face of a den of vices below Aurum Alley, Your Grace. An exoworlder owns it and specialises in exotic tastes and treatment for the military.”

One would be naïve to think the Vidyadhara had no will to indulge in different desires other than theophany and alchemy, but it does not take the curiosity over Taoran’s interests. “Do you know for how long this has been happening with—?”

“A little more than a decade.” Of course, it is a decade. 

“From all of his speeches, I expected him to visit one of the coral brothels rather than a foreign one,” muses Dan Feng. Vidyadhara seek the little leads to suffering no more than Xianzhou natives and exoworlders, yet Taoran never held back when it came to belittling those who do not come from the blood of Long. 

Ever since he collected the scroll, he has kept an even tighter watch over the Preceptor. Taoran looked impatient, and attempted to hide the nervousness with scoffs and excuses of exhaustion, which only made Dan Feng keep him within Scalegorge Waterscape’s limits with even more intent, though with a touch of amusement when seeing the man’s 

“Tell me, is it hard to find?”

And by nightfall—or when the Realm-Keepers allow the real universe to shine above the flagship’s dome—Dan Feng finds himself at the Exalting Sanctum, at the entrance to Aurum Alley, a round sedge hat with wide brim, veils covering his cloudhymn-disguised form from possible curious eyes and the scroll, wrapped again in its striking dak-red cloth, sigil pressed under his thumb. 

He expects no recognition. In this form, his hair is nape-lengthened, no emerald chalcedonies for horns and the simplest clothes a passerby could wear, abandoning his expensive, rich-looking robes.

Just follow the trail of knights and merchants, Shaoying had said, it will not be difficult to find.

As he stands, slow and seemingly tranquil steps for pacing, one too many Cloud-Knights return tumbling and smelling of absinthe, summerwine and opium.

There, when a knight almost falls with drunken laughter, he notices the inconspicuous entrance between two darkened buildings. It has no light like the rest of the district, and not many people visit this alley at all. It has no appeal and romance of the Dragonprayer Terrace at the edge of Scalegorge Waterscape, the promising ethereal ambience made in the image of the Permanence. When descending to the underworld, he meets a different kind of promise for relief.

The Floating World, they call it. 

Dan Feng is not unfamiliar, a stranger to the imagined universe of wit and extravagance, the lingering aura of transgression and hedonism. After centuries alive in this reincarnation alone, with a race in his hands and snakes in the grass to watch out for, innocent he would be to have never heard or known of the hedonism barely concealed underneath him. However, coming down in person rather than seeing depictions in paintings and rumours from inebriated men is an experience he knows not how to name. 

If the limbo between Aurum Alley and the underworld is met with pure, undecipherable darkness, when one ends descending, they gather under a personal dome of red, warm touching each and every person beneath. Lanterns shine with never-ending fires and vivid streets with a world of its own. Such a contrast down there from the façade the Xianzhou offers to the rest of the universe and their own people. 

Venues are mobbed, swarming with townspeople, natives and foreigners alike, knights letting their guards down, and nobles flaunting their riches to the vices. 

Scenes reek, or rather interestingly, smelled of burning incense, musk and wild honey burning one’s nose alongside the sharp, sweet opium and alcohol. Common summerwine, rice wine and sour grapes, the curious odour of liquid and powdered intoxicants. With its myriad of smells, Dan Feng is disappointed not even their joining hides the hints of piss and sweat, salty to the nose rather than the tongue.

Makeshifts theatres, painted models, crowds and crowds of watchers with naughtiness for eyes, covering up the illegal markets and lawless deals under the Xianzhou decrees, from illegal traders with exotic goods, expensive stolen items and discharged physicians. Music, food and latticed rooms among the streets hide and welcome the unruled, shameless, turning them into art that calls for the wealthy and powerful. Blood and strales are lost on the cobble walk, fainted bodies more akin to corpses lying around, and no one pays attention, if not for cheering and adoring the profane.

The pleasure quarter is a sensation in itself. After walking amid bifurcation of temptations---or so would the commonfolk call. Taking a turn, he ignores the loud celebrations and lewd sounds coming from the windows of several establishments. 

Dan Feng keeps the scroll closer as he passes by the several old, well-kempt buildings that, despite the care, have seen better days; lowly nightflowers parade the streets, some close to having no robe at all, unfairly painted faces and stained cheeks. Others laugh with patrons at the venue, the open rooms and up in the balustrades, screams and chantings, groans and mixing sweat and opium with ink.

Is this where you have been coming? Dan Feng cannot help a light snort, thinking of Taoran mingling around all that which he despises, or so claims to do so.

At the end of the venue, facing the street, Dan Feng finds it: a white rose with its petal threatening to fall, while the rarest red camellias crown it in lily-like forms. The painting is not new and needs to be done again to keep the striking look. 

Still, the attention does not go to the symbol nor the brothel’s name, Sleepless Garden Teahouse, when faux noble courtesans fan themselves before it, smiles and necks exposed with glee and promising secrets men would go to war for, if only to see them deny them the privilege.

“Are you lost, mister?” A girl, no younger than four hundred years of age, snaps her fan shut, approaching him with her robe hanging low enough for a rose nipple to slip out of the fabric.

“We can help you,” another purr, fixing her lipstick with the pad of her thumb.

Dan Feng does not waste a glance at them or their bodies, much less their offer, stepping inside.

One can only ascend if one is willing to rise, as they say.

The teahouse is anything but, a pure display of lascivious songs of pleasure and unclean adoration in all ways and forms, under heavy opium smoke and wild honey. Geji perform in the middle of the medium-sized hall, a presentation of beauty through the art of swords and fan, flexibility at its finest, while others, trained in music, play with taste in the background, ignoring the men salivating over their hidden ankles beneath the heavy robes.

Latticed wooden and diaphanous sparkling veils barely hid the sounds and images of men, women, and others invested in their bodies. Unremarkable to the rest of the patrons, they were careless of who might see them or who they might be. Rumour has it that they become something else when in the hands and attention of a flower.

“I’ve never seen you ‘round here, customer,” a voice comes from behind him, much like a smirk in its echo. “Tell me, iron or quill?”

Strangers of all types become fortunate in the Xianzhou if they are smart enough to undo the Xianzhou natives’ laws, and from the looks of the one before Dan Feng, he is indeed not from the Alliance. An IPC’s lapdog thriving? 

The almond and brown eyes are simple, but his accent gives him away; no flagship of the Xianzhou has a similar speech, and his tones are too strong, often wrong. Greasy and smaller than Dan Feng, not-fitting clothing, he comes as a simpleton rather than a clever foe.

Soldier or politician? 

“I am looking for a courtesan,” Dan Feng says instead, chin high and straightened posture. “Black hair, rose skin, foreign accent.”

The man stares at him for two seconds before bursting into laughter, and Dan Feng has half a mind to arch his eyebrow and bring forward his claws for the disrespect… until he remembers he is not Dan Feng tonight. 

“If it’s your taste, we have too many of those, dear patron. From the pits of the Fanghu or the poor girls left by the Abundance, natives or not, take your pick. We don’t lack those. Do you want me to send a group rather than one only, perhaps?”

“It is not a taste,” Dan Feng takes a deep breath, keeping the attention on the stranger. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“So, what if I am?” The stranger brings forward an elaborate yet much-used pipe, inhaling a heavy breathing smoke. “Who is interested?”

“A possible future patron.” Dan Feng refuses to lose against a commoner when it comes to dealings. “And I am not after a particular taste. As I said, I want a name and a price for the services.” He quickly undoes the fibre and red cloth, unwrapping the painting on silk. “Lilac eyes. You do not have those in lots, do you, now?”

The man’s eyes light a spark, darkening with intent and smile widening with malice. He snickers, the pipe between his lips, and Dan Feng hears him click his tongue against his teeth as he shakes his head. 

“Where did you get that, young man?”

I am older than you will ever be. “Does it matter for your profit?”

“Ah, dunno’.” He breathes a large amount of smoke. Each word he speaks comes with the excessively sweet breeze of the opiate. “I can’t have the wrong eyes on this place, can I? You could’ve stolen it from a prominent lord. What will I say when he comes knockin’ at my door, tellin’ me I’m a liar, a thief after his strales? Men have been kill’d for less ‘round here, boy. We don’t like turn-cloaks. What happens to my profit when I lose a client for the mischief of another?”

“You will be paid the loss and more,” Dan Feng replies calmly. 

“Is that so?” Another chuckle. “The one you want?” He indicates with the pipe to the painting. “One of my most profitable ones, boy. It’s hard to find an open night if not decided months or years prior. Not everyone can afford him. You don’t get a thing like him in every dynasty.”

“Do not waste my time. Tell me the price and the pavilion.”

“More than what most people can pay, I assure you.” His tone is slowly becoming sourer, features twisting into a displeasing appearance. “You think my work is a joke?”

“I think you aspire to be a wealthy merchant and make a name with your bloodline somewhere around the flagship, but found yourself here, knowing everyone wants what they cannot have. You give them privacy; they give you enough strales to make yourself sufficiently remarkable to the Real-Keepers. And depravity sells when men are out for blood.” Dan Feng carefully wraps the painting, never looking away from the man. “If you do not give me a price and arrange him for the night, I will find him myself.”

It would be more demanding and create more problems than it is worth, most likely, but if there is one person who might give him an even closer outlet to Taoran’s schemes, it is the courtesan he has been besotted with. A terrible choice, he would say, and chastise if it had not happened to be useful when Taoran slips between his fingers, nearer to the Ten Lords than he would like.

The man intakes an even longer smoke, observing Dan Feng through a narrowed gaze, searching for any detail that would mark him in his view, in his list of patrons if Dan Feng thinks properly. The disguise has done him well—not a single Vidyadhara feature exposed and a younger face. Most will take him for a nameless, a trailblazer around the Luofu for the sightings and vices. 

Not the first, not the last.

After a pause that feels like minutes, the man blows the smoke, asking, “Five thousand strales a glance. Three hundred thousand credits, if you have the IPC money.”

Dan Feng refuses to blink, to gape and distrust. “I do not do things in halves. His company, fully. For a whole night?”

“Impossibly higher,” the man retorts. “He’s one of my most coveted, if not the most. I’m givin’ you the most normal pay for those who can afford the gold dust, boy. Take it or—” Then, he stares, and stares.

From within his sleeve, Dan Feng reaches for a perfectly trimmed, stargem and jade-made bracelet. The stones inlaid along its cloud-like carvings have no singular origin, but none from the Xianzhou. From the depths of Lushaka to the heights of Verdantia, the artisan was clever when making it. Not even some nobles and high-ranking politicians would ever afford a similar piece of jewellery, small as it is.

“I am certain this pays for the whole night.”

Of course, his eyes only shine on the gem, never the person. Dan Feng restrains the smirk threatening to form on his lips. When the man’s hands act, reaching for the bracelet, Dan Feng holds it back.

“A whole night alone with him.”

“Do you have any idea I have to cancel his dates for the entire evening and early mornin’?” The man grunts, fingers trembling with addiction. The pipe between his teeth almost falls, but the darkened gaze is meant for the gem. “At least five of them requested him with months of anticipation, boy.”

“This jewel is more than enough to cover the loss and the request. Charge an extra fee for the urgency, if you will.”

If greed had any human face, it is the one Dan Feng stares down at, whose mouth curls with an ugly yellowish smile. 

“That I will. Well done, boy. Well done.” When Dan Feng has yet to give him the payment, he sighs. “Direct yourself towards the red-lily pavilion, down the main stairs at the end of the music hall. A spider-like flower on the door, you won’ miss. I’ll ensure the dates are cancelled and you are undisturbed, dear patron.” Then, when the bracelet is in his palms, cradled as the most valuable object ever to exist, Dan Feng turns on his heels to walk away, and he asks, ”And what is your name?”

Dan Feng does not turn nor stop when replying, “Dan Heng.”

No wonder Taoran is always grunting and complaining behind dark corridors. 

The image of Preceptor Taoran dealing with money-seeking mortals, a foreigner nonetheless, makes Dan Feng chuckle internally. For a creature that never hid comments on others, finding him messing with two short-life species is curious enough to investigate.

Avoiding stumbling on patrons and courtesans along the way, Dan Feng reaches for the stairs, finding a less crowded path beneath. Here, rooms are aligned with different flowers painted on their doors. He can hear muffled voices and movements, groans and unintelligible words nearby, probably from the enclosed spaces. Reserved and almost too quiet. If the stories are correct, not every courtesan gets a personal room and the privilege of privacy. 

Taoran would not go after a lowly one. It made sense, though a strange chill itches along the line of his spine.

Soon, he finds the red lily, its petals like spider legs. It is slightly different from the other flowers; it has more precise brushes without losing the flowy, spontaneous call, and even the colours are better mixed with one another. 

As he slides the running door, he first senses the strong smell of ink and hot water.

Dan Feng admits he expected a messier place. The coral brothels never hid their will for elegance and values despite the line of work, but he knew Xianzhou natives found the havoc a more effective aphrodisiac. 

The walls are covered with long golden lilies embroidered in heavy and warm maroon curtains. A few pieces are pulled with dark filigree, exposing wooden panes, black smearings and coatings belonging to a broader picture hidden behind the veils.

At the opposite side of the room, a red elmwood altar table placed under a grand panel with unfamiliar sightings, ink on silk and threaded with bronze, has lit candles, a familiar tuanshan, a smoking pipe and black sticks of incense, burning and forming hazy drawings of mist in the air. In the middle, a carved coffee table, clean and as lustrous as it can be, with white and purple teaware organised on top, following two matching cups, cushions on the floor. A low-platform wine-dark divan meets the end of the room, more akin to a bed with latticed patterns for panels, messy covers and a few pillows. 

There must be a tub behind the folding screen, black and bright lacquer with crimson-and-gold drawings of grand scenery. A flaming wheel, lotuses and their petals contoured… a familiar sight, though he cannot remember whence it came.

The next thing he senses is a light humming from behind the same folding screen.

He shuts the door behind him without making a sound with the help of cloudhymn and dares only to approach the tea table, seeing where the incense burns until it fades and ashes of smoke have fallen on the surface. Carefully, he removes it with a swift cloudhymn trick—

“Good evening, dear patron, how will I…?”

Time might not be kind to short-lived species when it comes to death, but Dan Feng sees it as kind in pulchritude. 

The courtesan has not changed so much from their first and last meeting, but no Xianzhou native, adult foxian or Vidyadhara creature would have signs of visible age after a decade alone. There are white specks, long threads of white hair with the black pulled over his shoulder, and crow’s feet mark him at the corner of his eyes. 

This time, there is no hefty make-up to groom him for guests, though a luminous blossom seems to be on his lips, shining a little more, being the only decoration alongside his red-tassel earrings. Not even an expected elaborated robe, but a simple brown-and-gold lamella fabric.

Even if the courtesan had changed completely, the colour of his eyes would tell.

I will not remember in a decade, will I?

So stuck in watching the courtesan’s features and age, he sees when recognition falls onto the young man: wide eyes narrowing quickly, lips curling in an unwelcoming snarl. 

“What are you doing here?!”

Dan Feng maintains his tranquillity with a bit of suspicion. “You know who I am?”

He receives a scoff from the courtesan. “If I know who you are? Are you serious?” At Dan Feng’s statuesque silence, he curses under his breath. “Just because you cut your hair, do you think I would forget that pompous, conceited, and egotistical look of yours?”

The accent is as unmistakable as the eyes. 

As Dan Feng removes the sedge hat, he fills the void, “I was expecting you to have forgotten about me. We met once, and short-life species have a tendency for letting most things go as time passes.”

“You argued with me over whether mourning the innocent victims of war was more or less of a hassle for your dear power-hunger drives,” the courtesan spits. “And how rich of you to imply I could not handle remorse. Weren’t you the one who claimed you wouldn’t even remember me in ten years, Yinyue-jun?”

Something ignites in Dan Feng when hearing his title once more spoken so disdainfully, a cynical behaviour no one dares to direct at him. “Do not think so highly of yourself,” he huffs.

“And yet, here you are.” No one could tell if there was a hint of amusement, mockery or sneer. The courtesan leans his head to the side and steps back, watching his… patron, at least for the moment.

Dan Feng acknowledges the subtle meaning of each action and no fault he can make of it. Others would find glee and pride in being remembered by Yinyue-jun, if not for foes shackled in the depths of Scalegorge Waterscape and old enemies from the battlefield. Still, the courtesan has him on the edge of a phantom knife with no handle. 

There is no point in waiting, prolongating a humourless teasing that will not bring any fruit, nor give him the answers he needs.

“You have something I need and that I trust could be useful.” At the courtesan’s arching eyebrow, Dan Feng unwraps the painting. “I believe it was sent to one of your clients, has it not? One we are both familiar with. Maybe more than we would like.”

The courtesan is good at lying; in all honesty, it is expected of them. Still, seeing how his eyes flutter in recognition at the painting and he halts his breathing momentarily, the rhythm of the mortal heart blasting with pumps, Dan Feng is correct once again.

“Surely you’re not that much of a prude you didn’t know we get painted,” utters the courtesan. “He commissioned one of me since he can’t pay a visit. Hasn’t been for a while, actually.”

“Oh, I know.” Dan Feng allows himself a brief smirk. “I admit I expected better from one who preaches so much on the values of individuality and restraint, though I was not aware he broke it for you.” That little, treacherous scoundrel. “I believe he has yet to realise the excessive work and time spent within Dragonvista is a punishment for the blatant negligence years ago. You remember it, do you not?”

A hint of pure venom guides the courtesan’s following words, slow pacing approaching Dan Feng. “Does it bother you that some of yours are this friendly with short-life species? A step too low, much beneath you, perhaps?”

“You misunderstand.” Carefully, even if he stings you. “Taoran surprises me with his choices not because of whatever views you have of me, or you assume I might have. You have contact with him, as delicate as it is—you know him. You know that between the two of us, I am not the bastard.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I need your access to him and to give me information,” says Dan Feng. Not worthy of wasting time. “He and I have been on thin ice when it comes to many personal and political affairs, and I need a new eye to be kept on him.” At the courtesan’s even more doubtful features, he sighs. “You would not be the first, or the last person of your station to be used as a spy for political interest. All I ask is intel and your collaboration.”

If the silence is only filled with the faint sound of the courtesan’s blood rushing in his veins and heart beating faster, Dan Feng takes the chance to note the things he had no opportunity to—only when he got the painting by mistake, days ago. The courtesan has a particular kind of beauty that he finds hard to deny. The eyes scream for life, and the signs of skin present maturity. 

The painting does not do him justice, though he will never say it properly. In the seconds he spends looking, he realises that each moment is a time flying by to this human. Ephemeral . 

The courtesan shakes his head and grins, soft and toothless, with only a charming curve of his lips as he steps into Dan Feng’s space. It is the image ordinary patrons seek, the alluring piece that will entertain and comfort them for the night, fleeting as the creature may be. His words, however, are anything but sweet.

“Fuck off.”

And he turns on his feet, picks up the pipe and lights it up, dragging a deep smoke.

“You are acting like a child.” Dan Feng does not roll his eyes, but it pains him to do it. 

“Am I?” The courtesan shakes his shoulder in mindless interest, the same scorn from a decade ago. “I suppose I won’t have centuries to mature. You love reminding me of that.” 

Dramatic. “You speak as if I have truly insulted you when I only pointed out—”

“Oh, Yinyue-jun, mighty and above all of us, pitiful and petty mortals. Too mature and rational, too old to argue with children and lowly, mortal peasants, he would never…” One could imagine the artificial surprise across the beauty’s features, the abrupt change when he inhales more smoke and paints hazy drawings in the air when glaring over his shoulder… or not so glaring. “Just leave and forget about me for good, will you?”

Dan Feng has scolded higher men and women for less, forcing them to endure hardships and not accepting anything but utter respect from them. He is not the most powerful name in the Alliance, in the Luofu; he must protect what he has, even if at the cost of humility and isolation. 

What will they do, if I lose my title? Still, this short-life species with beauty on his face never once regarded him with esteem or courtesy. Dan Feng suspects he would be quickly slapped if he were a lesser being.

So, he does what he must. “I paid for your time,” he says, unbothered, and sees how the courtesan’s shoulders halt, freezing. “The whole night, in fact.”

It is not a kind observation. Courtesans may rank higher than common whores, but the leash is as tight as the rest of them. They are disposable, at the end of the night, and they can be replaced with ease. The coral brothels have difficulty finding new ones, scarce as they are in numbers, but the threat of loneliness has never impacted them so much. Naïve of some to think Vidyadhara do not suffer from reclusion.

The stiffness in the courtesan’s back, the shoulders dropping. It is not a kind observation. Breath stuck in his throat; when he gulps it down, it is loud and hurtful.

“Of course, dear customer,” comes in a neutral, almost sickly voice. The courtesan’s back is still taut, the smoke from the pipe painting grey clouds around him. “And what will you have me do tonight?”

Dan Feng kneels on top of the cushions before the small table. “Tea, if you will.”

Is this how you treat all of your clients? The more Dan Feng thinks about it, the less content he is, an inexplicable bitterness lingering behind his mouth. Do you treat them better or worse?

The young man set his pipe aside, blowing a thread of smoke and pulling long strands of hair up in a ponytail, holding them with the simplest of hairpins—more it looks like a dry tree branch, with red flowers blooming along its length. Dragging his feet on the floor to sit in front of Dan Feng, a terrible, hateful eye never leaving his.

“I could scream and tell them you’re here,” mumbles the courtesan, picking up the porcelain teapot without even staring at what he does. Memory, habit; not the first time, never the last.

“But you will not.” Truthfully, Dan Feng is not confident in his affirmation, but his fingers tap rhythmically atop his knee, staying calm whenever he only wishes to subjugate rather than have patience. “Even if you did, I would stop you immediately.”

“How reassuring.”

“What has he promised you?” If he wants the upper hand, he must know with whom he plays.

“’Promised me’?” The courtesan almost chokes on a humourless laugh, a scornful sight. “There’s not much one can offer around here. It’s a brothel, dear,” he utters the endearment with viciousness. “Or is the great High Elder so above human, mortal affairs that he doesn’t know how a transaction happens in a place like this?”

Dan Feng has half a mind to ask for details, though not on how whorehouses function. “I can guarantee you, whatever he promised you, I can give you more.”

Then, the softest the courtesan has ever been with him, “No, you can’t.”

“I only need you to be my eyes and ears whenever he visits you. If he keeps returning to you, seeing you, and even going so far as to risk a package sent to my court only to have a piece of you nearby, I doubt he is ensuring you do not know what he thinks or does in this ship.” 

As silence fills the conversation, he lets his attention wander. 

Fleeting, ruinous beauty, some poets could say. The courtesan is appealing even when frowning, mouth twisted downwards, and there is a touch of discipline Dan Feng cannot deny, which makes it for the picture. 

The robe, this time, hides his shoulders, but he sees the muscles beneath through the opening, the shadows and soft amber light drawing patterns on the skin, pink and lively. His hands never once tremble when focused on the tea ministrations. Long fingers are well-seen, a soft yet defined wrist. Dan Feng hears it, the blood running within the veins in there and up—

“Give me one good reason I should help you, to begin with,” the courtesan clicks his tongue and grunts, picking the teapot up to pour for his newest client.

—pressure pushes against the courtesan’s skin, the interior of his arm. Dan Feng sees it before he thinks of the question; light markings, rosier than the boy’s skin and turning into thin but darker, bloody lines, too-precise. And the courtesan hides his arm with haste, covering it with the sleeve, fabric held between his fingers and palm. His stare burns even brighter with animosity.

“You will not be put to risk.” Dan Feng will have to try to forget the signs. It is not your business. “I will not request anything else from you besides intel, and I will reward you favourably. Is that not in your best interests? I could pay for your freedom.”

The teapot breaks.

Porcelain cuts, wet and sharp, scatter all over the table, hot tea spilling wherever it can reach, and the little fire goes out with a low hush.

“Get out.”

Dan Feng frowns, looking at the mess, but the smell of iron distracts him. The courtesan’s palms have little cuts, not yet dropping blood but becoming markings of their own on the skin, fingers twitching nonstop.

He extends a hand, cloudhymn tingling on top of his glove. “I can heal that for y—”

“Get out,” the courtesan grits between teeth, not staring at him. There is a strange shimmer in his eyes, glossy and full.

Carefully, you had to tread. Dan Feng allowed himself to be too hasty, too forward. Is that not what all of you want? Where did he go wrong?”

“Just… leave.” 

There is a complex, painful swallow of saliva, a sting where it hurts.

Dan Feng prided himself on having more victories than losses throughout his centuries of living. Controlling one’s hunger is a difficult task, claiming more and more the less it is fed, and he knows he cannot give in, should he want to stay on top. Being the most potent reincarnation of Yinyue-jun means his victories come at the cost of resentment, an evil eye that he feels every day.

But being Yinyue-jun, the High Elder of the Luofu Vidyadhara, also means he must acknowledge when defeated.

Without a single word more, Dan Feng searches for the pouch of strales in him, leaving it on top of the tea table where no tea was spilled, and leaves as quietly as he came.

Chapter Text

One of Yingxing’s earliest memories after coming to the Luofu of the Xianzhou is of a gentle and kind gesture of a young boy.

He recalls, before all, confusion. The Luofu is different from its sibling flagship, with none of the riches and exposition of the Zhuming, but not less wealthy and imposing. Where he, before reached for flames and the comforting heat of the heavenly flame, he met the cold touch of rain, at the time unrelenting and suffocating. Everything has a cold touch around them, sometimes even sniffled in the air. It used to burn his nose during the first months. It is not even the coldest, iciest flagship of the Alliance, and yet he felt the sting of fire where there was none.

Then came the dialect. Yingxing is a fast learner, quick on his feet and even quicker on the mind. Some even praise him for having a ‘brain of diamond’. Young and naïve as he was—sometimes still feels he is—he believed it came from the heart, a chance of recognition, to become better. The characters made sense to him, and the sounds floated as music in his ears. His mouth and throat always complied when needed. See, I understand you now!, he remembers exclaiming, having just learned how to write his given name. The Luofu spoke it differently, though. Some sounds were not right in his head. His tongue still curls too much, and his mother tongue bleeds him dry. It took him several months, but he still adapted.

Adapting to the role of a courtesan was harder than enduring the controlled weather or a new tongue.

You will be better met if under the geji’s care, they told him.

Calligraphy was easy. Poems came naturally, never mind many often commented on the weird choices of wording and structure. How could they not understand the sentiment? It made sense for young Yingxing, still dreaming of becoming an artisan, for art has always been about feelings rather than logic. 

Dancing had him paying attention until his feet hurt, bleeding and breaking and ever in pain with purple and green wounds painting his skin. He would instead paint on silk, the walls and faces of his older sisters, who always needed to be pretty and perfumed for their dates. Dancing with swords and fans, on the other hand, at least had him interested enough to try.

He was too young at the time. Too innocent despite living in a brothel, too dreamful. They said I could become an artisan; I just need funds!

Yingxing was only fifteen years of age when the first patron requested him.

Jiejie told him he could reject the proposition should the date displease him, but he was to entertain him for at least an evening, testing the waters. Still, the clients on the Zhuming never appeared threatening, imposing and terrifyingly dominant.

“You only need to be patient, gentle and adoring, A-Xing,” one of his sisters said, fixing his hair in a tight half-bun, curling the fallen threads. “The way to a man’s heart is through praise and affection. Soon enough, he will come with gifts, bring you jewels, court you properly…”

The hanfu he wore that evening was too big on him. Nonetheless, it was beautiful: misty grey-green and crisp white, osmanthus fragrans embroidered over its fabric, way beyond his ankles. He needed to hold onto the dress and walk with his fingers grasping it, or else he would besmirch it by stepping on an unfortunate pool of water. 

Looking at himself in the mirror, he did not know what to think at the time. His sister claimed he had matured. Only then did he notice a vital ornament missing. He grasped his hair, careful not to ruin the hairstyle, and turned to see his jiejie. 

“Ah! My hairpin. Where is it?”

He does not remember if she was amused or bothered by his question. “That old stick? Do you favour it this much?”

It’s the only thing I have left. But he nodded, fighting the pout from forming on his face. It would not fit the make-up after so long it took to get it right. “Please…”

What a weird-looking hairpin, this of yours. Who would wear a dead branch for decoration, dear?

Not much he recalls before his first work. His hairpin was in his hands, smelling of home and long-lost love, and forced his body to love opiates weeks later. 

The Luofu’s Cloud-Knight only looked twice his age, Yingxing knew. A little more than four hundred boys are considered men, stained by war and marked by the Hunt, leaving behind the greenery of faux youth. There was only so much the immortality could give them. The knight, at least, was not bad-looking, decently polite. The only signs of age on him were facial hair, dark and scrubby, and a few white hairs atop the head. Yingxing remembers he had seen scrubby, greasy and handsy ones, and thanked his new Aeon for, at least that time, not testing him. 

“Have you ever visited the Delicacy Pavillion, little one?” Years have passed since then; Yingxing cannot force his brain to remember, though he suspects it is not out of will. Mother used to say that our heads will not remember what hurts us too much. The man was not unlikable. 

Yingxing shook his head. “I never had the opportunity.” 

It was sincere. He would learn to lie later, but honesty could work if treated well. I don’t want to lie, he wanted to say, I want to visit the Artisanship Commission. How dreamful he was. 

What play did they see together? I can’t remember. What did they eat? I don’t know. What did he whisper to you before he kissed your hand? I don’t want to know. 

It was hazy, the entire date. He would not remember the man’s eyes, voice, ranking or sweet words, trying to convince a young boy to accept his offer for proper courting. He would not remember his name, the gifts, the praises, but remembers—

Exciting the pavilion, Yingxing stumbled on his dress, almost meeting the ground, yet the knight held him before face-kissing the pavement. Better would have been to have fallen. 

“How long will you live for, little one?” He was pulling Yingxing back on his feet and away from the pavilion. Were those the words used? Yingxing could not remember, nor will he ever. He will only recall the meaning of death. 

There was death in the man’s words.

“I… I don’t…” I will not live as long as you. Yingxing convinced himself he had made peace with it back then. 

“You’re a tad too young for this…”

“Mister! Wait!”

And the boy, he remembers the boy. 

Yingxing had blinked, head spinning and turning to see whoever called for… for whom? He was no mister; he was—

The boy was almost reaching Yingxing’s height. Puffy and rose cheeks, shining and wet from sweat, humid white fringe clinging to his face and in a knight-in-training attire. The fluffy ponytail bounced with his hasty steps, breathing heavily and almost stumbling against him.

“Mister, you let it fall!”

Looking down, still lost in the present and eventual future, the boy’s hands carried a much-familiar, terribly missed hairstick with red blossoms.

Yingxing tugged on his hair, heart racing at realising his grooming was ruined and the hairpin was nowhere to be found. He could not feel it, I lost it, I lost it— but the young boy, younger than him even, stared up at him with expectation, a tiny smile waiting for him. 

“I…” Yingxing gulped, and it hurt, mouth and throat dry, yet his hands trembled as he reached for his hairpin. Just touching the white-grey branch of it had set his heart into a peaceful floating, a weight lifting from his shoulders and letting him breathe. “…thank you.” And he smiled, truthfully this time.

The bright-eyed youth beamed at him with glee, so much Yingxing could believe, for a moment, jumping on his feet. Yingxing was tempted to hug him and brush his hair, but he never discovered if despair or gratitude was on his mind. 

He was to thank the young boy, but his mind turned blank. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing was said, and Yingxing… where was I? His shoulder burned. 

Something pushed him, pulled him away from where he stood, and any soothing tooth was over.

So much for kindness. Sometimes, memory becomes the only thing that keeps him awake, conscious and alive. 

Often, Yingxing wonders where that boy is. If he is still in the military, if he has grown since then, matured and kept his gentleness that, as simple as it was, innocent and hopeful, made a stranger’s day worth it. He must have grown since then if the war didn’t take him.

Long-life species know of old age and natural appearance changes, though it is a drastic opulence of an ever-youthful one, refusing the eventual sickness of one’s natural ending. Aching lungs, weakened legs, failing organs. No, they will never meet the actual old age, even when they hit the centuries-old, the same he sees when he now stares at himself in the mirror.

Where once he had an enviable black resembling obsidian under the fire, silvery-white is more than apparent. Five years before, he could have counted the white hairs, while now… and as if it was enough, he suffers when trying to hide the lines across his face, faint around his mouth and gathering more and more at the corner of his eyes. Xianzhou natives would never have it unless they expected to live more than a thousand years without being thoroughly corrupted by the mara. So rare it is, that it is mythical rather than possible.

And he still thought of me as childish. Bitterness starts to devour him alive, ageing him even more. His fingers stretch along his skin, pulling and pushing his cheeks, his nose, even daring to see if his eyes can change and look greener in maturity rather than colour. Lan, even the fingers. Nothing works. Nothing freezes him in time as the little blossom on his hairpin, older than him. The grey branch rests atop the altar table, waiting to be used. Yingxing will never be able to let it go; it is a terrible reminder, as much as comforting, of the little he has and will never possess again.

Yingxing has half a mind to powder his cheeks and hide it all. So blurry is the mirror he can pretend the signs are not there… but what would your appeal be in the end? They like you without cosmetics on your face, he was told once. 

“Are you not proud of being yourself?” he asks no one, the reflection doing nothing but mocking him. 

Useless thoughts. His throat hurts, and his lips burn because of how many times he bites and bites until the skin on his mouth is but removable flesh. Were he cursed, it would have healed during the night, but there are only wounds for lipstick, red and uneven. 

Yingxing shakes his head and grips the hairbrush with more strength than needed, grooming himself until he feels no knots stuck, smooth and soft.

The military enjoys royal colours; thus, he chooses the lavender and gold hanfu given as a gift. Yingxing can play the part of a nobleman from a wealthy background with his mind alone, more competent than many who have lived twenty times his age. If they think I can’t… there is arousal in being spiteful, never mind the rest. 

Satisfaction, competence, and arrogance at their finest; he can convince them that not only his nature is a reason for courting and kneeling. 

…only for that to happen.

“No one?” Yingxing blinks, not even caring he is still in his nightrobe. The purple-and-gold dress is lying on the mattress, contrasting the rich and deep red of the covers. He is—was—ready to change… “I’m pretty sure a General from the Yaoqing wished to see me. You told me of this months ago.” A too-much perfumed, sickly sweet letter and all. 

Alphonse is not a particularly friendly man. He hides behind fake pleasantries, excessive praises and commentaries only to trap you and jail you for good for his benefit. He understands, however, that war is a ladder for success. And, oh, the Xianzhou Alliance is a gold mine for little greedy men like him. 

Yingxing secretly and kindly calls him Rat.

For once not with a greasy hair to make Yingxing curl his nose, he scratches his chin. “I received a better proposition last night. I wouldn’ mind too much, of course. That General will be back. Ah, he was so excited to see you, Lily.”

And what about the others? Yingxing crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed, ignoring the nervous tick in one of them. “There’s no way someone made a proposition so high that you rejected the clients I had for the day.”

“Ah, but you forget, little one,” I hate that nickname. “We take as many as you can, as long as they can afford it…” You often make it affordable, you scoundrel. “…and you won’t actually see no one today. Tonight, to be fair. The very same!”

Yingxing arches an eyebrow. “And you will gain from this more than all the others together?”

“Are you not happy, darling?” The fucker’s smile is not even like a snake, but a dirtier animal. “Think of it this way. The more you become unreachable, the more days run by, and the more they’ll despair of having you for a single minute. No one would complain of the price, then.”

Before you wither away, of course. Something is stuck in his throat, incapable of being swallowed. The tighter the time, the higher the numbers. Yingxing must remember the value of his contract before the lump in his mouth speaks before his brain stops it from ruining his situation. Is it even desperation when it hails for peace rather than to run away?

“Very well, then,” he says, because he cannot say anything else. 

His contract was made twenty years ago, and he knows the stories: if anyone could pay back and buy their contract from their employers, it took them a couple of centuries in the best of scenarios, and oh, how lucky they were if they could buy their contracts at all, a blink away from never returning from the mara’s insanity striking them for good. Xianzhou courtesans are only useful as long as they are still not overtaken by rotting and ever-healing roots, the sickly-sweet smell of flowers and flesh becoming one with the curse. 

Yingxing is a rare opposite, much to his misfortune.

You’re a tad too young for this…

He observes as Alphonse smiles toothless, a tiny nod and turns away, clutching onto the new bracelet he never seems to remove from his wrist lately. Most likely, he made a fortune during the past few months, and Yingxing would be surprised if so. His contract only covered barely a tenth of its actual value and each year, it goes higher and higher— what can I do when they love you, darling? —which makes his task impossible. 

Who could’ve bought it? The last time a client surprised him with wealth and disrupted his routine was that fucker with a sedge hat, thinking that dressing as a commoner and cutting his hair would turn him unrecognisable. Son of a bitch. Yingxing regrets not throwing the hot teaware on him, drenching him in white tea. At least his teapot would not be broken, even if his cushions would still smell like tea for the next three days. 

Having free time is not unheard of for him. Men rarely come by the day, with titles to keep and deals to close, a realm to oversee, never to care for those beneath the Xianzhou façade. In the end, how many foreigners would know of the pleasure district if not illegal traders? 

Yingxing prefers not to think too much about it, but, oh, it gives me more free time to think about other things.

He picks up the pencil, carved jade and goat hair, and a gentle brush. The polished peony chest protects his relics well enough, though the rice paper might need to be changed. The inkstick is close to finishing, though, and he makes a mental note to ask one of the younger boys to buy more for him. It would cost a few strales of his savings, but he promised not to use that as ink again. Soon, he pushes the heavy curtains of his room aside and sits down. Maybe I’ll finish it today. 

Towering palaces become one, rich steppes and enormous valleys that dwarf the flagships. The mountains reach the highest of the skies, limitless, yet, for them and only them, they are in the palms of their hands with a single finger. His fingers get stained, too, because the brush cannot always recreate the flower he wants, the magnolia blooming. He can almost taste it, but it is not of plants and minerals, only a soft peach-like dulcet caress.

…recalling home hurts.

Each brush of the pencil is a calming wave, a touch of wind for his ears, but the ink is, perhaps, the only thing between him and falling into remembrance. How could Fuli be this cruel, allowing him to relive what he no longer could have, and yet so merciful, letting him live with it all? Would it hurt not to remember it? Would it hurt less, being unable to reminisce about empty graves and trees he will never again climb, or will he fall into wretchedness with the hole in his chest? 

How forlorn it is that immortality, lingering and stretching the memoirs until deathlessness killed the impressions, never the yearning. 

When the ink stains his hand and face and paints his hair black again, Yingxing muses how long he will recite the details by heart, seeing them in dreams and consciousness. Even then, he is already on the path of forgetting. Some words are lost to him. Heart up in his throat, vomiting through his mouth, he writes what he recalls.

It’s not right. His tongue clicks against the back of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, his throat curses the letters. Some of them no longer feel his.

Yingxing huffs, ignoring the burning of his nose, itching incessantly.

The inkstick is no longer with him, and he stains until the brush is dry and pushed to its limits.

…recalling home hurts, but not more than realising he has no body to bury.

“What a mess, A-Xing,” he mutters, seeing the state of his hands. He cannot touch anything without maculating it with ink. His cheek feels slicked and smeared as if crusts of blood were there. A finger touches them, scratches them with his nails, and a small amount of dark grey powder accumulates under them. “Messy, messy, messy.”

He will have to change the nightrobes, too. Imagine staining your bed with it rather than—

It is for the best he takes a bath. Whoever his client may be, however rich they might be and what kinds of treasures they could have, Yingxing doubts they will appreciate him smelling of minerals and wetness, sweat for light, and grimy with paint.

Would they be a Cloud-Knight, perhaps? The brothel is not a stranger to those with a foot in war and another in solitude, between life and… as closest to death they can be; numb, ultimately, only relieved by a tender touch or a rough fuck. A politician wishing to lose control for a night or two is met with that he cannot have. Yingxing scoffs, waiting for the bathtub to be full, the helper boy bringing bowls and hot water. 

“Be careful with it,” Yingxing laughs, preventing the young one from falling midway. “It is for the best you come walking. Hold it close to your chest with the help of a towel. You won’t get burned.” 

The boy nods, and Yingxing is more than amused. He remembers his time as a helper and avidly supporting his older sisters. The Zhuming treated him well when he was young and aspiring to be better.

Ah, when the warm water meets his skin, he can already see the ink washing away, a haze on the once-pure water. It is not difficult to remove it all, with only a few brushes of his knuckles and caressing threads of hair, ensuring all is gone, and no long after he washes away the ink on his—

It stings, still. Just by looking at it, he feels it pulsating under his skin again, throbbing veins and a warmth painfully familiar. A hiss escapes his lips when he brushes, superficially, the top of his fingers against it. Up, down… up and down… up and down… until he is scrubbing it away.

Skin burning red, hot and unbearable, but he cannot stop. He cannot, or else— and it does not leave how he wants it. Crusts of dead skin come out and mix in the dirty water. He scrubs, scrubs and scrubs until his forearm is numb. Numb is better than nothing, he tells himself. His older sisters used to, as well. But if it’s numb, isn’t it already nothing? 

He stares down at his arm, hissing when he buries it underwater. Tempting to follow it, chest, neck and head until nothing is out of the surface…

Ah, what a waste.

Yingxing holds onto his burning arm, clutching it against his chest, and waits until it stops hurting, his fingers are pruned, and the water becomes cold.

The robe is sophisticated, with a fan of wheels, all-embraced clouds, and flowers weaved on golden brown. If Yingxing’s mind falters at this, did a soon-to-be General give it, or was it a Realm-Keeping Commission’s spokesperson? It has been a couple of years since, and he cannot tell the difference between some of them sometimes. Ah, they never returned. 

Yingxing clicks his tongue and laces the robe, breathing under control. Then comes the hairstick, a half-bun carefully styled and taut with the branch. He hesitates with the earrings, as shameful as he feels. You have no idea what they like. The red tassel is uneven, even changing the hook from one to the other, but it is the safest choice. For his nervousness and brain, at least. The smoking pipe should not be in the picture, but his hands grasp it by reflex, light it with a burning candle, and drag a long inhale.

“Shit.” He has looked better. Exhaustion turns him older than he is, and it is hard to fully cover a bandaged arm, even with as few wrappings as he used. The long and wide sleeve hides it if he can keep it under control and never raise it above what is permitted. His lips are still bruised, and he can feel a thin layer of sweat at the sacrum, where he tightens the robe. “Awful.”

But they never complain, in the end. They never want a perfect Xianzhou flower for the night, anyway.

Steps outside, closer and closer to his door, and Yingxing takes a deep breath, sweet with smoke—

“Good evening, dear pa…”

—and has half a mind to throw the pipe against Yinyue-jun’s face.

Does he think his new appearance prevents him from being an inconvenience? Yingxing feels his mouth curl at the sight of Yinyue-jun’s face. He hardly changes his features from the pompous, insufferably noble ones. Yinyue-jun finds a lost sedge hat, cuts his hair and believes he is passable as a commoner. Yingxing watches as the High Elder removes the hat and walks into the room, still carrying the aura only a terribly old and proper soul could have.

“What are you doing?”

Yinyue-jun raises his hand in a halting gesture. “Not here, not now.”

But before Yingxing can curse that damned lizard and his thousand incarnations to come, another person comes along. A shorter girl, and younger by the looks of her, in even simpler clothing than the ones Yinyue-jun deems fitting for himself when being here. However, what catches the courtesan’s attention is the several tools she brings: a retractable wooden table under her arm and a fancy, rectangular box under the other.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Yinyue-jun touches his arm with a taut grip. “Will you, if possible, calm down and let me speak?”

The grip is too firm for the courtesan to try and leave with a rude, strong scoff and push of the arm. He grits his teeth, staring at that pair of eyes that never falter in comparing him to shit, nails cutting into his palm. He hates him so much that he barely hears the girl close the door and lock it as quietly as a shadow.

Yingxing smiles painfully, the first signs of a hysterical laugh escaping his throat. “I think you speak too much, actually. Let. Me. Go.”

“I speak, you say, but you do not listen. Something is amiss in this situation.” Maybe Yinyue-jun sees him hold onto the smoking pipe with too much strength and finds the pointy end perfectly placed to be used as a makeshift dagger, for he lets the courtesan go with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “I think we can come to an understanding if we leave animosity aside, and you should consider it carefully.”

“What is there to consider?” Yingxing resists the urge to rub where he was held. The burn is not that bad, and he had worse manhandling. Little victories. “As I see it, you are incapable of receiving a no. And you had the audacity of calling me childish when you, much like a child, throw a tantrum and push to the limits!”

“I would not call this a tantrum, do me a favour.” The annoyance in Yinyue-jun’s voice would have been delightful in their first meeting if only Yingxing had felt more playful and less anxious. “I am here for negotiations.”

“Unbelievable.” Now, it is Yingxing’s time to roll his eyes. He just cannot stand glancing at this fucker any longer, but knowing he is there is enough to set him on edge. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Then take it as another… date.” 

At that, Yingxing narrows his eyes, blinking. There it is, the terrible contempt, the authority Yinyue-jun endlessly flaunts that made him snap years ago in public. How worse could it have been if he had had the chance to slap him back then?

Yingxing ignores the burning of his nose, swallowing saliva until his throat itches. “Very well, then,” he mutters, crossing his arms. “I was expecting one patron. If there’s company, the price goes to each head involved.”

For some reason, Yinyue-jun’s eyes glint with amusement, though his face remains stoic and bored. “Oh, she is not a client.” He gestures to the girl, where she is almost done placing her devices, meticulously preparing them atop her own table beside Yingxing’s. “You should not be surprised, dare I say, since it seems a recurrent event when it comes to you and your paramours.”

“What would you know what I do with them at all?”

“Irrelevant,” Yinyue-jun sighs, kneeling before the tea table. “I paid for your time; therefore, you will heed my requests, and I want to have you painted.”

If his heart could be vomited alongside his intestines, Yingxing would have puked his blood and bones already. Have me painted? If it was in his earlier years, he might have felt grateful, happy, and even, forever nurturing kinder feelings towards the client. In the earlier years, he hoped that something this calm would happen, allowing him to rest and not worry about the aftermath. Younger Yingxing, when exhaustion had not yet caught up to him, and his body was not giving up so soon, would find relief in the request of a gift. The best one he ever received, no bitterness or salt on his tongue and down his throat.

But his younger self was always proven naïve, ignorant against his will. If only he knew what they do with the mere sight of his face, in person or through silk paper.

Yingxing lets go of the smoking pipe, barely separating his fingers and missing its weight between them, its pointy end in his mouth. It is nothing new. Yinyue-jun is not the first and will not be the last. With a hand to his robe, the courtesan carefully pulls the end of the lace, exposing his shoulder.

“There is no need for that.”

Blinking, Yingxing turns to see him.

“You may remain modest,” continues Yinyue-jun, and for once, Yingxing does not want to hit him. Or, maybe he does, but out of uneasiness. Some of his feelings are a mystery to himself, even in colours. “I only ask for your time, your ears and eyes.”

Yingxing’s cheeks begin to burn, shame running through his body. He licks his lips, pulls up his robe and laces it even tighter, as much as his waist allows it, and he can still breathe.

“Then how do you want me?” Usually, this question comes in other contexts. “Lying down on the bed?” 

Some patrons even asked for him to touch them for the portrait, but he would rather parade naked while covered in shit through the streets of the flagship than touch Yinyue-jun in any way. 

“Serving me tea, if possible.” When Yingxing stares at the painter, checking her brushes and ink, the most expensive paper on her artistry table, Yinyue-jun says, “Doubt not of her skills when it comes to art. She is responsible for countless works in Dragonvista Rain Hell, panels worth more than simple praise. And she is of trust in my care. Chunfen, it will not be a problem to paint him as he entertains me, will it?”

Chunfen—if Yinyue-jun is not lying, that is—nods with a gentle smile. “No bother will come out of it, Your Grace.”

Yinyue-jun says nothing else to it, simply staring at the courtesan with an endless calm for eyes. 

A decade ago, Yingxing could have sworn it was seafoam, pure and brute, tangible and just as dangerous. His arrogance got the best of him. He can admit, flourishing with other terrible feelings that led him to confront it. It itches him to push it and see how long it takes, so Yinyue-jun finally gives up, leaving him with no prospect of winning. 

I could buy you your freedom. 

As if he was the first ever to suggest it.

“Fine,” Yingxing grits his teeth, kneeling opposite to his client.

I could buy you your freedom.

“I still do not have your name,” says Yinyue-jun.

Yingxing hums, not regarding him but feeling the weight of another’s stare… and it is not Chunfen’s. “Is that so?”

His new teaware is better than the last, he admits it, but he cannot help but miss the former teapot. For how long was it with him; ever since he first came to the Luofu, or was it when he first debuted as a courtesan? Both events are so near one another…

At least, he relishes it in the heavy, awkward silence. Other men would fidget. There are always the shy, weird ones who seem never to know how to act, what to say, what to do to get him on his hands and knees, mouth open to a conversation, or more if they are lucky. Yinyue-jun, much to his frustration and intrusive curiosity, does not even breathe wrongly. The High Elder never gives anything away. Yingxing would have expected it from his usual appearance, the almighty emerald horns and long, serpentine tail, the actual signs of a superior Vidyadhara.

And yet, even in this meek disguise, he never blinks, fidgets or trembles, waiting for the courtesan to save him from an inevitable embarrassment. Infuriatingly so, he probably knows he will not be easily embarrassed. I must try harder, then.

“You could’ve asked someone,” muses Yingxing, mixing the herbs. “Paid someone for extra intel on me since it seems like something you enjoy doing.”

“I would rather have you telling me it. I know many of you use different names when in patrons’ company.”

“Oh, so you do have some respect, after all.” Yingxing chuckles. He misses the taste of smoke in his mouth already. “You will hide your name and insist after being told no, but you have a line you won’t cross about knowing who you’re asking for help. Delightful.”

“I realise this situation is unusual, especially for you. But as I told you, it would not be the first time a courtesan serves as aid.” Yinyue-jun even sounds polite, but always with that lingering pride, the sense of being above everyone else. “It will be fruitful for both of us.”

“Such a bold claim.” Yingxing is tempted to break the new teapot by throwing it at this insufferable client. “Benefit, you say, and yet you have the influence and power to control what everyone says to fit your own interests. What benefit do you mean for me?” Not asking for my mouth, for starters. “You’re not doing me any favours, Yinyue-jun. I made it this far without your help. I’ll live if you walk out of that door for good. I actually wish you’d do that.”

“I disagree.”

This time, Yingxing does not restrain the heavy huff, chest weighting with tiredness. Peering at the corner of his eye, he finds Chunfen deep in concentration on her sketching. Like her lord, her eyes never blink, but straighten attentively on the paper. The perfect posture, a hand that never wavers. Yingxing can tell she was well taught. If there had been any other opportunity, he would have enjoyed speaking to her, sharing ideas, and asking about her interests. 

Was it expensive, this silken paper that is rose rather than white and amber? Her brush is beautiful; could he see it up close, study the details and test it? And what are her inks, colourful and rich, made of?

Yingxing continues brewing the tea as he allows his mind to wander into spaces too far from his reach. He thinks it’d be nice to have an atelier, gulping down at the image. It would be a mess. Too much space that he would eventually fill with his creations, testing and throwing away, if he so wished.

Has anyone ever told you ‘no’ and you heeded it? The stories about the High Elder around the Luofu are beyond legendary, even if spoken between admiration, adoration or spite. He can never deny the hint of respect in every one of them, a recognition that he cannot have.

Not outside of the brothel, of course.

“What guarantees you I won’t lie to you?” Yingxing presses his lips together, thumb scratching back and forth the teapot handle. Then, he looks up, where Yinyue-jun arches an eyebrow at him. “If there’s something courtesans are good at aside from men, it is lying. What ensures you come, ask for information and rumours about you, and I lie?”

“Why would you lie?”

“Pleasure,” muses Yingxing, shaking his shoulders. “It’s the most fun I can have without taking my clothes off.”

Then, for the first time, Yingxing sees Yinyue-jun’s hand twitch.

He smiles picturesquely. “I might enjoy seeing powerful men failing in their endeavours. I might even deny you again and tell your Preceptor everything. The disguise, the stolen painting, the deal to spy on him. Oh, to serve someone who doesn’t trust you. Satisfaction will be enough. I should test it out.”

“You will not.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“You hate him.”

Yingxing laughs. “More and more affirmations you think you know. How do you know I haven’t had a good time in his company? Maybe I have affections for him.”

Yinyue-jun’s eyes glint with a different, dangerous glimpse. “Is that what you tell yourself even after he struck you that evening?”

Even Chunfen stops momentarily, brush and ink frozen in a fraction of time.

The teapot does not break this time. Yingxing’s hand does not cut, there are no shards to collect and clean, nor tea wasted on the floor, but he grips the teapot with a force that leaves his palms in pain, nonetheless. His smile tautens, sore skin, and even swallowing strikes his throat with no mercy. 

How could he forget when even the memory of that evening sets his cheeks ablaze and not from embarrassment? 

Taoran always had a heavy grasp. It never quivers when in control, and Yingxing recalls when, even under the threat of Yinyue-jun’s presence, holding Yingxing back from stepping forward, his grip had a touch of stone. Cold, unbending, and his backhand was no different. His cheek remained an intense shade of red for days, and he had to use more powder to conceal it, not risking others losing their interest when seeing his state.

Perhaps the worst was seeing the Preceptor’s eyes darkening after it. Yingxing did not cry. He would never fall so low. He wonders to this day, however, if he had mistakenly awakened the wrong side of a man. What followed it, that day forward, always proved to him that his arrogance could stir the worst out of someone.

It would be better if he used me.

Yingxing bites the interior of the cheek and alleviates the hold on the teapot. “I’m surprised you care, Your Grace,” voice soft, seemingly unbothered. “You see, my short-life species’ mind might be faltering me, but I’d think you’d be glad I was punished.”

Yinyue-jun’s attention is not directed at his eyes or mouth, for once, but in between. “That is of no importance right now. He is the one I punished, in the end, due to the blatant lack of respect…” …for the sake of you, it goes unsaid. “He is a flickering thing. Our goals might align, but he views different executions for it to come to life. Ever since I took over as the acting power in Scalegorge Waterscape, he has attempted to make me agree with some decisions that are considerably dubious, and he does not like it when I dismiss them.”

“Hm. You say as if I’d know anything about your internal politics enough to be useful. Don’t you have proper spies for your dirty work?”

“How do you think I got to you?”

Finding a brothel is not difficult, especially with its gifts in hand. Yingxing will not concur out loud.

As Yingxing finishes preparing the tea, Yinyue-jun takes it as an opportunity to continue, “There are limits even to my own spy network. I can oversee him within my limits, send shadowworkers after him for meetings and reunions, and watch him as he does the job requested of him, but even I cannot control moments of his personal life. Outside Scalegorge Waterscape, my hands become tighter. My spies…” He sends a mark to Chunfen, then again to Yingxing. “You will find it hard having a trusty group of subjects when you hold an important title in the Alliance.”

“And for some reason, you think I’m worthy of being in it.” Before Yinyue-jun can rebuke him, Yingxing rolls his eyes. “Don’t try belittling me when you’re here, trying for a second time to get me to agree to your plans. You give me only a reason to accept against countless others to reject.” He leans forward, mouth curled in a scowl. “You can be the High Elder, Long Themselves or even the whole fucking pantheon. I don’t care.”

“You underestimate your reach when it comes to this affair.”

“Do I?” He scoffs. “I’m sorry. I thought a short-life species would hardly be helpful in a cold war that has been happening for, what, a century at this point? Two? Maybe even longer, and you know nothing of it.” He smirks. “I’m not even fifty, dear patron.”

“You said yourself. It does not matter what title I carry or who I am. What would make you abide by what Taoran says?”

“Do you remember where we are?” Yingxing considers, for a second, if the almighty high Elder is sometimes stupid. “There are differences between my affairs with him and whatever you’re trying to get from me. Can you grasp that?”

Now, it is Yinyue-jun who leans closer. “Then tell me he is not besotted with you enough to tell you of his life outside this place.”

Ah, a tricky question. “Why do you think he tells me anything at all?”

“Because he loves being right and being told he is right.”

To Yingxing’s chagrin, it fits. It was a pattern with Taoran’s visits and his requests, all that left him with the taste of blood in his mouth, though he stopped telling apart if it was literal or a creation of his mania. It goes together with the love Taoran has for the sound of his own voice. Sometimes, Yingxing can hear it in his dreams.

“What man doesn’t love that?” Yingxing mutters but expecting no reply.

Which, indeed, never comes.

What follows is the awkward white silence of a dying argument… if so, he could call it. 

Chunfen’s strokes, brush on silk and slight liquid noises fill the gaps between Yingxing’s ministrations. He painstakingly holds the teapot with no quivering limbs and serves both himself and Yinyue-jun, half a mind of asking if the painter wishes for some. He might have smiled and offered any other time, going so far as to get a third cup with no shame. 

Most of the time, the tea is not sipped. Not by him, at least. A formality, good manners and tradition, as irrelevant as it will be by the end of the night. If he ever confesses, it is not even to his tastes, but the longer he does it, the less bad it gets; not better, never better. Bearable if he is optimistic. 

As always, things never go the way he plans them.

He finishes pouring for Yinyue-jun and moves to serve himself when something clutches onto his forearm.

Yingxing’s breathing halts in his throat, and a small amount of tea falls onto the table. 

“What has happened to you?” Yinyue-jun’s features twist into confusion, a strange spark of something Yingxing cannot fully comprehend. 

His arm tingles in the worst of ways, throbbing from under his skin, veins popping, shredding themselves with muscle and bone. He can feel, see it before him without even looking down at it: the size, the lines, the hand firmly holding him.

He tries to shake his way out of the hold, but Yinyue-jun has a strength worth mentioning. “Let go, Your Grace,” and he makes sure it drips with a venom he does not have when telling this damned, cursed fucker…

“Have you—”

“It’s none of your business.”

It might be for the sheer hatred in his tone, the broken words, or even the snarling behaviour of his sentence, but Yinyue-jun skims up at him with annoyance… and abides.

Yingxing lets the teapot rest without even caring there is no tea in his cup, unbothered by the droplets that fell along the way and onto his robes. He clears his throat, pulling the sleeve until it covers his hand.

He does not know for how long they stay like this. Both fast and slow, minutes and hours long, Yingxing takes a deep breath and finishes serving out of politeness. Fuck him if he thinks I’m that breakable. Rather than partaking in tea, he bites his tongue and tastes iron, tangible and clear in his mouth.

What is he playing? If Yinyue-jun thinks he can warm his way into Yingxing’s trust with a false sense of care and preoccupation… he doesn’t even mourn for the fallen, why would he care for anything regarding you? 

Cold and heartless, he is, the streets have never lied about it. How many times has Yingxing heard tales of the High Elder’s prowess, the Aeon-like entity in battle bringing victory to the Hunt through the blessing of the Permanence? Yingxing never expected to see him in person, so above him. Much less meeting him.

Much less arguing with him. He should have seen it coming. No one is equated to Aeons and knows of humanity. Gods have no mercy. That is why they are gods. 

Yingxing sees it, the more he observes the man… creature before him. No amount of disguises can hide the energy that a pair of eyes irradiates. It is darker than most, though not in colour. The pupil often changes to a serpentine shape, and pure water seems to be running in never-ending circles. The closest thing to human in him is the white. These same eyes looked him up and down ten years ago and deemed him worthless. 

If Yingxing were any worse, gave in to his wishes…

Chunfen, much to his fortune, saves him from doing something reckless and irreversible. “Your Grace, your commission is done.”

Yinyue-jun places his cup on the table, and rather than sparing a glance at his painter, he keeps his eyes locked on Yingxing, who continues to taste iron under and behind his teeth. It numbs the rest if he tries hard enough. 

“As always, a flawless work, Chunfen,” says Yinyue-jun, holding the painting as if it would shred if he held it any tighter. “Tell me, is it to your tastes?”

It takes Yingxing a few seconds to realise Yinyue-jun is asking him. 

“My tastes?” He blinks. “It’s up to the client, not me.” 

“Well, your client is asking for your input,” rebukes Yinyue-jun, giving him the painting. When the courtesan does not make a move to touch it, he sighs, “It is a great offense to Chunfen, should you dislike this painting. She seeks to please the muse as much as herself with her skill. Your opinion would be greatly appreciated.”

The girl is not at fault for his sour humour. Better than the painters the brothel has for hire, he is at least grateful, but she comes with Yinyue-jun. 

Gulping, he reaches for the painting. 

Yinyue-jun did not lie when commenting on her skill. Yingxing’s heart swells with a touch of warmth at seeing his image on the silk, and he is most shocked she delivered a colourful, masterful work without looking like a sketch in a short amount of time. 

His hair shimmers on the silk, from black as ink and silver, more like a decoration than simple white hair of old age, and swiftly curls at the end like the picturesque clouds on the Luofu’s panels. Even with Yingxing moving and talking throughout it, he might have thought she reflected a statue rather than a living human being, but giving life to it in small details—his eyes darting to somewhere out of the paper’s margins, the glint of his pupils, the slight movement of his robe instead of the symmetrical, always perfect picture sold to many. Even the robe’s patterns and the wheels shine as if they live beyond the piece; they are conjured with more vivid shades than their proper form. His skin looks smooth and bright, and his naked arms have no sign of powder but fitting light.

She made me prettier. 

When commissioning an art of him, patrons would require too many details. They wish for nothing, if not the most expensive, ornamented robes and jewellery. Places, poses, even faces and cosmetics. Yingxing does not have a say in the final work. If the patron receives what they asked for, then what does he have to say? 

No one would heed him the word. The face is too round. I’m not that short, nor that thin. I’m not sickly pale. I’m not as young as you make it be.

Yingxing must wonder, then, what Yinyue-jun’s thoughts were on the first work that reached his hands. He remembers the directions Taoran gave the painter through a cycrane from the Alchemy Commission— ‘Hide not the markings’. 

Did you find that painting of me beautiful? If he does not control himself, he might ask something worse or ask anything at all. No, he cannot care for Yinyue-jun’s opinions. 

That painting before this was full of mistakes. How did he find Yingxing? In the end, he can only wonder without a real push to discovery. There is nothing remarkable enough to give him away, is there? His age, most likely.

“If you are unhappy with the result, Chunfen will do her best to correct it and start anew.” Yinyue-jun’s voice wakes him up from his reveries, and it goes down to Yingxing, and then, his fingers freeze on the silken paper. His attention flickers to Chunfen, who does not look offended, but waiting for honest input. “She has an excellent memory, as well, which, as people say, comes in handy.”

Yingxing forces a cough, trying to cleanse the heavy weight on his chest and clog in his throat. “There’s no need for that,” he says, ignoring how his cheeks are set aflame. He was never one to blush at seeing himself in paintings… “I like it.” To the girl, he nods politely. “You are someone with great skill, indeed. It’s beautiful.”

She smiles, “Thank you, mister.”

And then, when Yingxing makes it to give it back to Yinyue-jun, the man says, “It is yours to keep.”

“…what?”

“Consider it a gift, regardless of how we leave this room tonight.”

I’m not leaving this room. 

So long he takes to reply, to say anything or react at all, that he misses the slight nod and finger gesture Yinyue-jun offers the girl, who quick and quietly packs her items.

When alone with the courtesan, Yinyue-jun sighs. “Is there anything else refraining you from accepting my offer besides your dislike for my character?”

Yingxing closes his eyes and a headache forms against his temple. Exhaustion will lead him to an early grave in a decade, probably. “The dislike I have for you should be enough to put an end to this matter, Your Grace,” he makes sure to utter the title with as much sarcasm as he can. 

“I would compensate you for the extra work and information,” says Yinyue-jun. “I had assumed the matter of money was relevant.”

“Of course, you’d think that,” he scoffs. “Isn’t that what all of you think of us? I was called a money-seeking whore more often than you’ve insulted me for the sake of it.”

“I bear no ill intent with the assumption of payment,” retorts Yinyue-jun. “It is only fair you are compensated, beyond the contract even. Do you not wish to have your contract bought back?”

If not for the painting in his hands, Yingxing would have slammed his palm on the table and jumped at him. What he does, however, is loudly intake breath, fingers itching to crumple the silk and ruin the beautiful work. Self-destructiveness will one day lead him to ruin, if not the will for perfection.

“It’s not easy,” he murmurs, refusing to retribute the glint Yinyue-jun gives him. The contract becomes more valuable each year. It cannot be bought at once, that Rat will not let anyone unless he manages to get double the value. How does one explain this to a man who believes he can only buy the world with a few words? “You should know better how dirty these parts are. No one becomes the brothel owner by letting people go that easily when they have enough money.” And a very, very profitable field when they are not actually working in it.

Promises of freedom are nothing. Yingxing lost count of times someone whispered the word in his ear, and, much younger, he believed in them. Rational it was. It was only fair he was freed eventually, and yet his chains only grew tighter around his wrists and ankles.

Yingxing has a vague memory of a sole courtesan who successfully left the brothel’s contract, when he had yet to reach two digits of age, and the golden dragon’s claws of the Zhuming surrounded him. He never spoke to her, only observing from afar. He knew she was beautiful, though she remained the favourite entertainer for at least three hundred years before young Yingxing could even meet her. The last thing he could understand was that a handsome and wealthy General from another ship took her home, never to return.

But she never truly bought it back. 

Such are the ways of the military. When the battle is not fought with weapons of steel, the quill takes hold.

“The money will never be mine if you spend it all on this madness.” Yingxing huffs and lifts himself, knees hurting from kneeling for hours. “Hire more spies, get deals with the owner. I don’t need your goodwill to try and buy my name back.”

“What if it were not proper money I paid you with?”

As he turns, he finds Yinyue-jun with eyes as dark as his hair, sharper than claws. Yingxing does not even have the energy to fight anymore, slowly draining to the bone. 

“I don’t need charity,” he almost grits. “You pity me, I understand, but I won’t stoop so low as to be humiliated and owe you the kindness of my liberty.”

“You misunderstand.” Yinyue-jun stands up so fast that Yingxing must blink and step back. Not just a lizard, but a terrible, unpredictable viper. “He takes the money I pay for your price, for taking you from former dates, stepping ahead. If I give you a present of wealthiness, he cannot touch it.”

“…as in?”

“Your robes.” By reflex, Yingxing coils in it even more. “Your hairpin. Earrings. It is rude to reject a patron’s gift, is it not?” Yinyue-jun speaks so well that someone might believe him. “Consider it the payment for this affair. He will not touch it unless I give it to him, and he only gets the sufficient for our meetings, disguised as dates. In the private of our meeting, anything else given to you is yours alone. You do what you will with it. Even sell it.”

Before my contract raises its price again. “All of this just to?”

“You may see me insulting or belittling you, as you claim, but I differ from your arguments. I value my race’s well-being and strive for their place in this Alliance to be as least bloody as possible, even if it means ensuring my own will not turn against me, risking my plans. You have seen it. Taoran is volatile when given the chance. Being the High Elder in a place where your race is not safe is a game of power, more than any bloodline.”

“I’ve heard stories,” says Yingxing. “You could take this whole ship if you wanted.”

Yinyue-jun sounds eerily calmer than moments ago. “All I want is for my people to live in peace. If I cannot foresee his actions, Taoran might become a problem in achieving it. You can help me prevent that. And I will owe you more than your freedom if you do. I will ensure you get every single piece of gold needed to leave this place. It is the least I can do.”

A fair exchange, or so he is tempted to believe. I need opium. The headache slams angrier and angrier against his temple, begging to overpour the pain through his eye sockets. Everything in him burns and wants to strike Yinyue-jun until he remembers the shape of Yingxing’s palm on his face. If I remember everything, why can’t they? 

Or maybe the easier way out is giving in.

He could lie, yes. He has what the High Elder wants.

His exhaustion brings him to a downfall never seen before, but damned he will be if he does not turn it in his favour. Yinyue-jun may get him by lasting to the last seconds of his goodwill, of his life force and consciousness, but he can still gain the upper hand, if played well. 

Damned fucking political games. 

Yingxing walks towards the altar table, letting the painting rest, smoking pipe in hand first things first whilst taking mindful steps and lighting it up. 

“He despises you, you know.”

“I could reach that conclusion.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Yingxing drags the smoke until the nervousness leaves his body, and he exhales in hazy grey drawings in the air. “It’s something beyond disagreements. I don’t know what you disagree on; he never openly talks about it. He comes distressed, spewing curses that sound more like maledictions. Calls you a child. Proud, spoiled. Once, he used the word unbending— your overindulged orders, the cult that adores you more than your own Aeon. The cult’s a dangerous thing, he says. You have them easily. Heartless, some call you, but it’s the closest thing they must have to Long in this place.” Over his shoulder, he sees Yinyue-jun daring to approach. “But you know that already.”

“Cults are all over the Alliance. They do not dictate the way of things.”

“But you do. Taoran is not the only one who knows that you can turn this place upside down if you so wish.”

Yinyue-jun’s eyes narrow. “I suspected others would be involved. Who?”

“Ha, no,” Yingxing laughs, turning with another drag of smoke. “That will cost you. More, that is.” 

“…of course. A fair exchange. Do I take this as an agreement, then?”

Much of his pride wants to snap and sink the pointy end of the smoking pipe into the High Elder’s eye, see if his blood runs as cold as his demeanour. You told me you would forget about me ten years ago, he wants to scream, viciously shout, maniacally laugh until his lungs are puked out. Look who’s here! 

“Your name.”

Look who came crawling. It was not the short-life species, feeding his hubris with a terrible yet sweet delicacy of sensation. Satisfaction, delight and pleasure. 

Satisfaction and delight when Yinyue-jun frowns, and pleasure when he explains to the so mighty Vidyadhara High Elder: 

“It’s you who came here and tried to get me. It’s only fair you give me your name before I give you mine.”

He wonders if upstairs, where the Realm-Keepers allow a fake sun to shine and a bright blue sky to be upon them all, Yinyue-jun’s name is uttered with anything beyond a touch of fear. If his name, not his title, is being kissed by commoners’ lips when they speak of him.

What he sees is Yinyue-jun, still in disguise but never losing the pompous attitude, the lifted chin of someone who will not look down on others, for he will not bother giving his attention. Yingxing has yet to determine if being spoken to by him is a blessing or a curse. More of a bad omen, and it proves itself correct each second.

“Dan Feng,” comes more as a confession than a willing response, though not defeated. Imposing. A warning. “My given name, as the High Elder, is Dan Feng.”

Dan Feng. He admits it rings a bell for the creature he met ten years ago. Noble, regal and distinguished. 

The young man before him, though, feels off with this name. 

With slow steps, Yingxing dares to approach, lifting his hand in… he does not honestly know what he wants to do. His knuckles ache for punching that regal face and seeing if it bleeds the same red as him; they twitch, turn into stone and quiver simultaneously, and close them in a fist with a quiet hiss. 

Another side of him, however…

“You can call me Yingxing.”

A noble’s clothes will feel soft under his fingers even when in disguise for a commoner. He dangerously traces the jacket line near the neck, thinking if he would manage to choke that neck in a different universe or in the future of this same life. How does your pulse feel?

Yinyue-jun—or better, Dan Feng—is still a statue. Cold as one, too. “What will you want for the intel, Yingxing?”

“I’m hard to please.” He smiles with no teeth, but wide enough so his eyes turn into half-moons. “But I’ll take the painting this time. Watch out for the contacts he has and his spies, Your Grace. That’s all I give you for the night.” 

“How hard to please are you?” 

“Hm? Eager, are we?” Yingxing’s heart does not flip in his ribcage but teases to melt instead. “That would be telling. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Exaggerating a tired sigh, he turns away. “But don’t worry. As long as you don’t give me a reason to hit you, we won’t have much trouble.”

Behind him, he hears a scoff. “You could never raise your hand at me if you tried.”

Yingxing feigns a romantic, amused giggle. “Even if it costs you intel? I might want to gag you as payment. Ever thought of that?”

“What would you gain from it?” Oh, the tone of annoyance. Yingxing loves it.

“Elation. Entertainers enjoy being entertained, too, you know?”

If he is beguiled enough, there is a ring to it, or even a painting. More times than he can count, high-ranking military and diplomats want to be treated as less than what they are worth of their station. Would you be the same? Ah, probably not. Nothing in Dan Feng seems to be flirting with submission. Too proud, his title guiding every decision of his, breathing courtesy. Never would he accept being tied up, much less used.

It is more than imaginable, nonetheless. Dan Feng is far from unattractive, even if disguised as a younger boy. He has a face carved from marble but eyes of jade, even if it will hurt Yingxing’s pride to admit it. 

What he has of pride, he has of appearance. Words like handsome or pretty do not seem to fit him right, for they never give the sensation of dread as they come. Alluring, untouchable, unreachable. Awfully inviting.

“I shall leave you to rest, then,” he hears Dan Feng say, followed by a deep breath.

Yingxing frowns, viewing him one last time. “You paid for the whole night,” he says, doubt clear in his words. 

“So I have,” agrees Dan Feng, placing his hat so the veils at the edges fall across his face. “Do with that what you will.” Before he pushes the door open, however, he politely turns to the courtesan, nodding. “Until our next date, Yingxing.”

“…see you soon, Dan Feng.”

He is not used by how that name tastes in his mouth. It may be that he still tastes the blood from biting his tongue, pressing the wound under his teeth, and he cannot unsee the connection between blood and Dan Feng.

A bad omen. 

His lip is bitten, instead, allowing his tongue to breathe, and his attention is guided by the first gift he gets from the High Elder of the Luofu Vidyadhara.                                                                                    

Unconsciously, he slows his fingers to trace his brushed features. He loves the feeling of silk under his skin, the dry paint… 

“Hm?”

…and he realises, there, that Chunfen never painted his bandages.

Yingxing prides himself on having a good memory, which is better than most and certainly better than the immortals he is surrounded by. The kindest gestures, even if few, are forever cherished.

The second kindness given to him was news.

The Cloud-Knight never returned for a second date, and Yingxing was happy when he knew that not even his head had returned from war.

Chapter Text

All is fair in war.

There is not much the Hunt is unwilling to do to achieve its wishes, the goal of eradicating the Abundance. It is the weight of a curse, they claim, a blessing which was never thoroughly thought through.

All is fair in war, but there is no discharge from it once you enter the battlefield.

“The Ten-Lords have not sent a reply, Your Grace.” Lady Xuepu’s tone comes with reluctance, which is unusual coming from her. It is what makes Dan Feng stop staring at the window.

“I would not expect them to,” he says. “It would be for the best they sent a letter accepting the terms, though I hardly see how useful that would be when it is the only option they have.”

Lady Xuepu takes a deep breath, frowning the same way she used to when Dan Feng questioned her teachings. “They will not answer so soon, You Grace. It would be unwise to think they will not find a new approach for the request. What I fear, and I hope you understand where I stand with this, is that they might retaliate rather than discuss new paths for this matter.”

Not if they want to avoid a civil war. Dan Feng does not particularly think the Ten Lords are above any conflict to achieve what they want. Still, putting the safety of the Luofu at risk for a petty disagreement and breaking the alliance between Xianzhou natives and Vidyadhara is beyond reckless.

“If they, as you say, retaliate, it will not be an issue.” You could take this whole ship, echoing faintly in his ear. He shakes his head; he cannot think of him when peace is such a fragile thing to worry about. “We speak of a form of treason, should they go on their way to flame us in any way. During times of war, you cannot allow yourself to spare one too many soldiers unless you want a bigger slaughter on the battlefield.”

“Which is why they want more of ours,” grunts Taoran, leaning against the window, leg quivering incessantly. “Denying them soldiers and healers will not pacify their needs.”

“They want to ensure a flawless victory by trusting numbers rather than strategy,” says Dan Feng. “The Divination Commission and the General himself try to lessen the casualties and our losses, but it takes time for planning. Apparently, they cannot afford time… ironically.”

“We should halt our funding altogether, if they push.”

The silence could be cut with a knife, so tense it is. Lady Xuepu’s eyes are wide in shock, peering from the corner of her eyes. Sutuan, as usual, only appears unsurprised, but he stops watching over his student and spares a look at his fellow Preceptor, while the little scribe cannot keep writing unless told to. On the other hand, Dan Feng arches an eyebrow, gloved claw atop the table as if it could breach the surface and ruin it for good. 

Taoran feels the heavy quietness in the room and turns to see them, which allows Dan Feng to see him after so long without a veil of faux diplomacy.

He likes being told he’s right. Dan Feng has always known it, but Yingxing’s voice against his ear reminding him of it is making him notice things he never had before: Taoran possessed a hand tick, fingers never managing to stay still when in extreme delight under wine’s influence or stressed, but the leg is new; he tries to impose himself higher, spine straighter than usual, chin high, but he mindlessly curves and looks down, tight jaw and accelerated heartbeat. The worst, then, is the blinking. Forceful, unnecessary blinking. 

Dan Feng has half a mind to tease him for it, hint without malice and see where it goes. Instead, he says:

“Our funding relies mostly on our numbers. Every single one we sent is valuable enough to be worth a hundred of theirs. If we cut our funding, you incite an even colder war, Taoran.”

“It is not as if they have no healers in their ranks,” Taoran rebukes. “Maybe we can allow theirs to learn under our teachings.”

“Without cloudhymn or proper Permanence blood, they will hardly learn the healing arts as it should be acquired,” mentions Sutuan. “There is only so much they can learn, and it will not be enough. Our healing does not rely on the Abundance and does not risk triggering early mara symptoms.”

“Which is why we have the upper hand,” says Taoran. “They cannot risk losing any of us no more than we can lose our numbers.”

“We will still be on the losing side even if we share the same tent in the war,” says Dan Feng. “They can spare our numbers the same way they spare theirs. Every sacrifice is a step closer to ending the Abundance in their eyes. They cannot see the thin line between useless losses and worthy ones. You might as well take the Xianzhou Alliance for slaughterhouse.”

All is fair in war. Is mourning the dead so beneath you, Yinyue-jun? Dan Feng bites his own tongue and shuts his eyes until they hurt. 

The ten-Lords and the High Elder agree on the matter that sacrifices are needed when the blood has been running for ten thousand years, never seeming to stop dripping. The corpses keep piling up each campaign, each operation carefully worked even with the privilege of divination on your side. All is fair in war, even the lives of others.

Still, Dan Feng cannot weep. 

“A solution would be to increase our numbers.”

Dan Feng does not lose the tone of resentment in Taoran’s voice when suggesting it. It screams something one could mistake for hope, but reeks of something dirtier and meaner. There are ideas in the Preceptor’s mind, ideas that Dan Feng cannot yet read or find, but they are not new. No, they have been carefully nurtured. 

“…a solution indeed, Taoran,” Dan Feng carefully mutters, leaning against his table. “A currently impossible one, perhaps. It has more to do with us than them. The more they take, the more we lose. I believe you have something in mind for the daring suggestion, then?”

“Your Grace…” Lady Xuepu takes a step forward, but Dan Feng, not sparing a look, stops her with his hand.

Taoran says nothing. His eyebrow twitches, his hand closes in a fist and he blinks. Once, twice. He wants to be told he is correct, but he cannot even bring himself to admit it out loud. Something tells Dan Feng, however, that Taoran might not match his line of thinking.

“For the moment, I say to retrieve the given healers,” says Taoran, lower than his usual screeching oppositions. “When we manage to find a solution the numbers…”

“When?” Dan Feng must resist the need to curl his lips in a smirk. “My, you are full of surprises today. A few weeks ago, you would have yelled at the prospect of denying the Ten Lords their request, and today, you suggest we take our remaining healers back. I am tempted to say you have been planning something and waiting to share the news with me.”

“I only think of the best for our people, Your Grace.”

On that, we agree. Dan Feng cannot help but wonder, however, how long until Taoran gives away what roams his mind when it comes to a solution. To increase our numbers, spoken so confidently, as if their numbers have not been a problem ever since the times of Yubie.

A tale as old as time, the Vidyadhara are as permanent as an Aeon—that is, until they are taken by something beyond their forces. They are fated for reincarnation for they cannot partake in anything beyond the eternal cycle of rebirth. It comes with the heavy price of becoming the rarest race living in the Luofu, each war campaign that comes and returns with no corpse to place within the egg, awaiting the next life. 

Dan Feng has faint recollections of the times of Yubie, more than simply remembering his rebirth and the past lives of Yinyue-jun. Scripts and conversations, more akin to his own thoughts turned into silent monologues and experimentations. No, the Vidyadhara cannot partake in procreation through flesh, but cloudhymn could, perhaps, reach a more satisfying result. If only they had not abandoned it. 

Ah, but the Preceptors rarely heed his words when it comes to this affair.

So, he nods. “I appreciate you still have the good of the Vidyadhara in your best interests, Taoran. I would not expect anything less, of course.” He sighs. “We cannot collect our healers from their ranks without inciting a conflict against our own. I would gladly do it, but I would rather avoid any possible animosity, if possible. I doubt Yinyue-jun ravaging the ship will do any good for any cause.”

You could take this whole ship if you wanted, someone told him. He has yet to know how far that is true, for maybe raw power needs more than simply a blessing from an Aeon to become a saviour---or a malediction, in better words. There is a will; there is a reason, there is the matter of support. Who will you watch over if you drown everyone in the hands of revenge for the sake of respect? Easier would be to be forgotten.

“We only need to remind them of the reason we cannot afford to abide,” he continues, doing his best not to think of a pair of lilac eyes pinning him where he stood. “Let us not antagonise one another, yes?” 

He turns to give his council a stern look, a silent question if anyone dares to refuse. Lady Xuepu and Sutuan nod, the little scribe grips her brush tighter and looks away… and Taoran’s attention is on the window. 

“Fighting with the Ten-Lords will not give us any upper hand. On that, we agree. For now, we cannot afford to lose more of ours nor arrange an internal conflict with the Commissions. Keep a more careful watch over the Alchemy Commission and find promising names between their ranks, Vidyadhara or not. We will ensure they learn as much as they can.”

“They will lack in the healing arts,” notes Sutuan. “Unless we offer a way to manipulate with the help of Permanence blood, cloudhymn magic…”

“Yes, they will lack,” concurs Dan Feng. “But they still use the Abundance in their favour where we cannot reach. Unless, of course, they turn into Vidyadhara in a night.” He shakes his hand. “There is nothing we can do for now. If you ever change your idea when it comes to my participation in the war, then…” When no one says anything, though they peer at him with reluctance, he humourless laughs. “Just as I thought. Dismissed.”

Taoran wants to stay and argue, though Dan Feng cannot fathom why. Taoran has a talent for arguing over trivial matters for the sake of an argument, the sake of coming out on top over whoever he deems beneath him, and strange it is he might want to experience it with the High Elder. As Sutuan and his student leave without looking back, Taoran remains where he stays, a plant growing roots in jade soil.

He wants to be told he is right, as Yingxing told him many a night ago. Does Yingxing fill him with praises and adorations, as untrue as they may be? How much of Taoran’s confidence comes from sweet words spoken by someone he cherishes?

“Do you have anything else to add, Taoran?” Dan Feng tilts his head, observing him. 

“…no, I do not, Your Grace.” But his hand might hurt from how tightly he closes it in a fist, skin turning white and veins poking out of it. He blinks once, takes a deep breath and bows so frigidly that Dan Feng would have let out a mirthless laugh at the action. “Thank you for your time.”

And when he leaves, Dan Feng can finally stop thinking about a courtesan beneath Aurum Alley.

If only, indeed, every Preceptor listened to him.

Lady Xuepu never moves from her place. Dan Feng cannot recall a moment ever since coming out of the egg for this reincarnation where she was not pure marble, the epitome of etiquette. If needed to be polite and quiet, she taught him with an iron fist. Erect spine, chin high; never overstepping, yet not fumbling in one’s place. 

His feelings for her will forever be of respect. Lady Xuepu taught him well, even if rigorous, but never questioned him in public nor deemed rightful to reprehend him in front of others when his position requires such a tender approach. 

Humiliation is hardly useful for learning, she used to say. Sometimes, he wonders—does he regret it? Dan Feng is not naïve; the older he got, the less he listened to them when they pushed him. Humiliation is not a tool. No, he agrees. But did you ever want to?

“Your Grace, may I have a word with you? Not as a counsellor, but as your tutor.”

Dan Feng walks around his table and sits, breathing deeply. “You may, my Lady.”

Whether she ever wished to humiliate him or not, she never has. A much younger self of Yinyue-jun might have once seen her beyond her role of a tutor. Would a normal child see her as… he cannot think of it. Xuepu is anything but.

“I have always tried my best to lead you so you would lead us in the future. And in this future, we now find ourselves. Your potential was as clear as crystals from a young age, Your Grace.”

“If you speak to me as my tutor, should you not refer to me differently?”

Her smile is toothless. “I would not dare. I never have, nor will I ever. Even if older in this reincarnation than you, I do not carry Long’s blessing.”

“And if I allowed you to? Would you?”

“You must be careful, Your Grace,” she says instead. “You trade through dangerous waters in your own domain, and I do not wish to see your pride win against your better judgement.”

“My pride and better judgement are well-aligned with each other, my Lady,” he says. “Why, my selfishness has never once stepped outside the goals for preserving and protecting our race. I will forever put you before lower needs.”

“But not everyone will trail the same path as you.” She heaves a sigh. “People respect you, even outside of Scalegorge Waterscape. Many foxians and Xianzhou natives admire you. Your prowess, they know of you. They acknowledge Yinyue-jun as more than a simple presence on this ship. And I am more than proud I helped in this journey of yours. You need to remember, however, that your solutions and ideas will never match those beneath you, Your Grace.”

“And would Yinyue-jun arriving at battle be against the best wishes of these goals and paths?”

“Being the High Elder means making sacrifices. You cannot be at two different places simultaneously, Your Grace, and there are many prominent issues here, at your home, that require your attention rather than a swift victory on the field.”

Dan Feng can feel his claws threatening to cut the gloves’ fabric and pierce into the table’s surface. “The less of two evils that you have already deemed which is which.”

“I only beg you to see reason, since you have seen it to an extent. Many use your name without your voice when you are away in battle, bringing victory along in your return. You cannot risk letting your position rot for the sake of more casualties.” Lady Xuepu takes one more step. “Winning a battle is easy when being Long’s scion, Your Grace, but one cannot rely solely on a bloodbath to stay relevant. This war, eventually, will end, but where will we be when the Hunt devours the Plague at last?”

“I am prioritising my people before all,” Dan Feng says, minding his words. “I know of sacrifice. I have let one too many be a martyr for our cause for the sake of others. Your course of action might be different than mine, I agree, but I can sustain it should the worse of it come.”

“You misunderstand me, Your Grace. I align with your intent. I ask you to be careful when others, even while claiming the intent to be the same, will not meet your terms in execution.”

What do you know that I have no knowledge of? “If you have anything to tell me, my Lady, then be my guest.”

“…I only come as your tutor to remind you of your worth.” Her smile is taut. “Do not allow your pride to blind you, even if in the right direction of this affair.”

Dan Feng does not retribute the smile but nods. “Trust me, I will not. If that is all, I bid you goodnight, my Lady.”

“Your Grace.” With a gracious bow, she leaves him be.

He is far too old to believe in little stories of the greater good and its worth, or even to trust everyone will see with the same pair of eyes. Dan Feng knows that being Yinyue-jun means his eyes reach far beyond what the horizon allows the rest to observe and view the future as much as he views his past. No one will understand if not other High Elders, who will see it for what it is.

Maybe his sole purpose has always been to try and save his race rather than being a pawn in another’s game. He hears Yubie’s heartbeat, feels it within his chest, and his fingers itch to replicate each and every movement. Sometimes, he believes some spells are still dormant on his tongue, waiting to be uttered. He only needs the taste of ichor, the High Elder’s ichor.

Knocks at the door remove him from his own distractions.

“Your Grace, if I may, you have a package from the Artisanship Commission.”

Dan Feng gestures with his hand for the courier to approach. “Thank you, Lingyan. Was it from the Master Artisan? His signature and the Commission’s wax seal?”

She nods. “They have also thanked Your Grace for the commission. They feel honoured to have been requested.”

As they should, though he never says it out loud.

When the courier leaves, Dan Feng touches the fairly painted chest with a dragon at its centre. The workmanship is excellent, and the raised gesso is surrounded by intricate floral scrolling and jewels for petals. Yingxing will like it. Anyone would be in awe of the chest alone, but the main attraction lies on the inside. He unlocks it and peers at the content.

It is impossible he will not fall in love with it. 

“Shaoying.”

From behind the door, an unremarkable shadow comes forward.

“I need you to send a letter to the Sword Champion without much attention. Tell her I will not be available tomorrow evening for our spar,” says Dan Feng, locking the chest back in place. “Avoid the couriers. Taoran’s spies will hear of it if so. And find me Chunfen. I believe she is done with the commission for the main hall.”

“It will be done. Anything else?”

“Keep an eye on him. He has been curiously on edge lately, do you not agree?”

Awfully on edge.

Dan Feng expects a nasty retort, a venomous welcome or an unhappy reminder they have an agreement.

What he does not expect is Yingxing not even realising he is in the room.

When he opens the door, he gives Chunfen a silent mark for staying quiet, being respectful, and focusing on her tasks, which are the simplest of them. She follows dutifully, securing the tools against her chest and nodding in comprehension. He knows she is the best for a reason in their artistic ranks. And the most important, she knows how to keep her mouth shut when needed.

Yingxing seemed to like her, or at least he seemed to stand her the first time. The courtesan never once directed an ill-eye towards the painter, never spitted poisonous words at her or even showed a true amount of kindness and gratefulness. 

What do I have to do to deserve that, too? Dan Feng shakes his head; he is hardly doing this for kindness and retribution. It is a cordial exchange, politeness above all. Not kindness.

Most likely, he will receive a snake rather than a courtesan. Has he ever treated other patrons in this way? The thought, at its worst, amuses him a little. Truthfully, it would earn him the worst of treatments in response, though Dan Feng himself, in the end, allows him for more than he should. Perhaps other men find it entertaining, as well. Not Taoran, though. Inevitable it is to consider what roams in that room in the presence of his Preceptor.

He discovers, however, what may roam when no one but a flower is there.

The two times Dan Feng came here, heavy curtains were drawn down to the floor, yet tonight, he meets one of them pushed aside with the help of a golden fibre, revealing a not-so-clean wall. Dirty, however, it is not. 

Yingxing does not even notice—or care—that his night robe is falling off his shoulder and that half of his hair is undone, much more focused on his pencil and ink. So attentive he is, he nearly does not blink, a hand and arm that never tremble, and each brush is definitive, precise even in a glowing, careless move, purposefully uneven. 

There are stains on his hand, cheeks and shoulder, and no doubt some must have gotten to his hair and robes. Papers and silk scatter around him with different drawings and… a script, that is? Dan Feng does not recognise it. 

And he hardly minds for it when Yingxing’s work is beyond astounding. He feels Chunfen’s light gasp behind him and almost gives in to the same reaction. The scenery of a vast steppe, natural green, is found only in books, stories from foreigners, and lands afar. So vividly, Dan Feng considers extending his claws and touching them to see if he can merge with them. There are no places like that in a flagship such as the Luofu, nor throughout the Alliance. 

It looks like a place the Abundance would have touched.

That makes him recoil. 

Yingxing hums, brush close to his mouth, biting his lips, and searches for more ink—

“Oh.”

—only to find Dan Feng at the door.

Whatever peaceful features he has disappear in a matter of seconds, an idyllic semblance deserving of the painting itself turning into a frown. The pencil falls and stains the wooden floor, making him blink and clear his throat. 

“I’m sorry, I lost track of time,” he says, lifting himself from the floor and pulling the robe’s sleeve up. Red paints his face the same way black paints the wall. He crouches for a second to get the pencil, unintelligibly cursing under his breath and undoes the curtain until it covers the wall once more. Then, as if remembering who stands before him, he curls his mouth in distaste. “I thought you’d come by nightfall. Your Grace.”

“It is nightfall.” His title will never sound anything but an offense when spoken from Yingxing’s mouth. Dan Feng must come to terms with that. “The eventide has just fallen on the harbour, and the cosmos shines outside the flagship.”

With a possibly charming roll of his eyes, Yingxing looks away, another bite of his lips, picking up his tools. 

“I apologise, dear customer. Are you, perhaps, unhappy with what you received? I’d understand if you refused it.” And there, he smiles, never reaching his eyes.

Unfortunately for him, Dan Feng smiles back, more as a smirk than a genuine beam. “Oh, please. As if small ink stains could ever turn me away.” 

You are not ungraceful, even with them. 

Yingxing huffs. “Can I bathe and present myself better before we start anything?”

“Be my guest.”

Even with narrowed eyes, curled mouth and a protective stance, unwilling to open up, Yingxing scoffs, places his tools in a simple box and places it near the bed, walking towards behind the changing screen. “Make yourselves comfortable.” 

Dan Feng is none the wiser as to why his attention dives to the soft swings of Yingxing’s hair, the strands flaunting even in disarray down to the back of the knees, nor why he watches the robe, picturing his form until Yingxing disappears behind the screen.

He hears the sound of robes undone, fabric meeting the floor, and a body meeting water and stops his brain before wandering further. We are not here for unsavoury meetings. 

“He is skilled, Your Grace,” whispers Chunfen, preparing her tools. She sits at the same place as their previous meeting, dutifully readying her brush. 

Dan Feng nods. “A shame he is met in this place,” and he finds that he means it sincerely.

Courtesans have the touch of artistry in every way of their lives that they know. They will look the part and become nobles for the night, not only for their paramours but for the world carefully watching them. Their affections are a performance met with the ways only nobility and royalty are raised. They know of art, dancing, singing, and instruments mindfully played by their fingers, educated to entertain those who require them. No wonder they take more of your strales than common whores beneath their station.

It is a breath of fresh air when a man is driven by warfare and conquest, some used to say. Camp followers become trusted companies; warm holes turn into attentive mouths meant for more than simple pleasures. There is more to the art of conquest than the steel and blood.

Xianzhou natives do find it appealing, as Dan Feng sees it. Mortal pleasures that are not meant to last, the lack of worry for a few minutes, hours even, the calmness of giving in the hands of another to meet the so-called heaven. The floating world, they call it in this manner for a reason. He hardly recalls the last time he indulged, if there was anything at all to indulge. 

Being Yinyue-jun, more than once, he met courtesans at banquets, festivals, and ceremonies, doing more than simply accompanying soldiers, politicians, and the commonfolk during the festivities. Many are called for dancing, swinging their jewellery and dresses as floating flowers across the halls, with each movement resembling bones made of water or no bones at all. They play the instruments; the most acclaimed compositions become tangible notes of elation when their fingers meet the cords. They sing as if the Harmony Themselves blessed them. Then, some flirt with titles.

Ah, how often did some diplomats try to win his favour by sending some of those to his quarters? And from the coral brothels, nonetheless, as if Vidyadhara courtesans from their flagships will appease him more than foxians or foreign ones.

Are you the bearer of more skills? Part of him wants to ask, blurt out loud the question to the courtesan just hidden by a familiar painting on wooden panels.

And, as if listening to his thoughts, Yingxing walks from behind the screen.

I would not mind you dishevelled, Dan Feng would say. After all, they are not here for real paramours’ endeavours. A liar he would be, however, to say he minds what is before him.

Yingxing has the manners of a lily touched by poison rather than a kiss, the stain of a blade rather than lipstick. The robe Yingxing finishes lacing around his waist is delicately embroidered with light grey and azure layers of tulips, lilies, lotuses and pearlescent filigree, but contrasts with the red earrings hanging from his ears and gently touches his cheek or his hair, which he softly combs in a bun with the curious hairstick, also flowered, matching his red tassel earrings caressing his cheeks. With how venomous he is with his tongue, anyone should know better than to believe the petals turn him less willing to rip one’s throat out… or simply leave with a wounded ego.

“How may I entertain you today, sweet patron of mine?”

The sickly endearment makes Dan Feng snicker. “Chunfen wished to paint you differently this evening if it is good for you.” Yingxing hums in agreement, shaking his shoulders. “But first, tea. And this time, if you may, I would like for you to actually drink it with me.”

Yingxing lifts an eyebrow at him. “What, you believe I’ve poisoned the tea and I’m trying to get rid of you faster? Don’t tempt me. I might go through with it.”

“You think you are more excited about ending this deal than I am,” notes Dan Feng. “Remember, this is purely transactional and beneficial for both of us. If I had the option of not coming down here, I would take it.”

“No one’s telling you to come here at all, you bastard.”

Chunfen bites her cheek and stares at her paper. Dan Feng knows she wants to gasp or at least suppress a chuckle. 

“I doubt you would enjoy visiting me in my quarters,” he muses.

“Then send someone else. A spy, perhaps, so you don’t have to visit me like a young man who’s never seen a cunt in his life.” Yingxing tilts his head, offering a picturesque smile. “I almost want to eat you, looking like that.”

“Unless I could guarantee your safety, it is best I do it myself.” Dan Feng takes a deep breath. He does it a lot when it comes to Yingxing. “It is not a secret that Taoran favours you, and upstairs, a mouth ruins a single plan by considering it interesting enough to be of attention. It would not take long until he heard of it, should you show up in another’s company. Especially mine.”

“A spy, as I said.”

“Too risky.” Dan Feng dismisses it with his hand. “We can discuss the details later if you so wish.”

Far from looking convinced, Yingxing still huffs and kneels before him at the other side of the small table. “You’re wasting away your riches coming here.”

“My luck, then, that I decide how to waste them.”

Soon, both courtesan and patron enjoy a brief moment of quietness to the sound of porcelain touching herbs with fluttering leaves and brush on silk. If Dan Feng closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in the Dragonprayer Terrace, missing only the sound of waves kissing the shore.

“Do you aspire to become an artist?”

Yingxing startles, at first confused, then annoyed. “Why, are you interested?” He turns at Chunfen. “Be careful with him. He might replace you if I accept anything, apparently.”

“No one will replace anyone,” scoffs Dan Feng, rolling his eyes. “If you want us to pretend we saw nothing when he arrived, then I shall abide. I am trying to alleviate the tension. It will not be fruitful if we always argue when we meet, should this affair continue.”

“Hm. And here I thought you’d enjoy bickering. Isn’t coming out on top and proving yourself better than others a pleasure? You surely enjoy humiliating people.”

“Unnecessarily? No.” Dan Feng sighs. “I will not force you to share anything you do not wish to. I admit, it was not included in our agreement, and I understand it would overbear you. However, it will be useful to know who we are working with. Fair enough, correct?”

Long seconds pass, with Yingxing rhythmically touching the teapot and humming. “Artist is too broad a name. It carries too many talents within it, too many differences to be simply referred to one profession only. Tea, dear patron?”

Dan Feng stares at his empty cup, then at Yingxing, who does not smile this time. Not even a smirk, the contempt and arrogance displayed every single chance he gets, nor the open distaste towards Dan Feng he willingly and shamelessly exposes. No hint of emotion if not for the eyes.

“Yes, thank you.”

Yingxing is a bit too clever for his own good, pouring a small amount of tea and sipping it, eyeing Dan Feng in a silent challenge, a defiance no one should regard Yinyue-jun with. Patience, or else you will ruin this whole affair. 

Finally, Yingxing places his cup on the table and gets up, his words hidden in a formal, respectable tone. “Is this robe acceptable for this evening’s commission?”

The first thing that comes up in Dan Feng’s mind is, anything is acceptable, and his mouth opens for a second before he thinks better. Reckless, so unlike you, High Elder. Yingxing has a queer pull that almost leads him to say the utmost irresponsible things, unbefitting his position, and that would forever smear his history. Yinyue-jun never speaks before thinking, nor do mindless comments rather than logical conclusions control him.

So, Dan Feng nods, closing his eyes and drinking his tea.

For the whole event, Dan Feng choses silence, sipping on the beverage until his tongue only knows of its taste. A bottle of wine would be more favourable if he overthinks, but thinking has been a problem as of late… much because of the creature lying on the small couch beside the bed, pulling his legs up and huffing a few hairs away from his face.

He is too young. Dan Feng does not listen nor process what words Chunfen and Yingxing exchange, his fingers tapping, nails slowly turning into claws, the fangs pushing their way out of his gums and between his teeth, the tail threatening to materialise. All this work to keep the disguise up, and a simple lack of control ruins it, which makes him force his thoughts to shut wherever they are. However, they find themselves in the valleys of his memories.

Do not ask. Dan Feng focuses on every movement the courtesan makes and decides to fill the awkward silence marked with brushes and fabrics. 

“A painter, then?”

“I like painting,” says Yingxing. “I like drawing, colouring. It’s a wonderful pastime to remove your mind from your problems.”

“Did you learn the arts under a geji’s care?”

Yingxing chuckles. “No, no. My…” He clears his throat. “I’ve always liked to make things, as silly as it may seem. And for my luck, I was pretty good. The best, and I say it without a hint of shame.” A silent challenge endorses the smile he gives Dan Feng, a quiet, do you doubt me? “But as you know, this isn’t exactly what they look for when they request me. I’m much more versed than ink.”

“I find it a waste if they refuse to at least know of your talents when you have potential. In the Zhuming, perhaps, you could thrive under an artistic career and make a name for yourself.”

“Ah, maybe,” dismisses Yingxing. His voice aches to say something else. Dan Feng can hear it even in his heartbeat; it slightly increases, and blood starts to steam in his veins. “A master artisan should’ve found me and deemed me worthy of his tutelage before the brothel got to me. And it’s not as if the Zhuming doesn’t care for whores to revel in poetry instead.”

“Would you have liked, though, to become an artist?”

“That’s a personal question,” murmurs Yingxing, forcing a smirk. “In short, maybe. If the Xianzhou would’ve allowed me, that’s a different matter altogether. Are you a patron of the arts?”

“If one cannot appreciate the beauty in creation, they might as well not have a life worth living. And immortality allows for a very long, very bothersome life.”

Dan Feng can see Yingxing as an artist. Too prideful he is, a whip for a tongue, and lacks respect when convenient and wishes to argue, but there is skill to back it up, support his claims throughout the journey. 

How disappointing he is in this seedy place. There are always exceptions at the Commissions where foreigners shine in the ranks and sign their names in magnificent creations. He wonders where they would be, if Yingxing had gone through different paths in life.

A scoff brings his attention back to the conversation, a soft yet hubris-imbued speech he had never heard before coming from Yingxing’s mouth, “It’s not worth thinking about it. When I leave, I will ensure no one forgets me. You’ll see. The short-life species that will haunt every single fucker in this flagship and the Alliance to come.” Slowly, each word becomes a hiss. “There’s a charm to it, isn’t there? The blade that offers the final strike against the Plague has my name on it.”

“Weaponry making is not as easy as a portrait, I fear.”

Yingxing halts, clicking his tongue and peering at him from under his eyelashes. “You’re really making me want to poison you. I will take on that offer, you know?”

Dan Feng will first seal his mouth through lines of jade rather than admit he enjoys how Yingxing looks at the moment, which is so precise on him. 

“Put your murder fantasies aside. You cannot scare me, dearest.” 

Ah, he should not enjoy this as much as he is. There is an unspoken thrill in picking on Yingxing’s nerves one by one, as if pulling the veins and tearing the muscles to expose them bare. 

“If you cannot join beauty and utility in one creation, then you are as blind as you are insufferable and short-sighted.”

“Do not tell me you favour the art of war to others,” muses Dan Feng. “I was not expecting it in the slightest.”

“Obviously,” Yingxing stretches the word dryly and with hints of his unique, sharp accent. “When will the High Elder learn, I wonder, not to underestimate those beneath him only because they carry no title? And here I thought you would favour a weapon matching prowess and nobility for your name. Do you hit your enemies with rocks if you don’t care for its artisanship?”

“Rocks?” Dan Feng snorts. “I am Yinyue-jun, the Scion of Long. I only need my will and the waters to command in order to win a war.”

“And yet, here you are, resorting to a whore to avoid conflict.”

“I admit, there is a romance in the Hunt and its execution, but beautiful ballads hide ugly truths, my dear.” The blood of innocents, the scrouging sounds of bones and flesh merging, the silence after the storm. Haunting, indeed, though Yinyue-jun is above them all. “All is fair in war.”

“Including the dead.”

Dan Feng stares at Yingxing, who watches him with no honest expression. Truthfully, no emotion is shown through features or voice—yet, Dan Feng can feel the anger whispering against his ear.

“You know of death.” Dan Feng does not, precisely, ask, but quietly says with a slight hint of question.

“Is there anyone in this place who doesn’t?”

Clever. 

Yingxing might be one of the few who, swift and soft, diverts a question to another. Some may call it hunger, the will to poke until an answer is given; others, mere curiosity and need. Dan Feng has yet to discover which one is it, and if this curiosity of his is not rooted in something as unsavoury as—

Yingxing is more like a statue, and Dan Feng sees a little of the jade-made ones in Dragonvista Rain Hall. If not for the signs of age, the tiny strands falling over his face, and humid flyaways curling around his cheeks, he might have mistaken him for one mocking a dress.

“Children in this place might as well be born with a sword in hand, Your Grace,” Yingxing says, shy to reminiscing. “Planets touched by the Plague’s Author and Their followers have no choice other than to accept their fate or become one with blood. In a way, you have to find some kind of beauty in it, being the only thing you know of. It’s inevitable to get attached. And when you don’t last long enough, death becomes something else entirely.”

“May I ask what it means to you?”

“You may.”

…and yet, Yingxing only beams as he supports his chin over his palm, leaning on one of the pillows.

“But I never said I’d answer you.”

“Delightful as always, dearest,” Dan Feng mutters.

Yingxing scoffs, almost rolling his eyes. “Stop with that nickname. I’m not your dearest.”

“As far as your employer knows, you are,” muses Dan Feng. “But he did not acquire you from these parts, did he?” At Yingxing’s arched eyebrow, he takes a sip of the tea and places it back on the table, sighing. “The Luofu receives many exoworlders, and often they are met here, but you do not speak like them. You are not from the Alliance, but the Luofu is not your first housing.”

Yingxing plays with a few loosened strands of the pillow’s fibres, twisting it in his fingers, and bites the interior of his cheek before answering, “Indeed, it’s not. I come from the Zhuming,” and nothing else. 

Not so willing, then.

“You learned the Xianzhou speech while at the Flaming Court?”

“And a few more,” that I won’t tell you, it goes unsaid. “It was very easy to pick on, truthfully. I expected worse.” He sees the way Dan Feng leans his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, and maybe he decides he has had enough because what comes is a tired, “I’m simply a courtesan who likes painting, dear patron. What else could you possibly be interested in?”

Many things, Dan Feng’s mind whispers before he can rationalise. Far be it from turning into a lie, yet these thoughts lead to more dangerous ones he cannot afford to entertain or persist in. 

Yingxing is there, touchable and reachable, but far from being as easy to read as others. You cannot trust these people. It is never a good ordeal to dive where you cannot see, a bottom you will never reach unless you are willing to face what you do not want. 

He is too young, yet Dan Feng cannot unsee the white strands falling around his shoulders as Yingxing undoes his bun. He is too young, yet Dan Feng sees the lines forming around his mouth as Yingxing nips on the tip of the hairstick for a second, only to drop it on his lap. He is too young, yet… how much for a short-life species when time has another grasp on them? 

I’m not even fifty, Yingxing told him once. Is that old?

How old are you?

Dan Feng never has the chance to ask since Chunfen speaks, “I am forever grateful for your help, my lord.”

Yingxing blinks, sitting properly. “You’re surely fast in your work… my lady.” He seems to test the title in his voice, carefully watching between Dan Feng and the painter. “As long as I was useful, then you’re welcome.”

“Your Grace, I appreciate it immensely. And, as for your commission.” She puts her brush aside and extends the silk paper.

As always, she proves herself to be the fitting artist for this work. “If he likes it, then I am content.”

And again, Yingxing is surprised. “Another painting for a gift?” he asks, not even kneeling back where he was. “I’ve heard you appreciate fine things from the rumours, but I did not believe it.” He crosses his arms. “I still don’t.”

“Your trust on this matter is not the most important thing, but whether you accept it or not, if it is to your liking, we can discard it. If it has no use or appreciation from you, then it is useless for me.”

Ever reluctant and doubtful of their interactions, Yingxing presses his lips and tugs on his robe before extending a hand to the painting.

Dan Feng trusts in the way Yingxing’s eyes darken the more he observes the work. There is an unspoken, undescribed pleasure no words could embellish with, though his claws may be enough of a warning, an omen of what might transpire. 

As Yingxing sucks his lower lip, more strands of his hair fall over his shoulder, and each time he blinks, his pupil shimmers more and more. Dan Feng suspects he can see his fans reflected on them, should he bring the courtesan down and force him to gaze at him. A living mirror, and his claws are starting to poke.

“It’s beautiful, just like your first work, my lady,” says Yingxing, breathing deeply and gently beaming at her.

Ah, no poison in his words this time, thinks Dan Feng, though he only nods. “You may leave, Chunfen. Thank you for your work.”

Dutiful as she is, she silently abides and settles her tools in order, leaving both courtesan and High Elder—or, as far as others know, a young Nameless—to their own affairs.

Yingxing enjoys the painting for a while, face souring as minutes pass. “If you think pretty drawings and portraits will get you any favours and kindness from me, you’re dumber than I thought. And I, for a change, didn’t take you for someone with so much stupidity.”

“Not this time, no,” Dan Feng chuckles and begins forward the painted chest. “You underestimate me a lot, which is beyond unnecessary. Utterly childish, even.”

“I could change my mind any time about helping you, bastard.” Yingxing places the portrait on the altar table, away from the lit candles. Dan Feng refuses to acknowledge that he watches his robe swing as he walks, and the soft curve of his neck. “You disappeared for a while,” he mutters, peering over his shoulder.

“I cannot visit you every night,” reasons Dan Feng. “I thought you would have understood and even foreseen it. It is a fragile deal, as much as it is vital.”

“Don’t take me for a fool,” grunts Yingxing, turning to see him with anger in every limb, features metamorphosing in defiance. “Did you know he visited me the next night after you came?” Seeing Dan Feng stills in place, Yingxing rolls his eyes. “Of course that would shut you up. I expected you to come the evening after or at least send someone in your name to gather whatever information you wished to know.”

He knows he is being stalked. Shaoying is a skilled spy and much versed in becoming one with the wind, a ghost who will never be noticed unless it is in her best interests to be seen. Taoran, however, has his own set of spies. No one short on shadow work if needed. Dan Feng would be a tad naïve never to suspect he would use them, eventually, to hide his steps regarding his personal affairs. 

He makes a mental note to demand stricter routines from Shaoying and her underlings. Apparently, he has been leaving my tight watch sooner than I expected. Long knows what else he might be doing if a simple visit to a brothel is enough to escape him.

“It is a difficult matter, to spy on someone and ensure they never find out you have been stalking them. If any suspicion arises, this whole ordeal will not work at all. What has he told you?” Although a different question lingers on top of his tongue, what did he do?

“If you think he shared all of his evil plans with me…” Yingxing pulls the robe tighter around his frame. “He’s been complaining most of the time, as I told you last time. He thinks you’re being irrational in pushing so much work on him when it comes to dealing with internal affairs. He wants to be closer to you, I believe.”

Dan Feng frowns. “Closer to me?”

“Envy. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened. If they can’t be your closest friend, they’d rather see you burn as a… I don’t know, karmic debt of sorts. You’re Yinyue-jun, therefore you should listen to him, your lovely Preceptor. It’s not unfounded, his wishes.”

“Being close to me, he thinks he would manage to turn me into accepting his ideas and agree with his suggestions,” concludes Dan Feng, nodding. “It has a base to it, indeed. Has he given you more for this?”

“I’d have to tell you of all of our dates, so I give you a strong justification. It’s not easy.”

“How come?”

“He’s a man of considerable power, and yet he doesn’t think it’s enough because you, the actual powerful being in this place and, in a sense, close to him… you don’t listen to him. If a man cannot control through titles, he’ll do it in other ways. Isn’t it what the councilmen do to their rulers, after all?” Yingxing leads a finger to his mouth, nail to teeth. “It’s not that hard of an observation. Expected, even. You hardly need me to tell you you’re coveted, Your Grace.”

“I bet he embellishes his covetousness when in your presence.”

“Not as much as you think. I never needed his words to tell me of how much of a bastard you are, certainly.” Yingxing lets out a low hiss, covered by his knuckles. “It’s not the point, though. He came complaining, still, about the missing painting, claiming the brothel was lacking finesse when they promised him subtlety, confidentiality and ensuring each payment was given with its proper gift. He paid for the painting and got nothing. You caused him to complain like never before to me, as if it was, somehow, my fault that he didn’t get his fucking toy.”

“Did he do something to you?”

Yingxing stops, blinks, and narrows his eyes at him. “It depends on how you define that. Is it relevant to any intel you want?”

Dan Feng’s attention diverts from Yingxing’s gaze to his arm, hidden behind the fabrics. “It may be,” he softly says. “A man will say more than he lets on his behaviour than actual words, do you not agree?”

“And Taoran is one of them.” Yingxing takes a deep breath, slowly kneeling before the table. “I can’t argue with that.”

“You said it once, he wants to be told he is correct. I have not forgotten it.”

“But if you won’t tell him that, others will.”

“Last time, you mentioned there are others who despise me,” begins Dan Feng, tracing the florals of the chest with the top of his gloved nail. The claw still wants to run across it, especially when Yingxing stands before him, looking—not glaring, for once—at him. “I know I am not a favourite among the commissions, therefore, the animosity itself does not surprise me, but I still need names. I must know if Taoran is turning them against me or inciting something.”

The name of the act burns in his tongue, forbidding him from considering it out loud. Still, it is an option to be considered, even if unconsciously. Taoran may or may not be aware of contributing to a worse affair, though Dan Feng smells the hidden meanings behind the Preceptor’s nods, his fists and grunts. 

As a Preceptor, you expect him to be on your side, and yet he has been lying for far longer than Dan Feng knows. When did it all start?

“He has friends in the Realm-Keeping Commission and a few contacts around the Exalting Sanctum,” says Yingxing. “Commanders, soldiers, merchants… publicly, they will not speak against you, not even raise a hand or their voice when seeing you in person, but he talks with them. Exchanges letters, meets them under the cause of diplomatic visits and negotiations for the Vidyadhara. Has no spy of yours intercepted any of them?”

“A few, but no suspicious content within.” Dan Feng’s hand goes rigid, almost piercing the chest with the amount of pressure he applies with his claws. Claws, they are not hidden anymore.

“He’s smarter than what you give him credit for,” mutters Yingxing, features twisting in a sentiment akin to… what is that? “Not as smart as he thinks he is, but more than you think of him. Sometimes, he visits me after one of these meetings, reeking of summerwine, weeds and common perfume. The cheap kind you find in Aurum Alley’s worst corners. Even a pig is more expensive than that. And then he talks. It’s twisted, the admiration he has. Almost scares me.”

“Admiration, you say.”

“It’s inevitable for him, isn’t it? To adore you. To have faith and adoration… it’s not a matter of loving someone. For you to hate a god, you already acknowledge their existence and their power. Trust and fear only walk along in this thing. He doesn’t love you.” Others might have argued against it, especially youthful Vidyadhara, who are still learning under their guard. After all, why would they not love their own kind? “Maybe hate isn’t enough a word for what he has… or incorrect.” Yingxing huffs with a more exhausted affair. “Immortals are complicated. I never understand you.”

“We only have more time to nurture feelings, twisted as they may be,” says Dan Feng, though another flavour of questions lingers on his tongue. Do you adore me, then? Is it possible for this adoration to flourish? Do you fear me? No, it cannot be right; Yingxing is not scared of him. How boring things would be if that were the case. “They are not different than whatever you feel.”

“Rich talk coming from you.” Yingxing brings a smirk forward, though his eyes never change. “Tell me, Your Grace, did it take long before your heart turned into stone?”

Heartless, heartless Yinyue-jun. Rather than scoffing, retorting or showing the affliction, Dan Feng sustains the loathed stare. “Who are the officials he is dealing with?”

By now, Dan Feng should learn how to savour the venom in each of Yingxing’s mannerisms. His honeyed words, poison-willing lips and eyes so sharp no weapon in the Xianzhou army could match. Perhaps Yinyue-jun’s claws and fangs might.

“Now, that would be giving away information for free, wouldn’t it?” Yingxing leans back, a finger to the mouth. Another man, maybe, would have fallen for the façade. “What’s next? Will you beg me to tell you all the sordid details regarding your Preceptor?”

Not up for frivolous teasing, Dan Feng grazes his claws over the chest’s opening, pulling the golden lock. “No, of course not. I keep my promises, my dear.” A little tease, however, will not harm anyone. “I told you before, you are useful for this affair, as much as you try to prove otherwise. Who else would have given me word of Taoran’s deals?”

Yingxing pushes his body forward and tugs on his veiled leg, arms coiling around it, and every hint of amusement and toxicity evaporates when he finally looks at the contents of the chest.

It flourishes in Dan Feng a sense of pride and satisfaction at seeing Yingxng’s fading victory in his features, a simple treasure he will congratulate himself, voiceless and unbothered; a victory only he will know of, for sharing anything to do with the courtesan seems… off.

Until then, however, he quietly relishes how Yingxing’s mouth gapes.

A pair of earrings in gold and jade, rings following the ear’s shape, modelled after flower petals and with a tail of jade beads tied to it, a romantic cascade. The pair rests amid deep-red, feathery cushions within the chest. Every single aspect of it is beyond remarkable skill, a signature of what the Xianzhou is capable of. If Yingxing’s reaction is anything to go by, Dan Feng assumes there are, yes, ways to surprise his judgemental self.

“The best jewel-versed craftsman in the Artisanship Commission was delighted when I requested him this gift in the likes of old folktales,” says Dan Feng. “You, indirectly and unknowingly, have made a man happy in the last few days.”

But Yingxing says nothing, instead careful and slowly picking one of the pair up. The earring crystal sounds, delicate yet resistant, and Dan Feng prides himself once more for not being wrong with the shade. Against Yingxng’s skin, even if it is his palm rather than his cheek, the earring sparkles.

Is it to your liking? Dan Feng feels stupid for considering asking it, considering anything other than appreciation. Even when Yingxing hums and places the earring back upon the rich cushions, gently picks the chest from his patron’s hands, and gracefully stands up with robes flowing with each movement of his. 

Still silent… or, Dan Feng suspects, I am simply not allowed to hear what roams his mind. He cannot feign no curiosity resides in his thoughts. Yingxing, unfortunately, is too much of a variable in his plans for him not to be interested in his opinions.

Only then does he hear a scoff. Dan Feng frowns, offended, and hisses, “What now?”

“I’m surprised you gave me something, that’s all.” Yingxing slots the chest beside his bed, locking it again. “Not to my taste, though.”

As if it was a cheap, unremarkable gift. “Half of the Xianzhou would not be able ever to commission a piece like that which I gave you,” he retorts.

“Hardly relevant,” Yingxing brushes it aside with a click of his tongue. “The craftsmanship is fine, acceptable, but the precision looks exceptionally lacking in care. How much did you pay him, this artisan? More than you pay for me, perhaps? He thanked you for the money, not the commission.”

“You accepted, though.”

Yingxing sighs, supporting his chin on his palm. “Of course I did. You gave it to me with so much love, didn’t you?” In a trained, too-sweet courtesan’s voice, he recites, “How could I ever refuse a gift that comes from the bottom of your heart, dear patron?”

…it should not bother Dan Feng. No, it is not essential. In the end, this whole affair of theirs is not meant to last, either way. Was he not the one who said, when proposing, that Yingxing would do well with extra payment? 

Dan Feng huffs, rising to his feet. “Very well, then. It matters not if you appreciate them, but they pay for your intel. This craftsmanship is worth more than half a million strales, and the gems were imported from known worlds beyond the Alliance.”

“Do you know a man called Xiyan?”

You beg my pardon? Dan Feng straightens his eyes more than he did this evening alone. Xiyan. 

“The name is familiar, indeed. What comes with him?”

“Taoran likes chatting with him when he takes me on a fancier date than our private meetings, if you understand what I mean,” Yingxing whispers, attentive to Dan Feng’s movements. “He’s a talented storyteller, though lacking finesse when it comes to other matters aside his far-fetched stories. Once, I scoffed before him, and he took it as a grave offense to his acting abilities, you see.” Lying, that is what he is good for. “He stays at the Sleepless Earl, entertaining foreigners and locals alike, telling more than he should. And Taoran quite likes the believable way he spreads rumours. You’d imagine he'd enjoy keeping the acting for a crowd, but he also finds amusement behind the curtains. Especially with the Commissions’ spokespeople.”

“Taoran likes the arts, yes,” reasons Dan Feng.

Yingxing’s eyes glint with bored satisfaction, akin to an obvious yet idiotic conclusion. 

“Did you know? Mr. Xiyan hates short-lived species, too.” He dramatically takes a deep breath, starting to ignore Dan Feng’s presence as he picks up his smoking pipe. “You were right, in a way. Who cares about the death of little ones when you can have an epic poem recited to you as you are overwhelmed with pleasure in your evening coffee?”

This time, he does not smoke immediately, appearing lost in one of his many unspoken, unshared thoughts. 

Dan Feng’s hand moves before he can think. Reaching, though he does not know if it is for Yingxing or his robes. He stops before his feet can follow. Better, he tells himself, and he sees how Yingxing’s hand trembles while he holds the pipe. It is unclear to some, but Dan Feng notices small tremors, blood rushing into the mortal veins, and heavy breaths. 

“Thank you for your input and information,” he says instead, forbidding his mouth to run on something he cannot risk at the moment. “If I may ask—” And if you may answer, kindly. “—what kind of earrings do you like? Allow me to remedy it.”

The courtesan’s free hand goes to his earrings, the red tassels brushing his cheek as a lover’s kiss since they first met in secret. “I don’t like earrings.”

Dan Feng says nothing of it. “A different piece of jewellery, then?”

“Hm.” Yingxing sounds as if he is pressing his lips together, alone with himself, before he looks over his shoulder. “Surprise me.”

… curiously, it sounds more like a challenge.

Chapter Text

The boy’s name is Hongjin, and he is a war-made orphan.

Yingxing cannot help but worry when the boy looks so fragile and small for his age, even by Xianzhou standards, where below thirty years one is still too young even for children. 

He barely reaches Yingxing’s waist in height, maybe under his ribs if the boy stands on his toes and looks up. He is a scrawny little thing, always running around and helping the courtesans, those who treat him like a younger brother or even their son.

“Gege, how’s the water?”

Lukewarm, if Yingxing is honest, but he smiles and retrieves his foot from where he tasted the temperature. “Perfectly fine, Hong’er. Thank you.”

The smile the boy offers him in return is worth the white lie. A bright-eyed youth, indeed, with crooked and missing teeth but beaming wide as ever, nodding in a way his dishevelled maroon hair becomes more of a mane than a lion’s fur. He’s doing his best; he’s excited. Little boys are always so excited.

Yingxing slowly undoes his dirty robe, satin meeting the ground with a soft shush, and the courtesan represses a shiver as his feet touch the water in the basin. If he could, he would warm the water in a second, even if it has yet to be freezing cold. At least, it ain’t ice. 

He takes a deep breath and sits before his mind dives into more thinking rather than washing. Not today, he cannot afford it when he is expected to be perfumed and perfectly groomed for a date at the Exalting Sanctum. He does not recall with details, with precision, the last time he was taken for a visit to such a beautiful place. Maybe you don’t remember because you weren’t there for visiting at all, but he shakes his head as soon as the thought comes up.

“Gege, gege—do you want your earring back?”

“What?” Yingxing cleanses his face with a handful of water and leans against the tub’s edge.

Hongjin, in one hand, holds one of the rose-gold earrings. “The seller said he can buy it for five hundred thousand strales! But you said…”

…it cannot cost less than a million, though Yingxing sighs. “They won’t pay more than that around here, will they?” He huffs. “And what did the Madam say?”

“…I don’t know if I can repeat that.” 

Yingxing nudges him on the cheek with a cold finger. “I’m sure I’ve heard worse before, don’t worry.”

“She said…” Hongjin twists his feet and eyes, looking everywhere but Yingxing. “She said you’d be too stupid to sell it.”

That’s not the word she used for me, but Yingxing lets it slide with a tired, deep breath. “One woman’s opinion. If she liked the earring, why not buy it?” 

“She said she couldn’t afford it, but I think she’s a liar,” hums Hongjin. “I saw her pay for a new flower the moment I left, a pretty girl from the Fanghu.”

“Not interested, then. Not a first.” As soon as Hongjin gives him back the earring, Yingxing leans back against the tub, diving more of his body into the water until only his head rests above the surface, but fingers playing with the rose-gold of a too-fine jewel underwater. “We’ll find a buyer soon, Hong’er. Don’t worry.” 

The words taste closer to bitterness than actual honey, which sours his mood for a second. After years of feigning this same intonation, he would have expected to be better at hiding any predicament within his mind, uttering only what is necessary and no more. Yet, he still thinks of the money he has yet to obtain. 

The earring, even underwater, sparkles more than all the money the damned brothel will ever see, much to his dismay. 

No, not anything more. He cannot dare to feel anything else, even if against his will. ‘Hope’ is a dangerous word. 

Yingxing never knows where he can find the end of hopefulness and the start of a safer, more appropriate view. People like you cannot hope. It is soft, pure, so dreamful that it would put poets to shame—and no wonder so few scriptures convey the sweet, fragile thing of expectation. What could he name it, if not patience? 

A short-life species with little patience would only make it worse. How ironic.

Nonetheless, Yingxing would be a liar if he ever said he embodies patience. Learnt through hardships and forced to manifest it, patience feels as fragile as any other naïve ideas perilously rooted in his mind. They can’t keep me here forever. He only needs to find a buyer, that is all. 

Someone must be willing. 

“Hong’er, do you remember much of your parents?”

The boy startles from where he picks up the older courtesan’s dirty robe. “Uh… not really. Laoshi said I shouldn’t think about it, though, because they won’t come back. I think they died when I was very little because Laoshi said I didn’t have teeth when I got here.”

Yingxing wants to say, no time to get too attached; you should be glad, but nothing comes out. 

Instead, he curses himself for the thought. “Laoshi wants you to grow up without being held back by your troubles,” because this is what they told me. 

Alphonse, had Yingxing met him when before blooming, might have turned him into a worse shell of himself than he already is. In the Zhuming, at least, the geji were kind enough never to look down on him and prepare him not only in the arts of undressing. Should Yingxing have come to the Luofu before, he might have never picked a pencil if not to paint his eyes for a client. If only Hongjin could pay for a little more freedom—

“Did you get to know your parents, Gege?” 

“…a little.” 

Maybe his whispered answer is enough to bother Hongjin, or his eyes change focus from the earrings to nothingness; he does not know. 

Things blur in ways they should not, illogically and unintelligibly. His eyes can feel. Colours have taste, and memories are more material than they should be. A motherly touch, a kiss on his forehead, messy braids falling on his shoulder. I can’t braid my whole hair, but she could, a mess full of sounds and crimsoning as time passes. 

No, you can’t die. I still remember you. 

There is only so much a short-life species can do to turn someone immortal, no flesh and bone if not his own.

He remembers the smell of after-rain and lying upon the wet, sparkling green grass, not caring for dirtying his clothes. His skin was always besmirched with mud and paint, even if he laughed it off and acted like the cleanest boy walking the streets. 

The sky always had a new star to count—the constellations shone so bright his child could swear he could touch them by lifting his tiny fingers. Mother could; that’s why her hands were always shining!, he used to say. Scraped knees and tugging at her skirt, the petrichor scent as she led him home, the warmth of her breast, and the scabious for eyes, like the flowers in the vast valleys near home, so big he could see them from so far away. 

Bronze fills his mouth. The more he gathers, the little he has. Yingxing must shut his eyes until the darkness turns into a colourful mess for a sight, fading burnt, just to grasp the long-gone feeling of a once-familiar black hair becoming one with the sky above when night fell. 

At the time, he was too little, shorter than the hair’s length, but his mother always promised him he would grow alongside his braids. There was no silk that could compare to his mother’s hair. Mindlessly, he abandons the earring to the bottom of the tub and pulls his hair over the shoulder, feeling the knots and sticky strands.

There’s no use in dwelling on what won’t come back. Now, he thinks, silks can be the smoothest elements to be found.

What would she say if she saw me now?

“Hong’er, can you please do me a favour?” Promptly, the boy returns near the tub, eyes shining so bright with youth that it hurts Yingxing’s chest. “Get me the jasmine oil.”

There’s no use in dwelling on what won’t come back, so he focuses on what will come, willingly or not, on his part.

Yingxing ensures no signs of his hobbies remain on his body, no stains of any kind that would ruin what is already falling apart. Even if they like his age tracing, he must maintain what is left behind. Not much he can undo for his skin if not clean it to the best of his abilities, taking a deep breath when he reaches his arm. 

The red lines have faded a bit, but even a blind man, when grasping it, will feel how different, alien it is to the rest of him. His fingers itch to trace them as well, nails piercing into the crust of healed, besmirched skin. He won’t like it, is what gets to him before the nail even rasps against it.

He huffs and brushes his belly and legs with more force than necessary, hissing when it comes to his knees. Since the day before they hurt, pieces of wounded flesh were flaming red even if they were not bleeding. He would not mind them if he were kneeling for his paintings. He often forgets he is not paid for it. Not mostly, that is.

“Do you need help with your hair, gege?”

“I’ll manage it,” Yingxing dismisses him with a soft smile, towel in hand. 

His body burns with how much he brushed the skin, sore and red, but it will soon return to normal. He has time to groom himself, still. Under the water, the earring catches his attention, and Yingxing has half a mind to leave it there and pretend he has forgotten it. 

It could blow that High Elder’s ego, certainly, which is amusing, but he retrieves it when better judgement reaches him. It still costs more than anything he has. 

“Hong’er, I’ll need you to visit the runner retailer down the Silk. If no one here wants it, I’m sure it’ll have an eye or two of interest up there.”

“The bald man?”

Yingxing suppresses a snort, brushing his thumb against the rose gold one last time before placing it on the boy’s palm. “Yes, that one. Ask him how much it’d take for a pair. Don’t give it away for any less, nor give him the earring. If he asks if it’s real gold, just take it back. I’m sure he’ll know it’s real and will make a good deal with someone upstairs.”

Hongjin’s face falters from confusion to a light disappointment. “But I thought I’d be helping you…”

“You will,” Yingxing says, swallowing. “If you manage to get a buyer for my earrings, I’ll get you that calligraphy set we saw by the plaza, remember?” Before Hongjin can protest, Yingxing holds the boy’s hands in his, enclosing the tinier ones around the jewellery. “You help me a lot by doing this.” 

And by being away from here while he’s with me.  

Children, much to his luck, can be pacified in small ways, and Hongjin has never been a troublesome helper in the brothel. Energy paired with helpfulness—or the wish to be helpful, more like—is enough, and Yingxing knows better than most that they do what they can. 

Hongjin runs and is ever so attentive, perceptive of details the majority will only ever superficially pay attention to. Yingxing recalls well how the boy’s bright, youth-filled eyes sparkled when they once passed by the plaza, many full moons ago. Not even the boy’s name he knew, yet so new to him, but how could he ignore it? Once, it was him in his shoes. 

Nodding and acquiring a determination only naivety could provide, the boy looks up at him. “Leave it to me, gege. And then, I’ll get you something nice too!” 

Yingxing smiles, “I know you will,” and waits until the boy’s steps no longer echo from beyond the closed door, away from the room, to let his lips drop and lock the door. 

Where he steps, pools of water follow him, and the robe is soaking more and more each second. 

Truth be told, Hongjin will not find the runner until after the artificial sun is setting and the evening is deep within the flagship. Despite being so green, he is a smart boy, but the Madam would hardly harm him when she sees him nearby, waiting at her door for a man who will take hours and hours to show up. 

It gives Yingxing enough time to keep him away.

By the hectic sounds upstairs, the evening is upon them. Quick footsteps from the floor above, loud giggling and cheers, the harmonic playing of the guzheng and the ruan, and even some vulgar curses echoing amid male voices. Whimsical, teen-like murmurs are coming down the corridors, the rushing of wooden doors, and more muffled echoes. Soon, it is he who will get there.

I hope he’s in a better mood than last time, as he drops a little of jasmine around his neck and nape, his wrists, sparing a few fingers of scenting his ankles and a gentle amount for his nipples. A bit, it refreshes, but it will hardly last. Jasmine oil has never been his favourite, but Taoran chastised him for the whole night when he tried orange blossom. In the end, jasmine is simply a safe option. 

And correct he is, for when he unlocks the door, and the Preceptor comes in, the first thing he does is lean and intake his odour. 

There are times Yingxing gathers himself in the depths of his mind for brief moments, not lasting more than seconds, sometimes minutes. He only knows time is a lie for his body, and his heart feels like days have passed when he wraps himself in this cocoon. 

Not Lily, with spider-like legs bathed in crimson, surrounded by dried rose petals and knowing too much to be safe. A small Yingxing who has yet to know what loss feels like runs amid fresh green grass, feeling natural rain soak him whole, and he tastes the droplets with the tip of his tongue.

How could anything beyond his brain ever reach him, retrieve him from such a deep confinement he willingly runs back to?

The next thing he knows, he hears a hum followed by a nod of approval. 

I’m not a child anymore. Reality never fails to make him sick to his stomach, but he shall endure. What else have I done, anyway?

“Good evening, my lord,” Yingxing greets him, only lifting the corners of his lips to seem less of a doll and more appropriate for an entertainer. That is how he was coveted, in the end—with a honeysuckle-dripped tone and feigned want. “Is it acceptable…?”

“Pick a fitting robe,” says Taoran, without a moment to hear him. Yingxing shuts his mouth immediately. Rather than tasting rainwater, he gets a bit of dried skin with red fruits, but Taoran could never care any less for it, continuing, “The Exalting Sanctum has a new play for presentation, and I have booked our seats many a moon ago. Do not embarrass me.”

Taoran brings no warmth in any of his words. No, he would never do it. Even when praises come out of his mouth, they feel ornery, beyond cold and ripping with a strange, undecipherable tone between resentment and disgust. His affections are not aggressive, though they do not belong to a lover. 

Ha, Preceptor Taoran, a lover. Jesters from all around the Alliance would bring courts and foreigners alike into a fit of laughter with such an idea.

“Of course,” Yingxing nods, closing the door behind him. “A cup of tea before we depart?”

“Make it quick,” Taoran dismisses him, standing close to the door with evident discomfort. “This place is hardly appropriate. Filthy younglings running around, scrawny feet…”

And yet, you come here every now and then just to see me, Yingxing would have laughed. Instead, he smiles only a bit wider and moves around the changing panel. 

Thank Lan, Hong’er is far away by now. 

It does not take much to change if not for his unwillingness. Taoran hates bright colours that are not given by his own hand, the myriads of golds and emeralds he flaunts with his status of Preceptor in the High Elder’s council, but appreciates finesse in what he owns. Shades of green, grey, and only a little white, never to overshine what is out of his reach.

For a second, he considers picking Dan Feng’s gift. His hand lingers above it, almost touching it. He’d hate you immensely, wouldn’t he? The thought is more than amusing. Vengeful, satisfaction-bringer, and a little bit of envy that would lead him and everyone into an unhappy inconvenience… 

…only for him to give up and pick his red tassel one. It is better to trust what works while useful.

From the corner of the changing screen, fixing his fabrics on the shoulders, Yingxing sees Taoran fidgeting with his hand. Unfitting for a man of his station, he can hear Dan Feng, and he chuckles to himself. I should give him all the details of what transpires here, indeed, until Yinyue-jun curses him endlessly and storms away from the brothel with all of his gifts and money, never to return. A short amount of satisfaction that could cost him his freedom, but, oh, Yingxing just might. 

Worse details would come if Taoran were a more terrible client, however.

As they leave the brothel, Yingxing reflects more than he should on the matter. It is far from being the first time he notices it. How could he not, when men usually seek him for one thing only, and one simply… refuses to do it?

More than a decade ago, Yingxing would have considered it a blessing, seeing him as a gentle patron who would never mistreat him as he exchanged strales for an hour of him. Rarely are they sweet. A few are aggressive, going as far as Yingxing acting out of his demanded way to get a few slaps before crashing down again. You could’ve been taken by the Borisins, as a manner of saying, don’t complain. Yingxing, to this day, nothing says as a retort.

After so long being the Preceptor’s… favourite, Yingxing no longer resists the impulsive, intruder thought he would rather have Taoran as one more client than their arrangement. 

The Preceptor never offers his arm to be held as they walk toward the Exalting Sanctum nor pulls Yingxing with a harmful grasp that would leave angry marks behind on the courtesan’s skin. 

Quietly, Yingxing follows him and covers his mouth with the fan, often peering from the corners of his eyes to greet him with a half-moon stare. Taoran is not subtle with his attention as much as he tries to contain it. He never once touches Yingxing as a soldier would to a camp follower, but loathes much distance between them.

After all, do you or do you not want to touch me? Yingxing will not ask, even if this curiosity bothers him when he has to conclude whether an affirmation would scare him more than rejection. Would he slap someone he abhors? His cheek burns at the mere recollection, and his eyes drop to the Preceptor’s hand, still fidgeting to his side. 

As if feeling the courtesan’s stare, he huffs and pulls it uptight behind him, breathing deep until his chest is mighty and chin raised. Of course, he is better than everyone in this unsavoury district.

“Has the new painting reached you, my lord?” Yingxing softly approaches him, lifting his robes as they climb the stairs of Aurum Valley. The smell of smoke and roasted meat from the local market fills his senses, though he must hide the will to salivate. “I’d hate for you to be disappointed again.” You become more unbearable than you already are.

“I ensured the couriers will not mistake any messages anymore, and that is all,” Taoran answers as if he had not stormed into his room weeks before, demanding an explanation and going so far as to point the finger at him. A little more and Yingxing would have done something irreversible. “You should have been at the corals rather than this hellish pit these people call it heaven. No such delay or negligence would ever happen under a Vidyadhara care.”

Ah, but the Cloud Knights got to me first. Yingxing hums, resisting the ant to turn his head to the closest tent where the smell is more than divine. “The corals wouldn’t accept me, as you once told me, my lord.” 

When Taoran sharply turns to him, Yingxing smirks behind his fan. 

It does not emerge with kindness or light-heartedness; you should not be at any brothel, and you deserve freedom!, as one too many romantic novels sell across the Xianzhou. Not when the blood of men runs hot, and anything looks good enough to use for their war-driven pleasure. 

Taoran has a particular, forcefully hidden anger and impatience when stomping on the floor. “You are behaving yourself properly this evening,” he says, narrowing his gaze at Yingxing. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” It hurts Yingxing’s throat to push these words out without gritting his teeth, not letting it obvious his wish to curse. “I admit I was surprised with the invitation, my lord, but I wouldn’t go against your judgement for your night. Didn’t I prepare myself for you, after all?”

For long seconds, Taoran watches him, head to toe, dangerously lingering where the fan hides the courtesan’s mouth. With a swift movement, he pulls Yingxing’s hand down, removing the fan with a tight grasp around his wrist. 

“If I knew short-life species like yourself would only require a severe kind of teaching, I would have given you a tighter lesson the first time I bought you.”

“Rented me,” Yingxing softly corrects him, careful not to show any taunting. “You don’t wish me to be truly yours. You’ve made it clear, my lord.”

Yingxing has smelt his fair share of unwanted, untoward clients. Mouths reeking with more than just cheap booze and acidic tones, or Lan forbid, himself. Taoran, on the other hand, has a particular scent mixed with salt that becomes unbearable when intertwined with summerwine or less-than-worthy beers. 

The hold around his wrist tightens, but Yingxing only bites the interior of his cheek, refusing to look away from the snake-like, green eyes fixed on him. 

“Indeed,” concurs Taoran, voice threatening to become a growl. “Behave.”

“If you’re so worried about my behaviour, you should’ve rented someone else, no?” 

Rather than answering him, Taoran stares and stares until Yingxing curls his mouth in a snarl, freeing the courtesan’s wrist as if it is less than garbage. 

They rarely touch. 

Taoran avoids his body most of the time, at least with his palms, since his attention never falters when he is disposed. He only touches me when he wants to make a statement, even if just between us. 

Yingxing’s first reflex would be to caress his own wrist and relieve the light burn, but Taoran still watches him like a bird of prey with the eyes of the Arbiter. Yingxing would rather undress amongst the hustle of Aurum Alley than let him get any weakling reaction.

In the end, there will be only the silence Taoran has the decency to offer him, the lack of vulgar callings, and never laying a finger on him beyond… hm. 

“You shouldn’t pay for being unhappy, my lord,” says Yingxing, resisting the taunt with the title, dripping with honey-like venom. “I only worry you’re not leaving satisfied with our meetings.”

“Your concern is needless,” not baseless.

“We have Vidyadhara-resembling courtesans, you know.” Yingxing brings his fan to his mouth again, scowling behind it as his lips touch the embroidery. “They’re way less expensive, as well.”

Taoran glares. “Are you implying something?”

Yingxing blinks, doe-eyed. “Never, my lord.”

The Preceptor’s edginess is felt throughout the rest of the walk towards the open theatre. 

Yingxing does his best to ignore the festivities as they pass by Aurum Alley, lifting his garment skirt and praying he does not, by mistake, stumble upon a crack on the stone floors or an entertained child; so often, they manage to, somehow, hide underneath and behind dresses without the courtesans noticing it. The smell of food calls to him, and Yingxing is sure his stomach would be growling if they stayed around a little longer, incapable of pretending his appetite, even if fading away, still exists—no, he cannot think of it now, never mind how weird-looking he is lately. 

Only Taoran’s uptight, ever-classy—to the public, that is, never within the warmth of Yingxing’s room—posture that brings fruits. Even if Yinyue-jun is the most respected Vidyadhara for the crowds, beloved and envied by his own kin as much as by Xianzhou natives, Taoran is not far from being a name as known as his superior. A few Cloud-Knights step aside, though never ceasing their conversation, and barely bow, only offering a nod. Taoran takes it mainly because it is the most uncomplicated recognition he will obtain. 

It is visible, the frustration. They only respect him because of Yinyue-jun. 

Dan Feng must know of this already if his arrogance means anything. Yingxing rolls his eyes, diverging the stare from Taoran’s form. 

What is Yinyue-jun doing tonight? Does he know his Preceptor is visiting? Ah, maybe he’s watching. 

Yingxing cannot laugh the way he wants, even giggle without bringing some attention from his client, but the thought of the almighty High Elder somehow spying on him is beyond amusing. 

He imagines picking that stupid sedge hat of his among the crowd, hiding as a young man visiting the Alliance, but acting so far off a normal person it becomes painful to watch. Yingxing is even taller than him when Dan Feng meets him in this unsuspicious yet bothersome mortal form. Would he get annoyed if I stole his hat, like a child would? 

However, before Yingxing can entertain his whimsical thoughts for a second longer, they reach the Exalting Sanctum with golden, fan-like leaves snowing upon the plaza and rose lights illuminating their path. As crowded as Aurum Alley, Yingxing cannot help but feel out of place.

“What play is Mr. Xiyan presenting today?” Yingxing lowers his fan and minds his steps as he approaches Taoran, toning down the venomous he wants to spur. “I heard rumours of a new story, but some words arrive later than I’d wish them to.”

“He says it came to him in a dream, when a songwriter mourned under his window, and its melancholy invaded his slumber.” 

Lies, then. Most know of how the Xianzhou will wilfully ignore some past events when immortality exists. So long as we live, what does the past do to us? 

“Hm. And why did you bring me, my lord?” Yingxing tries not to grimace when they reach the open theatre, where Mr. Xiyan speaks vividly with a few Realm-Keepers. “I expected to spend a night solely with you after your affairs.” 

We’re wasting time coming here, is what he wants to say. A few years ago, he would have thrown a fit, not caring who might see him descending into madness. Being called hysterical is nothing new. Instead, he sits calmly when invited to before the skilfully painted panels Mr. Xiyan commissioned.

He hears Taoran sigh, almost brushing a hand against his shoulder but giving up at the last moment. “When someone is given a gift, they do not question it,” sharper than it needs to be.

Yingxing scoffs, more tired than ever. “Ah, of course. A gift. Because I’m so deserving of one in your eyes, aren’t I?” He has the audacity to look over his shoulder, up at the Preceptor, who has nothing but a distaste if his glaring is anything to conclude. “How could I ever refuse a gift when coming from the bottom of your heart, my lord?”

“Cease your taunting,” snaps Taoran, palms tight around the chair’s back, then he murmurs more to himself than to the courtesan, “And here I thought you were better today.”

“Oh, dear,” Yingxing echoes. “How long has it been?”

“Short-life species are expected, by logic, to mature faster,” grunts Taoran. “By now, you should have grown from that insufferable youngling. Behave.”

And Yingxing would retort, mouth open in a sweet curve and ready to utter as a lover sings, Then you should’ve picked another—

“Lord Taoran!” An exclamation breaks their attention, and heavy steps come from the one and only storyteller they have gathered to see. “My, how long has it been? You lost my flawless delivery of The Bronze Statue last month.”

“I have no excuse aside from my time being taken over with paperwork. Yinyue-jun requires support, and I have taught him since he hatched from the egg.”

“Vidyadharas and your… customs, surely. I understand.” 

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Xiyan would instead step on shit than see Yingxing. The storyteller never stops smiling, hands clapping together in excitement, but never removes his round and dark glasses—as if it could hide his glare. It is not similar to Taoran’s, one filled with disappointment and an unspoken, unexplained wrath; Mr. Xiyan carries a particular nausea even Yingxing is affected by, refusing to ever look at him from below if they meet atop the stairs. 

No, it would be a great offense to the Xianzhou native storyteller. Yingxing, ever kind, only smiles taut, crossing his legs and fanning himself, staring away. 

“It is much disheartening not to have you around, my lord,” continues Mr. Xiyan, ignoring the short-life courtesan to the best of his abilities. “Who else could ever offer so much detailed, honest input under perfect observation? Keen eyes, that of yours. If only the High Elder allowed, you…”

“His Grace has much on his plate,” grunts Taoran, though Yingxing slightly tilts his head. Something’s wrong with his name. “The times since Yubie has changed, indeed. You understand, no?”

“Long lives bring merciless bearings, as such.” The way the storyteller replies more sounds like a dismissal, and even without peering at him from over the fan, Yingxing knows the man’s mouth curls downwards; more than once, it was directed at him. “My only complaint is that His Grace Yinyue-jun should be competent enough to oversee a few matters independently.”

There is a pang of disdain in his opinion, and one Yingxing is confident the Preceptor has noticed… nonetheless, he simply says, “Shall we leave it for after the play? I hardly wish to sour my mood before I could properly enjoy my night.”

A silence hangs heavy among them, only broken by the other people present for the presentation and none the better aware of their words. Yingxing feels it, tethering. 

Then, clapping his hands, the storyteller brushes it aside with a hearted laugh. “Of course, my lord, no more wait when you so kindly spared a moment to come and listen to my work! An honour, no doubt. Take a sit, take a sit. The story shall begin shortly.”

A few actors gather with their white powdered countenances and contoured eyes, old Xianzhou clothing and dresses, mimicries of swords and armour clinging every step they take around the panels, painted with high towers so high that clouds become earth. 

For a moment, Yingxing allows himself to ignore Taoran’s low complaints, grunting hidden by sighs and a white lie of politeness, much more interested in the little actress with clothes similar to his own. I could like her, he thinks, seeing as she lifts her long green-and-peach garments and fixes her hair in a bun with a flowery golden stick. She lacks true geji knowledge, but he does not care. He can only take so many finesse and mindful movements.

“Will you not thank me for bringing you here?”

Yingxing blinks, arching an eyebrow and turning to face his companion. “I have yet to see if I enjoy the play, my lord.”

Chances are, you don’t like it, either. Taoran is a particular man to please when it comes to the arts, that is known, but the storyteller’s tales were never why he returned so often. A means to an end, even if a terrible one, indeed. Yingxing cannot help but wonder: how hurt is the Preceptor’s pride from messing with such lowly affairs, so beneath him? 

Dan Feng is a better liar. 

When his thoughts change from Taoran’s dull-looking horns and scowl to a young man annoyed at every word of his, the lights lower around the theatre and silence falls upon the crowd.

White bones and ashes lie forlorn, scattered

And there lies the peach blossom fan, tattered

What use is to dream of revival, 

Or of a love affair rudely shattered?

Ah, so he did lie, it is the first thought in Yingxing’s mind as soon as the first poetry lines echo from the storyteller’s mouth. A serenade, the man told Taoran, when it is just a dormant tale around the Zhuming’s silken districts. How many times had Yingxing, in his youth, listened to fragments of the peach-blossom fan and its crimson stains as he ran around the golden brothels? 

He watches as a beautiful fan is gifted, accepted with the purest display of affection, and the fall of one of the Alliance’s flagships as this love only begins to bloom.

Amid vomiting blood, crying in crimson and cutthroats, somehow, Taoran is more entertained than ever, even if in his own, adverse manner. For one, he never glances at Yingxing’s way, and the courtesan has yet to discover if it is a good or bad thing. It is better to pretend all is well and that he is not suspicious of the tremendous interest in the grand, majestic gore told on stage.

At least one of them enjoys the play.

“Was it to your liking?” Taoran asks. If not for sitting beside his companion, his voice would be heard through the praises from the rest of the crowd.

Yingxing keeps his attention on the stained fan being held by the actress. “The ministries were lively enough, and I almost believed they fell in love.” Then, to Taoran, “I can’t help but wonder if you like it, my lord, when you were so excited to come tonight.”

Clearly, it is far from being the correct answer. Taoran’s eye trembles at the corner, but he never blinks. 

Much like Yinyue-jun—shit, stop thinking about him. 

“Traditional Xianzhou romantic tales where no affection prevails. There is only so much these… frivolous stories can provide, if not their caution. Why, pray tell, would you go to such lengths? Short-life species believe impulsiveness is better than nothing.”

“Ah, but Xianzhou natives live as much as you do, my lord,” says Yingxing, narrowing his eyes. 

Taoran scoffs. “See the consequences, then. These people were never meant to be immortal, live past three hundred years at most. Greed led them to this unspeakable torture of persevering when their bodies should be laid down to rest. Their minds cannot comprehend what immortality is until it is taken away from them. Why else would the mara be so despairing from a young age nowadays?” 

“I wouldn’t know, my lord,” replies Yingxing, not a tone above his companion’s. “How could I?”

An unknown spark passes through Taoran’s eyes; a glint Yingxing has seen before yet never managed to name it. It sets a knot in his belly, akin to dread, but he sees how less shiny this other pair of snake-like eyes are. Yinyue-jun’s are, unfortunately, majestically dark when they want to be. 

…thinking about the High Elder will lead him to his grave, as early as it is. 

“Desire is the root of suffering,” Taoran ends up murmuring, getting up from his seat. “Immortals should know better than to give in when it is but a fleeting, painful experience.”

Ah, but where’s the romance in that? “Pure fiction, my lord.”

Anything Taoran means to say in retaliation is suspended when Mr. Xiyan approaches him, once more ignoring the courtesan as if he were less than the cycranes’ mechanical waste. 

“My lord, what did you think of the play?”

“You bring each character to life with your narrations, as always…” And among other carefully woven sentences, Taoran lies with ease, though the storyteller is, undoubtedly, reading through them as pure crystal. Liar meets liar, and a new tale is born. 

Yingxing cannot stand it. The theatre is buzzing with life, children playing down the plaza and gossipers sharing tea, not many tables away, Cloud-Knights rest for the day removing their ever-clamour armours. A few musicians play the lute and harp for a couple of strales just down the street—and Yingxing can only wait for the praises to be over before leaving, never alone. 

Some fan-like leaves begin to fall upon the theatre, upon him, and hardly hiding amid his black hair. Yingxing plucks one from his strands, sighing. His chest feels heavier, and his back begs for relief. As he crushes the lead between his fingers, scattering it as golden powder upon his robes, his nape burns. 

From the corner of his eye, he believes seeing a blur between a dark shadow, a silhouette—

“…and the sooner you get away from him, the faster you can solve this,” he hears Mr. Xiyan’s voice, bordering on irritation. “You think I tell stories out of pure love?”

—there is no one but a few customers, children dancing and stealing each other’s wooden swords and old women gossiping under the ambrosial columns. 

Yingxing bites his lip and blinks— what was that? 

“I believe you tell stories because lying is what you were made for, of course,” Taoran says without missing a beat. “You would not understand what goes in the Vidyadhara council…”

“I do not need to know, my lord. Or have you forgotten? You are not the only one who enjoys my presentations.” Then, his voice tones down to a hush. “The next time the Ten Lords ask of you, I might as well say you have been busier with your High Elder.”

“Tell them, then.” Taoran dismisses him with a hand. 

“Why, I hope you understand I mean no threats towards you or your kin, my lord.” Mr.  Xiyan takes a deep breath, louder than it should be. He is almost asking for attention, the peacock. “Say, maybe you will inspire me for my next play. Your Yinyue-jun surely makes for the stuff of legends.”

“Indeed, he does.” With a hand, Taoran gestures to Yingxing, and the courtesan follows him, lifting himself from his seat and his garment. The leaves are colouring the streets in gold and amber, and it is inevitable to crush them under his shoes. “Stick to your tales, fabulist. You know I, from all people, will not be the one to stop your endeavours in the matters of… anecdotes, certainly.”

Mr. Xiyan almost shows his straightened eyes, so tilted down his head is, and Yingxing does not miss the last ill-meant glare towards him before the storyteller pushes his dark glasses upwards, takes a deep breath and forces a smile that quivers on his face, as if pulled by strings. 

“My, of course, my lord. We shall leave it for our next encounter… though I would kindly ask you to stay between us, our future meeting.” 

Do not bring your whore along, in elegant words.

Yingxing keeps fanning himself, hiding his smirk. A Xianzhou native companion might be favoured by him more easily, no? 

Exchanging polite farewells, Taoran gestures so Yingxing follows him, leaves crunching under their feet as they leave the theatre. The plaza snows with gold just the same, and for the first time, Yingxing regrets not leaving without one of his silken umbrellas. 

“Has the play truly not sated your tastes?”

Arching an eyebrow, Yingxing does not even turn to see him. “Careful, my lord. I’d start thinking you were trying to court me like the noble in the play if I didn’t know you.”

Taoran halts, and Yingxing only follows. 

The plaza is busier than ever, and the courtesan can only wonder if a particular festival is rounding the corner of the Alliance that he has never heard of or even forgotten. He sees no lanterns, costumes, masks, or crones scaring children with their folktales and ancient beliefs. 

“You overestimate yourself too much, Lily,” as if his courtesan’s name is an offense, more than being called a whore or two-faced cunt.

“You tell me, my lord,” Yingxing quickly replies, hands itching to see what happens if they collide with a Vidyadhara’s face. Taoran or Yinyue-jun first? Both sound like a fantastic opportunity. “You’re the one who returns. Are the companions in your coral brothels so lofty and better than I am?”

“Plenty.”

“Then the question still stands.” Why do you keep coming back? Why me?

To no one’s surprise, he never obtains an answer, though he suspects one.

There’s a reason you’re so expensive. Taoran does not even look at him when speaking, as if Yingxing is less deserving of his explanations than his own High Elder when pulling his threads. It seems time has exhausted them both when it comes to their arguments, as well. 

Yingxing wants him to say anything, something, what is it? 

His mouth curls in distaste even when he has trained his features to be an ever-statuesque countenance, always pleasing those who pay for his company. Taoran may be too old for arguments and fights, but Yingxing, as old as he may be for a short-life species, still wants something before departing. 

Give me anything!

“Very well, my lord,” says Yingxing, tautening his jaw and biting his tongue until it tingles. “You paid for a whole night, yes? Where else to?”

Yingxing is more than familiar with this room in the Sleepless Earl. It is a dark room lit by jade lanterns fixed on the wall, mimicking a flame but not flickering as one. The divan cannot hide its countless renovations, the weaved pillows, and a simple, low tea-serving table with two pillow seats below an open window, from which faint steps and conversations resound, the buzzing nightlife of Starskiff Haven.

The canopy bed stands out, mainly because it was never used, even if Yingxing gets a second, intrusive and deadly thought it might one day. Red lacquered, high columns, panels painted with dragon-claw blossoms underneath cherry flowers and stained-gold silks descending from the ceiling and surrounding the mattress. 

I’d take it for a marriage bed; it was the first thing Yingxing thought when seeing it for the first time years ago, and yet, the closest he got to it was touching its long, cascade-like eiderdown.

Taoran is, in many bothersome ways, a tranquil patron. Yingxing tried questioning him once on their first dates, which almost got his cheek burnt by a strong palm, though things have remained the same for over a decade. 

He is given a guzheng and is asked to play it, and he does, and they spend a pair of quiet hours with the courtesan minding the chords while the Preceptor. Taoran enjoys the scent of sandalwood and star anise burning within the lidded hill incense, and slowly, Yingxing fears he enjoys it, too. Stretching these moments through long, almost stagnant notes turns his night into a long one, but he can try to make it bearable.

Then, when he pulls the last note and watches it quiver under his finger, he bites his tongue. It is only a matter of time; for him, it is more than a nightmare. Or blessing, if he lies enough.

“Xiyan is becoming bolder as the years go by,” begins Taoran, rhythmically beating his fingers against the tea table. “I was there when he started as a failed fabulist, no prospect if not waiting for a chance to entertain visitors to the Alliance. Ha, so much he pestered the lady, she ended up offering him the job out of desperation!” Yingxing suspects not only the storyteller lies through his teeth, but Taoran, as well… not that he comments on it. He nods, and Taoran continues, “Immortal these natives may be, but they never seem to grasp the idea of patience, do they?” 

Taoran turns to him but does not expect a reply or wish for one. Instead, he calls Yingxing forward. 

Carefully placing the guzheng aside, Yingxing kneels on Taoran’s side. Slumber is calling for him, enticing and dressed as a better date than his current companion, but he will not get into that comfortable bed any time soon, he knows. By now, his knees only ask for relief.

“Their minds will not ever be able to fathom the true length of what immortality entails. What is a long time for you?” Taoran asks, though his eyes cannot remain fixed on his face nor look away; rather, his attention swings between something around his face and below. 

Yingxing tugs at the sleeve of his robe, his grip taut at the palm. “A number you can’t possibly worry for, my lord. I won’t live past a hundred if I’m healthy and happy.” 

“A hundred, you say,” repeats Taoran, as if he had only discovered what a short-life species is. “See, this is how long these people should have lived for. What has the Plagues’ Author done if not make their bodies immortal? You heal the body, never the mind. Do they not know? When your mind is in ruins, your body soon follows? Their arrogance knows no bounds.”

As always, Yingxing says nothing.

“At least he has his uses,” muses Taoran. “His ambition is less aggressive from the soldiers, which is… promising. They like him enough with his lewd ballads and tales of conquest. He will convince that one Dacheng brat easier than I ever could.” Is it that official? “He keeps badmouthing me to the Ten Lords at every chance he possesses as if his word could be worth more than mine.” But Yinyue-jun’s word is heavier than yours. “But he has connections. Unfortunately. If His Grace would…”

It takes Yingxing all of his remaining conscience not to flinch when Taoran raises a hand, pushing strands of ink-black hair behind his ear, still trying not to touch him. Ah, he never touches aside from punishing. Nevertheless, he shivers. 

“…his antics are not making the Ten Lords happy. And you know on whom this befalls when all goes wrong? It will cost us everything we have tried to build, all for the past millennia. If only he trusted me. If he did, I could find all the spies at the palace.” Yingxing only blinks. “So many are only waiting for the moment the slithers away from the top. A stumble, as little as it is… and he wants to think I am the one he should…” Taoran shuts his mouth, pulling his hand away. “He thinks I have no intelligence of his shadows roaming after me. If only I knew…”

He doesn’t know? Yingxing, were he alone, would frown and inquire to himself, but tonight, he changes his attention to the window, still open, where a fresh nightly breeze kisses his cheek. Do they know? Maybe… he judges himself as naïve. 

“As long as the Ten Lords are against him, then I can afford their stupidities.” Taoran’s grunt brings Yingxing back to him. “Xiyan… the more a fool he is, the better for me.”

“My lord…” Yingxing cannot feel his hand anymore, so tight he holds the sleeve of his robe. “You always leave unhappy from your meetings with him. Is there no one sufficiently good for you to keep you company?”

It sets an uncomfortable heat in his belly and a knot in his throat when Taoran stares at him. More than ever, his eyes are those of a snake. 

“…is there?” 

Far from being a novelty, the first… touch is not felt through a palm but through the eyes. Yingxing had removed his shoes when coming in, presenting himself barefoot, and Taoran’s eyes now divert toward them, fingers almost following it. They linger above his calves, his covered thigh, and Yingxing suppresses the sighs when goosebumps run down his skin. 

“I cannot trust my own High Elder,” says Taoran, palm crawling to rest atop Yingxing’s knuckles. “What would you do if you gave your heart to your so-called saviour and received side glances in return?” I’d never give my heart away to him in the first place, but his words would not weigh much. “Yinyue-jun has been a problem since the dawn of time. Scion of Long. If we Vidyadhara could be afflicted by something akin to the mara, I trust it would be resentment. What is there to do, if not ensure we protect ourselves?” 

Before Yingxing can inquire further, however, Taoran touches him—or better, touches his sleeve, lifting it softly across his arm. It is a horrendous sight, in Yingxing’s opinion, but Taoran’s eyes glint, gloomier than moments ago. 

“There is truly no one I can trust, is there?” Taoran removes Yingxing’s hairpin with a hand, hair coming undone, while the other holds onto the wrist. “You, at least, cannot run from what I ask of you.”

Yingxing cannot yet go after the hairpin, left to fall upon his lap and gracelessly meeting the floor with a weak ting! —but he blinks until his eyes do not burn anymore and licks his lips until he tastes copper, ensuring no flicker of emotion is on him when Taoran brings forward the familiar small wooden box and sets it upon the tea table. 

“You may try to misbehave, but in the end, you know better, do you not?”

The contents he knows a little too well always make his stomach twitch, though he resists the will to squirm. 

Yingxing nods, thinks of snow-like golden leaves, and opens the box.

Every time he scrubs, more blood falls onto the water.

It is no longer a matter of it will burn, my skin will fall off, it will get scarred, the overwhelming feelings stirring inside and around him, on him. The sponge has been so used as the dates went by that Yingxing always reminds himself, I’ll get another one, I’ll find a better one, yet there is always another pair of footsteps coming in, another pair of hands, and another and another and another.

It’s so hard to remove it, he thinks, even though he has always known it would not leave so easily, if at all. And they say having hope does not hurt.

Before he gets the chance to clean the rest of his body, the water is unsalvageable for a bath. The water, miraculously, is not red but far from being transparent, and the smell of copper still invades his senses mercilessly. His arm tingles as he moves but makes him hiss and bite his tongue when he uses some water to clean it more. 

Not enough, never enough. He still feels too besmirched, dirt crawling up his skin from within and spreading through the rest of his organs, sprouting to the limbs. 

A warmer, uninvited moistness falls atop of his arm, where vivid red screams at him, skin rosier than ever. It stings, though not more than a bowl of dirty water to clean with no success. A thumb under his eyes and to his cheeks, he clears the tears away amid shaky breaths and quivering fingers. Ah, I won’t be able to paint anything today, is what comes to mind before anything else. 

You’ll never be clean. It is a hard truth to accept. 

Maybe, were he an immortal being, time would cleanse his transgressions, his history, and let him start over.

And until his fingers prune and the water is beyond acceptable, even for a makeshift, terrible bath, Yingxing curses his own mortality. The sponge falls into the water, and he never cares about retrieving it. Before Hong’er returns from his little quest, Yingxing will ensure the tub is clean, and the sponge is burnt. No, he cannot touch it now, it’s ruined. 

His palm mocks him. The lines of his face are almost matching the lines in his palms and fingers. Or is it the opposite? His heart only pumps faster and faster until he convinces himself it is normal, and he does not breathe with more difficulty, nor does his chest feel constricted, his ribs enclosing around his lungs, and the incense is suffocating him, arms of smoke choking him…

Knocks on the door make him blink.

No, it can’t be Hong’er. Yingxing knows the merchant would not be back past the deepest hours, and the Madam would welcome the boy until morning came, should anything go sideways. 

Alphonse wouldn’t knock, which relieves him from concealing his naked body. One too many times had that fucker welcomed himself into his courtesans’ rooms without worrying of what he would see, whether they were available or not. Yingxing once turned his fist into a bloody thing for that one before exhaustion caught up to him.

Taoran did not even bring him back. The Preceptor might endure the undercity for the minimum chivalry left in him—much to Yingxing’s distaste, often argued about years ago—but returning is a step too far, apparently. Yingxing cannot blame him for this. The smell of piss is frequently too prominent even when inside the dens of vices, reeking of third-class wine and horrendous herbs, if not the excessive perfume.

“Yes?” Good, you didn’t stutter. He will have to pat himself on the shoulder later for keeping his voice neutral. His throat hurts from swallowing dry, but at least he did not falter. “I’m busy,” as if he has actual privacy in this place.

No answer. For fuck’s sake.

Yingxing curses under his breath, picking the first robe he finds. He is soaking wet, hair dripping to the floor and glueing the thin fabric to his skin, but he never needed proper clothing to scream at anyone. Part of him tells him just to scoop the door open the way he came to the world and tell whoever is out there to fuck off. By Lan, he wants to.

“What?”

And this is how Yingxing meets the High Elder of the Luofu Vidyadhara for the fourth time. 

Yinyue-jun—or his younger self, which still confuses Yingxing to no end—is as surprised as the courtesan. Chunfen is just as astounded, though he quickly looks away from the diaphanous coverage to the brothel’s corridor, the hardwood floor and ligneous walls, pretending not to even listen to the constant bumping and groaning behind other rooms. Her hands hold tight onto her artistry.

Meanwhile, her sire…

Yingxing swallows again, ignoring the knot in this throat, and swiftly hides his arm behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” is his first question, only careful not to scream, though his hiss is louder than it should be. 

It borders on offensive how Yinyue-jun, mighty even in this teenage-like form, breathes nobility and superiority. His nose twitches, and he stares at Yingxing, though not as if he actually paid attention to what the courtesan spurted at him. The viperine eyes obtain that diamond-shaped view that sets Yingxing’s belly on fire. Fear or curiosity. He does not know. 

Oh, this little— “Are you even listening to me?” 

“We had a meeting for tonight, did we not?” Yinyue-jun licks his lips, and for the first time, Yingxing notices that his tongue is not like others. Is it forked?

“Did we?” Yingxing blinks, chest heaving. “Impossible, I would’ve known because I met—I met him.” He murmurs the last part. “It’s way past midnight. When did you even find a moment for it?”

Before his face, a sack of money is shown. The sack alone is more expensive than most of his clothes, obvious satin-made and opaque wave patterns, finally tied with a golden fibre at the top, a pendant with a popular Vidyadhara sigil on it. When raised to his sight, he heard the dangling sound of gold and silver from within. 

“I am deeply concerned with how easily they defect their customers’ loyalty for the sake of money in this place,” says Yinyue-jun. “That, and without mentioning your sake. I have to wonder how this place is kept when your welfare is neglected this way.”

Ha, Yingxing cannot help but scoff, leaning against the door. “The more you talk, the more I think you never left that egg of yours until a decade ago at best. You’ve never been here before you came looking for me, have you?” 

He cannot help but add a bit of teasing if only to get the hilarious image of Yinyue-jun rolling his eyes. 

“Do not be foolish. I had sent a cycrane, though now I understand why it was returned with no reply whatsoever…” 

Yingxing stomps with his naked foot, water pooling underneath him. “This is getting ridiculous.” 

He does not care for his still-humid hand when grasping Yinyue-jun’s forearm, intending to pull him… and he receives an arched eyebrow with some reluctance in the other’s stance. 

“Just get the fuck in, I won’t argue with you in this damned corridor!” He half-whispers, half-screams.

With no ceremonies, he finally manages to pull the High Elder inside, and he hopes his vexed and tiny smile is not too estranged to the quiet painter; Chunfen is not at fault for her High Elder being one of the most insufferable people on the flagship, if not the entire Alliance. Yingxing closes the door with a loud bump of wood-against-wood.

There have been more humiliating scenarios in his life than seeing an important politician when he is a blink from being completely nude. His hair needs to be groomed, and his arm is becoming ticklish rather than burning—or burns for being ticklish, if his brain is trying to appease him into scrubbing more. 

Nevertheless, he hates the way he is led to inflame more of his skin out of exposition, so belittling if it were not required of him. 

Ah, it’s not as if Yinyue-jun is anything special when it comes to your services. Indeed, he is not.

And yet, Yingxing cannot help but stare. 

Yinyue-jun, Dan Feng, as it is his name, who somehow still glares at him with the same arrogance his taller, dragon-like form once turned to him with, even when reduced to a nameless thing hiding his Long-given features. If he thinks changing clothes and hiding his tail does anything…

“You have the worst timing I’ve ever seen,” grumbles Yingxing, crossing his arms. “Or maybe not. Did you really have no idea he visited me today, at all?” 

For every insult he has rightfully thrown at Dan Feng, Yingxing has yet to find out if ‘ liar’ is a fitting one. He is brutally honest with his opinions, hatefully so. He’s the High Elder, you fool, his brain reminds him, lying is part of the job. 

“A bit too late, I fear,” replies Dan Feng, looking away. In this younger form, he even appears to be a naïve boy who just discovered how the nightlife around his district takes form. “What has he said?”

“That fast?” Yingxing leans against the door. “You used to be more polite even when insulting me, Your Grace. Time to prepare, get the room ready,” and he lowers his voice, “Pay me before I give you anything, like every other man does when coming here.”

“That has been arranged, which is also…” Dan Feng takes a deep breath. “If you allow me, I shall explain it to you right away. I wish to make things differently tonight, should you find it acceptable.”

Should you find it acceptable, as if Yingxing’s input is relevant when he is who he is. Ha, especially when faced with one of the most essential characters in the Xianzhou, whose glance alone is capable of making people kowtow to him, deliver praises and worship the path he walks. 

How long until he demands it from the courtesan, too?

Yingxing shakes his shoulders, biting the interior of his cheek. “Do as you like. You paid for the next few hours, I assume?”

Simply nodding, Dan Feng turns to Chunfen, and Yingxing frowns when he realises the girl has not come only with her artistry objects. A thin sheet carefully bound and wrapped with bronze laces, veiling something large within. Large, yet fluffy. 

“This one I personally commissioned from a skilful tailor with a lovely shop at the Sanctum. I have thought of requesting it from a trustworthy friend for a recommendation, and according to them, they have never been disappointed with the work. Centuries of history to support his name. Therefore, fitting to provide a garment worthy of you.” 

“Worthy of me,” Yingxing repeats in an echo as soon as Chunfen offers him the package. It is heavier than it looks. What would be worthy of me? “What a bold statement.”

“Perhaps so,” admits Dan Feng, hands behind his back. “I hope this one is to your taste since I disappointed you with the last gift.”

Now, these words are so harsh that Yingxing almost feels bad for their last meeting. Am I too honest? Ah, but it felt good to break his expectations. 

“We just have different likes and dislikes, Your Grace,” says Yingxing, undoing the adorned bronze knot atop the sheet. “I doubt you, and I will see eye to eye on our interests…”

The thin sheet falls to the floor, the bronze tie soon follows, and yet all Yingxing can see is a hundred cloth-of-gold flowers sewn on a sea of black velvet. He raises the garment up to his view, seeing how easily the velvet flows to the ground. Under his palm, the long, open sleeves feel the smoothest fabric he has ever touched. The flowers are dragon’s claw, rich in gold, crimson and seed pearls, ivory silk complimenting the waist. The worst might be that he not only likes it… it may fit him flawlessly. 

Yingxing blinks, swallowing back to his stomach the numerous readings, scornful remarks and offensive comments for the sake of spite, feeling the bile with each of them. Then, he bites his lip where it hurts, where it bled earlier in the evening. Is he genuinely trying to impress me, have a favour from me? Ah, of course, he is; Taoran still likes to see him, after all.

“It’s…” Beautiful, gorgeous, I adored it. “Beyond my expectations, truthfully.” 

It is not a lie; he was not even expecting another gift after accepting-diminishing the last one, so simple when compared in the grand scheme of things, much less a befitting garment, especially one that, to an extent, is much to his liking. It could be better, he thinks, but tailoring is yet an art he has to master. The colours, at least, are pleasing to the eye.

“I would like you to wear it for tonight’s appointment if you feel willing,” says Dan Feng, and Yingxing thinks he stares at the gift rather than him, where else would he look?

“Oh?” It is not the first time a patron gives him an adornment to wear for their date, though this one is, by far, the best one he received. The robe is still sticking to his skin, and his hair is drying with knots. It is undoubtedly a good offering in his book. “A more personal request. And here I thought you’d get what you were given.”

“I paid for your time, did I not? A simple request such as this will not matter.”

It will not, yet Yingxing is far from satisfied. Lowering the garment, he observes his extraordinary client, one who proves how hard he is willing to go for money when it comes to his freedom. In good faith, he may not be able to say Dan Feng is a terrible one, the worst he has ever had. 

Proper, never lays too many hands on him, never yells, though the air of control surrounds him immensely. Yingxing wonders, briefly, if tonight he will give into his impulsive desires and finally throw a full glass of steaming white tea at the High Elder’s face.

“Very well,” he says instead, clearing his throat. “Stay there, get yourself comfortable while I change.” 

And don’t peek behind the screen, a childish voice wants to warn… as if Dan Feng is one to do such a thing. You never know.

Just as he thought, the velvet falls on his frame perfectly, as if his numbers were taken personally, assisted by the unknown tailor he might never see or speak to. He imagines, however, the messy state his room would be, surrounded by all kinds and colours of fabrics, scissors and sewing lines, needles bumping into his skin as measurements are taken, and he serves as a mannequin. He suppresses a snort, curling his hand under the sleeve. 

When he makes it to pull his hair up, the sleeve falls, and his beam follows it in grievance. 

I need to buy more linen. Swiftly, he manages to wrap his arm with the remaining gauze, but it will not last for a few more nights. A mental note to ask Hong’er for it is made in his mind, and he resumes twisting his hair in a bun and keeping it with his hairpin. 

Do they match? He brushes both thumb and indicator around the tassel of his earring, then one at the blossom sprouting on the blooming flowers ornamenting his hair. I hope they match. 

He feels stupid, back to his green years where naïveté was most of him.

“I should start asking more of you,” says Yingxing, leaving behind the changing screen and twisting a long strand of hair that has escaped the bun. Steadily, his hair dries. “You pay for my time, I do what you like, and I still give you more intel that I don’t know if I should.” He smirks as he sits before Dan Feng on the other side of the tea table. “Confidentiality and all that.”

It is beyond amusing, in Yingxing’s eyes, the sight of such an arrogant young boy quietly, properly cross-sitting before him with unrelenting attention on his movements. The lack of blinking should set a sentiment of incomparable dread, and, in a way, that happens; he often forgets this nameless young boy is no other than Yinyue-jun, who sees anyone beneath him as less than an insect, unremarkable to be remembered. 

Maybe you want to forget who he is, too. 

Dwelling into feelings is not something he should care for in this line of work. Yingxing clears his throat, drawing Dan Feng’s attention from his frame to his face.

“I should really charge more for this.”

“I was under the impression you appreciated the additional payment.” Dan Feng has a particular, unique thing with his eyes that not even Taoran could match, the more Yingxing stares back. Sharper, even, with a viscous iris that could come from gore or the deep dark, Long knows what dives there. “That was our agreement. Why would a new charge be necessary?”

“Requests are more expensive. The more you want to do with me, the more you have to pay, ensure you’re not wasting your time,” Yingxing explains, kneeling in front of him at the other side of the tea table. “An extra fee for any additional feature you require. Your gifts pay for words, not me.”

He is playing with fire—or magnanimous waves, in this case—when taunting Dan Feng, especially when the other heaves a loud and deep breath in pure annoyance. “How much would it cost?”

Yingxing scoffs, not wasting any time in beginning to serve. “It depends,” and nothing else.

For a while, at least, they meet the solace of quietness. The sounds of flash-hitting-flash or vulgar exhales are not utterly ghosts to their ears, yet faint enough to be ignored. Many pairs of feet rumble from above alongside the calmest songs played in the flute as the most thronged hours give space to the remaining after-hours. With floral notes and hints of fruit for smell and smooth mouthfeel, Yingxing can pretend his day and evening were not a complete mess for his energy.

His limbs feel loose, muscles between a tired tautening and eventual abandonment, heavy where they stand, but Yingxing endured worse days than this. Even his humour, surprising himself, which ended up offering an extra cup of tea to the gentle painter. 

How could she work for this fucker, only Lan knows. 

“Will you charge an extra fee if I ask you to lie down and pose?” There is a charming, even if disgruntled, edge to Dan Feng’s question as he drinks his tea, louring at the courtesan with a raised eyebrow. 

“I could discount it from the intel to make it fair.” Yingxing drinks it all until only a few un-stirred powdered leaves remain at the bottom of the cup, getting to his feet without messing up his newest garment. Only for a moment, though. Ah, yes, it must be sold, eventually. “Don’t worry, though. Since you clearly didn’t know about it, innocent thing you are, I’ll abide this time.”

Yingxing will not utter out loud, but his exhale of relief does not go unnoticed, he knows. His legs do not need to support his weight any longer, his muscles relax with a twitch of pain, and his spine may rest, gladdened. 

It must be pathetic, the way he looks, and no doubt Dan Feng must be considering him meek, strengthening his beliefs of short-life species being oh, so lesser than all the long-lived ones aboard the flagship. Where wrath would find a place—the desire to slap Dan Feng in the face to see how long it takes until a Vidyadhara’s skin turns red—he simply lets go. 

Better him than Taoran. The type of meekness Taoran enjoys is for purposes the courtesan would never be able to grasp, much less fathom. 

“How come you’re so late today, then?” Yingxing drapes his figure along the edge of the bed, chin atop his knuckles and pulling the skirts so they do not fumble underneath him. “Your past visits weren’t too late, but I didn’t pick you for a white night man.”

“…it was the time available for me,” Dan Feng frowns, and his hold on the cup seems to tighten. Huh. “I suppose I do owe you an apology. I would not have come, had I known it would bother you.”

Yingxing arches an eyebrow. “Bothering me? Oh, no, never, my kind customer. How could I ever be bothered by your present? Your face is the highlight of my day.”

“Cease your mouthful remarks.” Dan Feng rolls his eyes. “I did know Taoran left earlier, though I had not known he came here for you. I received word he would be meeting the storyteller; therefore, I planned my visit as he was away.” You’re not wrong, yet Yingxing holds back his reassurance, pressing his lips together as Dan Feng continues, “Had I known I would be pestering you after a draining event, I would have refrained from coming and booked you for the entire day on the morrow.”

“A week before.”

“Pardon?”

“You will never get a whole day with me if you book it on the same day, even at the earliest hour of this place’s system,” explains Yingxing, a memorised text he has been using for years at this point, though mostly with soldiers and stupid locals who know no better. “The earlier you book, the cheaper it’ll be. Not that makes any difference. You know, sometimes they wait for years to be somewhere around ten thousand strales. Not any less, though.”

“Something tells me you will not appreciate me coming here in ten years,” scorns Dan Feng.

“Well, is this going to pursue you for the next ten years? It’s an opportunity for you, maybe. Until then, surely, you’ll have learned how things work ‘round here.” He wonders if Yinyue-jun has even been to a similar place in the past. Reasonably enough, he knows of the coral brothels, Vidyadhara-made and loyal, mostly since he used to suspect the preference would stray off his path. Then again, he has been keeping up with you. “So, tomorrow? I can’t help but be curious as to how you’re going to pull it off.”

“Being the High Elder has its privileges. Nonetheless, I am not naïve,” protests Dan Feng, though it sounds more like an elegant counterpoint than a childish complaint.

“Is that so?” Yingxing licks his lips, smiling as a foxian-borne courtesan would. “Forgive me, Your Grace, that face of yours…” It won’t hurt to try, will it? “You took this form to bypass any curious eye and not risk being recognised. Why so young, though? Everyone here’s immortal. They wouldn’t mind another healthy, older Vidyadhara messing around.”

Then, for the first time, Yingxing notices something marvellous. 

Dan Feng does not blink, much like Taoran, but his eyes play a trick of light and shadows in a flickering second as if his irises shut by themselves in a pool of jade, a pearlescent sea. And he is not staring at Yingxing’s face, a silent eye contest they never spoke of, and probably never will.

“You said it yourself, once, that changing my appearance would not hide my character easily,” says Dan Feng, placing the cup on the table. “See it this way: I needed a disguise that would not give away my title but should be enough, so you know who I am, although I admit that I had not expected you would discover it the moment I walked in. I was willing to reveal it to you the second you asked for my name.”

Yingxing clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Appearance alone doesn’t change your personality. You have this weird, suffocating aura of a brat that it’s just too much to ignore, you see.”

It is an attempt, most likely a futile one when it comes to the magnificent Yinyue-jun, above mortals and immortals alike, the son of a god, yet Yingxing tries. An experiment, where failure means success, he thinks, gripping the edge of the skirt and lifting it as he drapes one leg over the other. 

“There was once this recruit, just got in the army,” Yingxing looks up as if reminiscing. If he is honest, more than ten years have passed since, and he cannot remember every detail. Not that Dan Feng needs to know this. “A boy trembling like a leaf caught in the wind. Couldn’t stare me in the eye, didn’t know what to do with his hands at all. I believe he wasn’t even from here. Was he from the Yaoqing? It was almost as if he didn’t know a single bit of what went on the Luofu.” Grinning, he whispers, “He was a little too fast, you know?”

Biting the corner of his lower lip, Yingxing sheepishly peers at Dan Feng, whose frown only grows with each word. As if his face couldn’t get any grimmer.

“It’s okay not to know what goes on in here,” he continues as if he speaks of the artificial weather bestowed on the flagship. “Everyone has a first time, after all. And I’d never expect Your Grace, Yinyue-jun, to become acquainted with this district. The soldiers? Of course. Unprepared teenagers? At least, they’re adorable enough with their antics.” He hums in amusement, lowering his voice to a reverie. “He was cute, though. Much like you right now.”

Yingxing can swear something is off about Dan Feng. 

His eyes, maybe, perhaps something beyond what a mortal can see, a detail Vidyadharas alone may recognise, or is it simply hidden from him, under the layers of his clothes? Even his hands are concealed by dark gloves, as if touching anything with his bare hands might contaminate him. Insufferable prick. With a face like that, youthful and delicate, Yingxing might find in himself a softer spot for him.

That is, if he did not know who this boy before him was.

Rather than replying to any of his comments, rolling his eyes at Yingxing’s tales or even protesting at the accusations of innocence, nudging on brainlessness, Dan Feng turns his attention to Chunfen, deep in her work.

“Add more red,” he says, pointing at a corner of her drawing. The painter abides with a silent nod, quickly cleaning her brush for the suggested addition. “Silver on top, as threads of pearlescence, though it reflects in a soft crimson underneath it, close to the throat. Less than the robe.”

Yingxing frowns, hollowing his cheek before feigning normalcy. “Are you a painter, too?”

“Hm.” Dan Feng still avoids him, though his stance appears more like marble than before. “I would not call myself an artist, in any meaningful manner, if not the knowledge and technique, for I do not pursue this path. I was taught, alongside other Vidyadhara fine arts, but only for the purpose of being the High Elder. A fine cultural education works wonders for diplomacy.”

“Have you ever done anything that isn’t for the sake of being Yinyue-jun?” Yingxing asks, huffing. “I understand you find most things and people belittling, unworthy of your time when they bring no relevance to your campaign, but you can’t possibly tell me you have no passion whatsoever.”

“This type of indulgence is simply something I cannot afford to care about most of the time,” says Dan Feng, surprisingly dry. “Other skills are needed when you are someone in my position. Cloudhymn, most of all, you must know of it. The Vidyadhara unique technique entails the fine arts and knowledge of healing, though not exclusive to it. I can appreciate artistry of all kinds, with no exception, but I have no intention of falling for interests when my race comes first.”

“And yet, here you are,” murmurs Yingxing. “Making sure I receive beautiful things, coming personally to give me most of them.”

“For the sake of an agreement,” concurs Dan Feng, with a quieter tone than before and no frigidity whatsoever, his signature. “As I said, I can appreciate it. I simply cannot take it upon myself to make it. And I thought you disliked the last gift I gave you.”

“It’s expensive and made with a good hand. That’s the real deal in this agreement.” Yingxing wants to bite more of his lip, still tingling from its wounds, but stays with tiny hisses. “You should paint me myself, then.”

Both Chunfen and Dan Feng freeze in place. 

Rather than offended, Chunfen appears curious, with eyes darting between the courtesan and her lord, brush just waiting to apply more of the red ink glistening at its fluffy tip. 

Dan Feng, on the other hand, is utterly indecipherable. If Yingxing could voice his guess, the High Elder must be pacifying his wrath. The courtesan remembers him on their first meeting, as unfortunate and infuriating as it was, yet Dan Feng would not fall to his knees and revolve his throat with screams when met with disastrous results. 

Taoran kept tugging at his arm as if Yingxing was walking to his death, and Yinyue-jun was the personification of calmness before him despite his vexing words. 

Now, Dan Feng observes Yingxing as if he is observing not a human being, a living creature, but a statue marked with flaws, and he is considering if it is worth his time to reprehend the sculptor. Then, he sits straight in place, head to the side in consideration.

“I told you I am no painter,” he says.

“But you know the techniques, no? There’s no use in correcting a work if you don’t understand what’s wrong and can do no better.” To Chunfen, he smiles softly. “You’re wonderful.” Much to his relief, she is not offended, pressing her lips and resisting a giggle, and continues painting. “All I mean is that art is hardly worth appreciating when there’s no passion in it. My lady’s work is flawless for coming from her hand.”

Dan Feng’s eyebrow twitches. “Is that not justification enough to keep her as the painter?”

“Maybe I want to see how good you are,” comments Yingxing, a husk for tone ending with a lick of his lips. “If you know how to paint, that is.”

“Is that something you would enjoy?”

“Yes,” he answers without taking his eyes off Dan Feng’s. “I’m too curious for my own good. Better make the most out of it, no?”

A confirmation or a refusal, Yingxing sighs in defeat, knowing he will not obtain a proper response when Dan Feng turns to Chunfen, who nods at her lord and gives him the painting. 

Yingxing steadily sits at the edge of the bed, velvet pooling around him and spine-tingling. I need to rest properly. A light headache forms against his eye cavity, and his muscles do not forgive him. 

He hears Dan Feng and Chunfen exchanging ideas, though Yingxing cannot… ah, Vidyadhara language. More than a decade has passed since he saw fit to learn the Vidyadhara script, mostly for the sake of Taoran, and yet rarely he gets the chance to speak it as he would like. 

As he listens to Dan Feng, he catches a few words along the lines of ‘Stargem’, ‘Akin to a pearl’, maybe a ‘Beautiful’ or ‘Breath-changing’, though the last ones Yingxing suspects he is confusing them with a few curses. 

Those he knows well, and not thanks to the High Elder and old jade tablets from Scalegorge Waterscape.

Even if he has yet to perfect his Vidyadhara speech, it is unmistakable to overlook how the High Elder picks up the brush and talks smoothly as he acts on the silken paper. 

When done with his corrections, Dan Feng raises the painting. “Here, see it for yourself.”

In the end, Yingxing is not surprised to see Chunfen has once again given him a gorgeous painting that almost convinces him he is worth being stared at. 

“This is becoming your signature piece, even if not wholly made by your hands, Your Grace,” he says, careful not to mess up where the ink is still drying.

He is precise with his strokes. Dan Feng’s touch with the brush complements the rest of the painting rather than coming as an invader technique, alien to the drawing’s nature. 

Curse me. He knows what he’s doing. 

And from what he sees, Dan Feng mostly kept to his face than the robes. His lip wounds gave space for what could be seen as a faint taint for the mouth, and his dark circles under the eyes seem more like a charming figure than exposing his tiredness. The whites of his hair often turn crimson, a personal light from candles and maroon eiderdowns conjured for the sake of the portrait. 

Yingxing scoffs, putting the painting aside on the altar table. “And you still claim not to be a painter? I wasn’t taking you for a liar, Your Grace.”

“You often make the right comments, surprisingly,” Dan Feng says, humourless, overseeing as Chunfen collects her things and silently leaves. Yingxing only nods with a shy smile for a farewell, swallowing pleasantries. “Technique and passion are different things that embody an artistic work. Be it poems, songs or paintings, the right lines do not make a proper oeuvre.”

“Passion isn’t always a good feeling.” Yingxing takes a deep breath, this time feeling his lungs burn with restlessness. The smoking pipe is tempting him, but he might choke on the smoke in a few drags. “She enjoys her job and is a nice girl. Clearly, you didn’t tutor her. Won’t you humour me for once? Take it as payment if you’re reluctant to accept it.”

Dan Feng diverts his gaze from him to the heavy curtains along the walls, making Yingxing curl his hand at the table’s edge. Before he has to bring the High Elder’s attention back on him, he is beaten in the same breath:

“How was it?”

“How was what?” Yingxing raises an eyebrow.

“Taoran visited you,” clarifies Dan Feng, stretching the silence until he is on the courtesan once more. “He did not stay here, though, did he? I sense nothing.”

“Indeed,” Yingxing admits, slowly and shaking his head. His arm still tingles. “I think he prefers to bring me outside than stay here, most of the time, because he hates this place more than I do.” If the grunts, the ever-sad-looking frown and the commentaries about the smell are anything to go by. “I still don’t understand why he insists on coming here, honestly. It’s not like I’m the only mortal whore walking around this flagship.”

Even if Dan Feng opens his mouth in what could mean a protest, a clever response or a simple agreement, he stops for a second, then nods. “Was he bearable, then? Fresh air does him good. He has been complaining about paperwork as of late.”

“And about you.” He tugs at the flowers of the robe along the neckline. Still soft. It’ll be worth a good amount. “If I am to tell you of every single complaint he has shared with me, we’ll spend days and nights to no end, not a single name voiced twice, but you always have a special place in his… confessions. Did you know you’re immensely detested among his circles?”

“It is to be expected. Being Yinyue-jun is not as easy as just claiming to be a demigod and demanding worship when others disagree with you.”

“He hates them all. They are tools, most of the time. Rarely he praises someone, and usually, it’s also you, but bringing many and many curses along the way.” Yingxing undoes a bit of the robe, blowing some air to alleviate his lungs. “Mr. Xiyan, as they spoke, might spread some words about you in no time, so maybe ask your spies to keep an ear free for that. Lan knows when you’ll come back.”

“Taoran actually visited him?” Dan Feng lets a minuscule hint of shock beyond what he typically allows come out of his mouth. “With you?”

“I told you last time, he often drags me along to his special occasions. He allegedly wrote a new play, but I know better than to expose him. ‘Came to me in a dream’, he says, that shameless, lying cockroach. Ha! He’s lucky the Zhuming is countless miles away from here. Not that it matters… I don’t think Taoran enjoyed the play at all, if not for the fallout. A pleasure in punishment, he seems to have.” He does have, part of him tells him, feeling constricted under linen and a long sleeve. “The actors ran around, the viewers ate and laughed, and Xiyan argued with him over you.”

Dan Feng appears to be more frigid than before. “What could that fool possibly have to say about me?”

Yingxing does not resist the short, dry laugh this time. “Calls you an incompetent child. The more things you give Taoran, the more he finds it amusing to call you useless. And your Preceptor isn’t far off in his complaints either. He pretends to be unbothered by Xiyan’s acting but would get rid of him the moment he’s of no use anymore. He can’t do that to the Ten Lords, though.”

“We have a fairly courteous relationship with the Commissions, especially the Ten Lords,” says Dan Feng. “And as of late, they have been requesting our aid. The leash is not as tight as they wish it were, I can see that, but our reasons not to comply are beyond simple power play.”

“I have absolutely no idea what goes on between the two of you,” whispers Yingxing, finding solace again at the edge of the bed, where he sits without any artistic view. Screw Dan Feng, anyway. It is not as if Yinyue-jun will find him attractive and want to bed him. “The only thing I know that he’s spoken to me about is that he has connections there. Generals who persuade the Lords, I believe, and Xiyan is who he uses as a mediator. The dislike is mutual, after all.”

“Taoran is hardly someone likeable when he speaks his mind,” agrees Dan Feng. “He was, indeed, trying to change my mind over the Commission’s request, not so long ago, only to have his own mind be changed as the weeks passed. It must be an internal fire between them, one that I should not be privy to.”

“I don’t know.” Yingxing shakes his shoulders, headache slamming harder and harder against his temple and around his eyes. Ah, I should’ve started smoking when I was standing there. “Does the name Dacheng ring any bells to you?”

He sees the first signs of a frown on Dan Feng’s face but closes his eyes in pain before glimpsing it when settled. “An aspiring lieutenant, if I remember Jingliu’s reports. He is considered a potential commander for the next campaigns, given a few centuries. But he is with the Divine Foresight, not the Ten Lords.”

“Taoran finds him a brat, but the boy likes stories. I don’t know which piece of the board he’s trying so hard to obtain, but he speaks to me as if I already know all the details of his mechanisms. He didn’t share much aside from…” Yingxing bites the interior of his cheek, half-lidded and only wishing to rest. “Only the hatred the Ten Lords have for you is what binds him to them. They disagree on anything else, from what I gathered.”

He just hears Dan Feng’s steps approaching the bed—approaching him—, soft despite carrying the heaviness of a body with it. Funnily enough, it even sounds like it slithers alongside his clothes, crawling on the ground. The cold as a lithe yet fitting weight slots beside him, a couple of hands away from him.

“What play did he take you to see?”

Yingxing blinks slowly, minding his words and pitch as he asks, “How’s that relevant?”

Turning to glimpse Dan Feng, he could be mistaken for a jade statue, an unmovable force that would not yield even if Yingxing asked. Always uptight, the perfect posture befitting of him, and yet, all Yingxing sees at the moment is the face of a youthful man whose eyes become darker and darker. 

Dan Feng knows nothing of what roams the courtesan’s mind, the inquiries and opinions that would never serve Yinyue-jun, only frowning as he says, “I am merely curious. Some say that it is through art one reveals oneself, if only through meticulous and subtle ways. Would you not say there is romance in it?”

Is that an attempt at a joke? “I can’t deny it. I just didn’t think you’d be interested in the details. Forgive my reluctance, Your Grace,” he scoffs, undoing the loose strands of hair and letting it fall as he removes the hairstick. “It’s an old Zhuming song-tale, but he claims he invented it. He calls it Táohuā shàn.”

“A romance?”

“Sure,” confirms Yingxing, pulling his hair over his shoulder, minding the knots with his fingers. “Noble falls in love with the geji, and they suffer through the fall of the dynasty, a tale as old as time. Wanted to get married, yet they never did. Ever-longing, ever-faithful, separated by the bloodlust of war and ink.” He lifts his gaze, tilting his head to the side. “Sounds to your liking?”

“It might come as a shock to you, but I can see the appeal of such stories,” says Dan Feng, with no touch of sarcasm, depreciation or boredom. “I believe it is a traditional yet delicate prose. My brother, Yanting-jun, might know it better than I do. And you, too, apparently.”

“Hm.” Yingxing, as he closes his eyes, can still remember more than just gossip and tales sung. Each and every celebration among the golden petals of a beautiful lotus they—and Yingxing—called home, if only for brief moments of ecstasy. “It’s not relevant. Unless you find his relish in the hecatomb of romance somewhat important to your plans…”

“Did you like the play?”

“…I don’t know,” admits Yingxing. “The old one, which I cannot recall the details of, maybe. This one? I can at least appreciate that he kept the fan and didn’t get rid of the marriage.” 

Something tells him Taoran only enjoyed the romantic aspect for the sake of calamity at the end if only to belittle it. How disappointing. 

“I see.” Dan Feng’s mouth, in its delicate shape, intakes air for what might seem like another comment, yet his attention drops. 

Ergo, he acts without sparing a single explanation when he tugs on Yingxing’s sleeve and lifts his bandaged arm. In the second, the courtesan is paralysed, realisation downing him echoes the question:

“What has happened to you?”

Were it at any other moment, earlier in the evening or the first hours of the bright morning, Yingxing might have snapped; the ugliest curses coming out of his mouth, throat sore from screaming, palm burning from daring to slap Yinyue-jun. What he does, however, is struggle in his grip.

“It’s none of your concern,” he tries not to hiss, but the words entangle with how much he despises the view of his arm in Dan Feng’s line of sight, in his hold where hints of claws begin to shape under the glove. 

His lungs no longer rest, being hit with a pang of pressure. Another fruitless attempt at freeing himself is met with Dan Feng’s questioning gaze; one Yingxing does not want to see now. 

“Let me go. I have nothing else to say to you tonight, Your Grace.”

Rather than enduring a staring contest, he observes with a heart slot in his throat how he can see a sharper silhouette under his client’s glove, surrounding his wrist he can no longer wrestle to liberate.

Yingxing licks his lips one more time, refusing to acknowledge the burn in his eyes. 

He does not know what possesses him to utter it, yet he swallows a painful curse down his throat and demands, “Just let go, Dan Feng.” 

When his wrist is freed, a rose mark, hand-shaped, is left behind. 

He may look young and naïve, but he’s none other than the child of a fucking Aeon. 

Yingxing can never pretend to forget that when something as simple as this now marks him on the skin, a physical reminder should he forget it in the following days.

And Dan Feng, more serious than when discussing a possible betrayal in his court, draws himself up as swift as the wind. 

“I shall… leave.” Leave you alone. “I should expect you to rest and regain your strength, for I see you are lacking tonight.”

“Yes,” whispers Yingxing, cradling his wrist. “It’s for the best you leave.” 

He wants to sound offended, malignant and angry; he wants Yinyue-jun to think twice before considering seeing him again, before thinking of what gifting him, before touching, but all he can do is speak with what was once his prideful voice. 

Dan Feng leaves without a single word, letting Yingxing’s voice rot between them. Steps resound so deep the courtesan feels it in his throat, within his chest, pressing more and more upon his breathing, and he can only exhale when the door shuts and he is alone in the room.

It is a cruel reminder that he is no geji from epic, romantic plays and will not leave this place any time soon.

Much less marriage.

Ha, as if Yingxing could ever be worthy of it.

Chapter Text

With a precise, swift, chilling wind leap, Jingliu strokes her disciple’s sword away from his grasp and kicks him to the ground. The sword, miraculously, does not break, though its steel quiver with a sting for a sound and almost makes Dan Feng hiss as he approaches the training ground.

On the ground, Jing Yuan gives up. “Is this really necessary?”

“You are the Arbiter-General’s Lieutenant,” cuts Jingliu, stirring her sword before him. “Does it look acceptable to have such wrong footwork on a simple spar?”

Dan Feng hears a groan from below. “So we have been sparring for weeks now. Was besting the Commander not enough for you for proof I have not been neglecting my training?”

“Letting your muscles return to their former leniency and risk rotting in laziness is not what I call fitting.” Without sparing a single look at Jing Yuan, sweating and sitting with apparent unwillingness, she retrieves the fallen sword with a quick foot. As if the Sword Champion would ever bend, even to a sword. “I will not let any disciple of mine let dormancy win them over.”

Despite being the face of exhaustion, Jing Yuan raises his hand and picks up his sword’s handle as it is thrown at him. “Very well,” he grunts, lifting gracefully from the ground. 

Jing Yuan has grown into a fine warrior despite not being naturally talented in the art of the sword. Jingliu never hid the details when commenting on his training, mainly as a reminder of the extra hard work needed rather than blatant humiliation. That is, according to Jing Yuan himself, when deep in summerwine. Lanky limbs gave space to a defined wall of muscle that finds more pleasure in slumbering than in actual battle. However, he does not lack wits as much as he attempts to prove the opposite. He might be scarce in raw skill, but his mind is ever-awake, coming from the Arbiter-General himself. No one, after all, becomes Teng Xiao’s first lieutenant by being a fool.

But even the wisest fall before the Sword Champion Jingliu when she meets them with a quick twirl of her steel with its air-kissing blade, cutting the rival’s sword in two miserable pieces that break even more when upon the ground.

“Atrociously sloppy.” Jingliu pierces her steel on the field. Then, without turning from where Jing Yuan is cursing under his breath, “I thought you weren’t coming today.”

Dan Feng chuckles. “Surprisingly, my affairs were adjourned,” he says, approaching the fighting ground. “I believe it is unfair of you to give him less than a chance at resisting more than ten minutes against you when he favours the glaive rather than the sword.”

Jingliu, as expected, does not flinch nor blink at his remark, unbothered. “Swords are easier to hide should he need them when an assassination attempt falls on you.” The following remark is not directed at Dan Feng, though he sighs all the same. “Just like last week, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t an assassination attempt,” grunts Jing Yuan, retrieving the broken steel pieces. So many times, this outcome has happened as his years as Jingliu’s disciple have passed. He no longer cries when kneeling to pick up the pieces. Were he still a brat, he would be finding ways to avoid light punishment. “For an assassin to be even remembered, you’d need them to get close to you. Which he didn’t!” In the last part, he turns to his master, acting like it is the fairest point ever made.

“He didn’t get to you because I cut his legs before he reached the compound,” she answers drily. “Let the healers take care of him from now, and I’ll ensure you stay put. You can’t go and piss everyone off for the sake of boredom.”

“I didn’t do it because I was bored,” the Lieutenant, who acts more like a child than an adult, retorts. 

“I bet you disagreed on a stratagem and hid no amusement in doing so.” Jingliu turns to him with the look of a thousand disappointed mentors. She straightens her eyes for a second, up and down her pupil’s form, and sighs. “As I suspected.”

Jing Yuan raises his hand in defense. “I didn’t even say anything!” Though he threatens to expose a smirk, lips trembling to a curve at the corners, which makes him bite his lips and suppress a laugh, coming out as a cleared throat. “It’s really not that relevant. The General wouldn’t have replaced him so fast if he were someone worth worrying about. He wasn’t even that good of a soldier. His technique was terrible. You said it yourself!”

“And I’m right, as always. You still have to get better, though. As always.”

Ignoring Jing Yuan’s chuffs—and a roll of the eyes that she most certainly noticed but will overlook for the sake of her patience—Jingliu spares a minute to observe her weapon. It is a fine creation, though, by the hands of the Zhuming or the Luofu’s artisans. Dan Feng, precariously, hardly knows of the fine artists on the Cangcheng, but the sword has long lasted in Jingliu’s hands, and there are one too many scars of war along its length.

“Baiheng was most disheartened you missed her plans for our last breakfast,” says Jingliu with a tongue click. 

“I shall make up for it as soon as possible,” says Dan Feng, hands behind his back.

“She thinks you’re overworking yourself to death, to which I, obviously, thought it was bullshit because I know you, Yinyue-jun.” Her words feel icier than the cold itself but carry no threat. “You weren’t meditating nor dealing with the council.”

“It was a matter related to my council, indeed.” Anything is about Taoran lately, which sours his mouth against his will. “Things have been getting difficult by the day, and I am trying to keep it from growing if I cannot cut the roots from the ground they monopolised.”

“You tell Baiheng that,” she does not snort, but comes close. “One wrong word, and she might have stormed Dragonvista without a second thought. What ails you as of late, that has you cancelling every single meeting we have?”

“It is a complicated matter.” Dan Feng pauses, speaks calculatedly, and stares at where Jing Yuan has once again fallen to the ground in the laziest disposition ever seen by man, sword pieces scattered at his feet.

Meeting with Jingliu has been a pretty recent routine event, still green in its act. At least, recent in their eyes, where a decade passes in the blink of an eye. Dan Feng still remembers a much younger Jing Yuan with dark eyes full of expectations, not a speck of gold anywhere to be seen if not for the wilderness of the mane he calls hair, and the youth was still getting the first steps of balance as Jingliu conversed with the High Elder whilst correcting the boy’s posture.

What began as a convenience for the upcoming warfare plans almost a century prior, the newer addition being the clever Lieutenant in the past years, now is a familiar—and dares Dan Feng to say, cozy—moment for himself. The word still tastes strangely in his mouth, and he suspects he will never get used to it. 

“Tell me, will Baiheng come?” he asks, forcing his mind to dwell on something that is not a pair of scabious eyes so full of disdain. 

Why does it have to come with Taoran? 

“She’s taking a stroll in Stargazer Navalia; get a few things from the Zhuming,” says Jingliu, giving him an arched eyebrow. “You’re more bothered than usual. If anyone attempted on your life, the whole flagship would discuss it. And Taoran is not the reason for your sulking.”

“Hm.” Curse you for being observant. The woman does well in the army for more than her sword skills, evidently. “What do you know of a man called Dacheng?”

Rather than Jingliu answering, a yelp from the training grounds catches Dan Feng’s attention. “You’re talking about Ruan Dacheng?”

“You know him,” concludes Dan Feng.

“The question is, who doesn’t? Unfortunately, though.” As if laziness has never been around him for the past hour, Jing Yuan swiftly lifts himself from the ground. “He was in training with me, fresh in Astrum, as soon as they let us hold something that wasn’t wood. Insufferable prick,” he snorts. “What about him?”

Jingliu leads an inquiring gaze that is more than a gossiper’s soul, and Dan Feng chooses to ignore it as he shares, “His name has reached my ears for a matter of interest, but I admit my ignorance regarding his character. You speak as if he is more than a simple soldier. How come?”

“A brat, through and through. Thinks most people have to kiss his feet wherever he goes with a chin so high he might get a headache.” Jing Yuan rolls his eyes, but each word has a smirk, a satisfaction. “We were both competing for the Lieutenant position under the General. But there’s only so much you can get with money.”

“A noble?”

“A noble?” Now, Jing Yuan openly smiles. “He’s the General’s nephew.”

Damned kid. Dan Feng hums, crosses his arms atop his chest and says, “Being in his grace is advantageous, I assume. Even if he lost his position to you.”

Jing Yuan shakes his shoulders. “Behind the curtains, sure, but not on the battlefield. He’s way too aggressive with his attacks and has some disregard with the soldiers. It’s more than what is expected if you see it. His suggestions weren’t fruitful, either. Too many losses on our side, and even with a victory, the enemy had fewer losses than ours. The General has a special satisfaction regarding the outcome, so to speak…”

“What are the chances he wants to kill you, too?” Jingliu asks her pupil with a side-eye, most of her attention still on the High Elder.

“Ah, a fair chance, no doubt. He’s probably the one behind last week’s attempt if you were about to ask for some insight.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Not really.” His carefree behaviour would never disclose a man too clever for his own good. Ingenious enough to outsmart titles, apparently. “I almost lost to him, all things considered, but when your nephew whores and drinks more than he studies the strategies, it’s hard to overlook it. I suspect the General isn’t happy, but his troops aren’t falling like they were, and our losses have gotten less. Astrum is willing to overlook a child’s tantrum for the sake of war.” He mocks. “He’s good with a sword, though. I’ll give him that.”

A noble, and an arrogant one at that. What are the chances he hates me, then? Dan Feng is past the age of naiveté as if he were ever innocent enough to believe he is liked or respected by all. The Preceptors broke the fantasy to him sooner than most would find acceptable.

“Does he enjoy spending time at the Exalted Sanctum?” Dan Feng inquires, pressing his tongue under his fangs and resisting the will to turn to see Jingliu, whose looks could pierce him. “Being a philanderer and all, I suspect he would enjoy the frivolous attractions around the place, no?”

And much like his tutor—if not even cleverer, truth be told—Jing Yuan stares at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips and eyes glinting with a quick, mischievous tone. “Yes, actually. Spends his time under the ladies’ skirts and face deep in wine, but has some decency when in public. When we have storytellers at the Palace, he might as well resign for a couple of hours. I doubt he’d leave his position if only to see what’s the new romance.”

“As long as he is content, everyone will go on without worries. As minimal as they are, that is.” Dan Feng turns to Jingliu, who already has the eyes of Lan the Hunt on him. “Do you know him, as well?”

“His father tried to make me teach the brat, but he’s hardly worth my time. I’ll tell you more if you tell me what’s going on with the curiosity,” she says. “Not worth my time, much less yours.”

Dan Feng lifts the corners of his lips, a controlled and sardonic response. “As I said, his name has reached my ears in a conversation. Taoran needs to learn how to keep his mouth shut.” The last bit is whispered, but loud enough so both master and pupil hear him. 

“Does it have anything to do with your mysterious disappearances as of late, Your Grace?” Jingliu derides as she asks. To Jing Yuan, “Rest for the hour. I’ll have you breaking all swords until you stop missing your footing, Lieutenant. Don’t think your position forbids me from striking you unconscious.”

“Should he be busy with his Lieutenant’s affairs, you can always send a cycrane to Dragonvista Rain Hall,” says Dan Feng, walking towards the small tea table on the outskirts of the training field. The feather-filled pillows are comfortable despite their old usage, considering people come here more for fighting than for a romantic encounter and fruits served on a plate. No tea will be served, anyway. “You sound uneasy. No one has matched your expectations in battle yet?”

“I doubt that someone will. Don’t change the subject.” Rather than sitting comfortably on her knees, she keeps a stance ready for an emergency, a heel bent and prepared for a quick push and sword in hand. She will, after all, keep an eye on Jing Yuan later. “I doubt you’ll be able to see me if I catch you in one of these strange affairs of yours. No flowery speech.”

“There is nothing to be suspicious of,” answers Dan Feng, resisting the urge to reprehend Jing Yuan as he kneels beside his master but drapes in an unlordly manner. Only so much etiquette between friends. Years before, Dan Feng would have reprimanded him. “Nothing is out of the ordinary in these predicaments. Taoran needs to have a stricter eye on him, and you should not be surprised he is somehow involved with the Xianzhou nobility.”

“He’s not the one I’m worried about,” Jingliu cuts. “If it’s something you need to actively, personally oversee rather than that spy you keep on his toes, I must think things have considerably worsened on your end. And yet, you keep it to yourself.”

“There is nothing to be shared,” retorts Dan Feng, calmly. A brief consideration flashes in his mind. Sharing his whereabouts as of late would mean sharing the courtesan’s part in the scheme, which, strangely, sets a bitter taste in his mouth. Yingxing’s existence should not be shared, a voice tells him. “Word has arrived to me, and I shall soon perfect my intel. If Jing Yuan knows him this well, it will do me good.” He sends a look at the Lieutenant, who seems to be deep in thought.

“I expected you to favour the General’s council rather than a fool’s perception,” nonchalantly says Jing Yuan, though he is amused. “I mean, is that not what have we been doing for the past fifteen years?”

“If the Ten Lords could dismantle the quartet, they would’ve done it already,” says Jingliu. “They’re just searching for an outlet, a reason to act on it.”

“A kind way to say they cannot stand that you like my presence,” says Dan Feng, drily.

“Don’t act surprised,” which Dan Feng is not, but she continues, “There are many within the army that cannot stand you. The brat’s family isn’t an exception.”

“But that’s a general prejudice, not just you, you see,” intervenes Jing Yuan, taking one last deep breath before crossing his legs and sitting appropriately at the table. “If it were up to them, no Vidyadhara would be on the field. Or rather, they would be, as long as it’s surrounding their kid from harm.”

“Hm.” Dan Feng recognises the few emotions bottling up in his belly, or so he likes to think. They are, despicably, too human and too mortal for him, but all the bad things are infectious… including wrath. “I wish them good luck,” he concludes, still calm as an ocean’s breeze.

“There you are!”

Baiheng always comes as a ray of sunshine when dark clouds form between them. It never matters how she looks, such as now: sweaty as if she has just ridden around the flagship rather than being on a starskiff, hair glueing to her face in messy, wet strands, ponytail miraculously up despite giving signs it will fall apart. Her face glows, and not only thanks to the sweat. She does not care for etiquette, removing her coat as she walks towards her wife and letting it fall on the way, a leather quiver falling on the table with many missing arrows.

With a loud smooch!, she leaves Jingliu speechless, the once-cold face slightly pink and eyes softening by the second. 

“Can’t even wait for me before gossiping? And here I thought you’d want special treatment at my wedding.” She lightly pushes Jingliu on the shoulder. “I expected better from you.”

“Nothing spoken here is worth your time,” says Jingliu, carefully abandoning the sword on the ground. She gestures at the quiver. “Would you mind?”

“Because you can’t serve tea without me, apparently,” says Baiheng, though she kindly removes her arrows atop the table with a whimsical roll of the eyes. “Doesn’t matter! I brought something better.” Instead of a quiver, she places a beautiful bottle for all to see. “At least some decency is still here. And I don’t care if it’s worth or not my time. Didn’t you know, love, that gossip heals the soul?”

To say the least, she is not happy as the words flow, and she almost spills the wine across the table.

“Isn’t this kid the same one who kept pestering you a few years ago?” She turns to Jing Yuan, who, much to Dan Feng and Jingliu’s chagrin, acquired the face of a kicked puppy when nodding. Baiheng coos and pets his hair, and the Lieutenant does not hide the grin. “Aeons, that kid is horrible.”

“You know him?” Dan Feng asks.

“To know him is a stretch…” mumbles Jing Yuan, cleaning a bit of the spilled wine with his sleeve and ignoring the disgusted faces both his master and the High Elder send on his way.

“I haven’t spoken much to the boy,” says Baiheng, gesticulating as if it is an unremarkable topic. “He once made A-Yuan stumble face-first on the floor during a small tournament a few years ago. So happened that one of my arrows hit his foot when I showed another boy how to shoot for the archery competition.” She shakes her shoulders and drinks directly from the bottle. 

Baiheng, however, does not miss her marks. 

“His parents were furious, but, oh, well.” Her face twists in confusion, her mouth curling in what could be named unhappiness, but her eyes glint with mirth as she looks at Jing Yuan as if he were still the youth curling around her hips. “I didn’t hurt him. I might’ve shot the arrow, but Lan chose its target!”

“And I didn’t cut that man’s legs,” drily comments Jingliu. “I just swung my sword, and it decided to amputate him.”

“Precisely!”

“And was another accident that made you miss some arrows in your possession?” asks Dan Feng.

Baiheng blinks, her foxian ears bend, and she lets a surprised ‘ Oh’ before answering, “Ah, that. Nothing serious, just a few marastruck at the arrival.” And the way she speaks, it is almost nothing.

Jingliu, beside her, grows still and straightens her eyes at the foxian. “What do you mean, ‘a few marastruck’?” 

Even Jing Yuan, often lost in bliss and carefree ways, becomes rigid. “You mean let-loose marastruck? Does the Realm-Keeping Commission know this?”

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad,” Baiheng rushes to say, a reassuring hand on Jingliu’s shoulder. “Some Cloud-Knights were with me for the Zhuming affair. They already reported it. No one got hurt.” She smiles, but not enough to reach her eyes. “It just means more work for me…”

First, the assassination attempt on the Lieutenant. Then, marastruck loose around the flagship. Dan Feng does not hear the rest of what Baiheng tells them between the sips of wine, eyes fixed on his cup, little beverage remaining to swirl. The foxian is a terrific pilot. Had no enemy appeared on the radar, in the scouts’ reports or the cycranes’ view? 

“…and I hope you’re not going to dump us again!”

Dan Feng looks up, meeting Baiheng’s comically pouty face.

“I thought you were going to leave us hanging again like you did last week!” she almost screams. “These trips to the Zhuming take my time and all, but I remember you said you’d have time for us whenever I’m back on the Luofu. Are you going back on your promise?”

The first thing that comes to his mind is not an answer to Baiheng—no, it is not even regarding the foxian, his three friends, or scheduled meetings. A foreign accent calls him a liar, teasing the story of a High Elder prone to carry a silver tongue to his confessions alongside a voice feigning its sweetness. 

Dan Feng shakes his head as soon as the image takes more than a silhouette as a form. “Apparently, my presence is more than simply requested,” he says, trying for a tease as he wets his tongue with wine. “I am Yinyue-jun; sometimes, I get busier than usual. Just as you three.”

“I’ll pretend to believe that,” responds Baiheng. “Consider it a mercy! I’m too happy to hunt for an argument, and I’m happy to see you today.” With a finger, she points at him and briefly narrows her eyes. “But don’t miss the wedding rehearsals. I don’t care if you’re the High Elder. I will put an arrow on your tail.”

A laugh escapes Dan Feng’s throat before he considers it proper or offensive. “I shall keep it in mind.” 

It is stronger than him, and it is soon followed by the foxian’s laugh. 

All is well, he thinks. Baiheng shouts for something he does not pay attention to, and Jing Yuan’s frame leans forward, asking for more wine as if he is not returning to training later. Jingliu chastises something, someone, but does not refuse a refill and never moves to remove Baiheng from her side. Any other person would have lost their arms in a blink should they attempt the same. 

All is well.

If he repeats it enough time to himself, he might actually believe it.

“We have been through this game before, sir,” Dan Feng drawls out, not allowing his nose to curl in disgust and his eyes to roll. The brothel’s owner— Alphonse, later he had found out—is beyond greedy, but what bothers him more is the man’s impatience hidden by his smugness. “The whole night, alone.”

“You come here and still think things work your way!” exclaims the man through a smoky laugh, pipe tugged between two fingers. His breath reeks more than just herbs, much to Dan Feng’s distasteful, perfect smell senses. “And I told ya the first time, boy. It ain’t cheap. You can’t just get here and expect to get the bitch on a silver plate. Which payment you’ll gimme tonight?”

If I visited this place in my real form, I would not even have to pay for a passage. Dan Feng still could, if he desired, for mayhem beneath the commissions and around a district full of malicious eyes. 

This young trailblazing form of his does not, indeed, gather respect at first glance. He would not allow this youthful man to speak at first without a few jabs beforehand, seeing where it goes and how far he is willing to defy those in control. It may be a too-good disguise, then. He wants to believe it so, at least.

Rather than arguing further, Dan Feng— Dan Heng, he must remind himself—pulls his form of payment from his jacket for tonight’s visit.

The dragon-shaped jade ring may not be the most treasured relic in the Vidyadhara chests, but this IPC-sucking fool will never know of it. Actual, worthier jade rings in the Long’s bloodline’s possession come from the Vidyadhara ancient home planet, but this mortal will not know any better if not for a trimmed gemstone no one else has. 

Before Alphonse reaches it with his sparkling eyes and greasy hands, Dan Feng curls his fingers around the ring and pulls it away. “I will take him out for the evening, as well. This pays for the date, and an extra pound of strales is with me if he accepts.”

“If?” Alphonse raises an eyebrow. “He’ll accept. It ain’t up for discussion.”

“You sound confident.” Dan Feng picks up the small sack of strales inside his other pocket. The shimmering sound even makes the brothel’s owner’s eyes darken with money lust. “I am not trying to outsmart you. It is business, after all. But I will only pay for what I will get. Unwilling partners is not something that warms me, you see.” 

“He can fake enough willingness, sure.” The man drags out with more smoke, already extending his palm up to him. “You won’ even notice, boy.”

“I am a better liar than you are,” says Dan Feng. “The jade ring for the whole night with him, no bothers. Old game is fair game, as some of you say, and at this point, you should know better than doubt my word.”

It does not take long before Alphonse grunts in acceptance. 

“You ain’t a normal trailblazer,” murmurs the man, removing the smoking pipe only to bite on the jade ring, licking his lips. “No simple foreigner.”

Were Dan Feng a lesser man—a lesser creature, even—he might have trembled in his boots. Suspicion rising is not a far-fetched allusion that he was not, in the slightest, thinking it would never happen. Chances are, the man had sent people to figure out who this strange new customer was, but nothing ever returned to him. No everyday customer brings weird treasures as payment. Not normal, nameless ones.

It is a risky affair, this entire thing. The courtesan’s words resound in his head, you should’ve sent some of your spies, then, only to be rebuked by his own voice when thinking Shaoying would have never gotten certain information on the short-life entertainer. 

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you again so soon,” says Alphonse, still eyeing Dan Heng with unbridled curiosity. “You see, he’ll be surprised, no doubt.”

“Hardly your business as long as you get paid for the service.” Dan Feng saves the pound of strales in his pocket again, pretending not to see the man’s eyes almost salivating with the irises, following the money. “Let us see where this goes.”

While it is not hard to ignore the other patrons, courtesans and attractions displayed amid the entrance halls, with more shameless meetings than the average Xianzhou citizen would find acceptable, Dan Feng still feels the owner’s attention on him the whole way as he walks to the floor below.

As he takes a turn to the stairs, a small weight stumbles on him, though he catches the tiny arm before it falls.

A boy. 

“’m sorry, mister…”

Dan Feng narrows his gaze. “Watch your step, little one.”

Far from being ignorant, Dan Feng knows one too many children are found around and within the brothels. They are, however, usually the courtesans’ children or unfortunate orphans. The boy before him looks the part; he seems underfed, with rowdy hair and a burning nervousness. Even Dan Feng can feel it through the skin of his bony arm. 

What he does not expect is the boy’s eyes brighten as he stares up at the patron, mouth echoing a silent awe. “Oh, you’re him.” Before Dan Feng can ask, the boy continues, “Are you here to see Gege? He sent me to see the Madam again.” 

And in his hands, Dan Feng catches sight of a familiar gem, freezing him in place and his hold on the little arm. 

Gege? Dan Feng frowns and lets go of the boy’s arm. 

“…yes,” he answers, too breathy for his comfort and with a tangible reluctance. “Indeed, I am. You see, I have another gift to him.” Because there is only one person in this damned flagship given a pair of these earrings. “If Lan’s blessing meets me tonight, he may like it better than other presents.”

The boy still gapes his mouth at him, nodding along. “Good luck, mister,” he mumbles with a sudden shyness ruling over his tiny frame. 

As fast as he stumbled upon Dan Feng, he disappears into a crowd a child should not be close nor be found with.

So he has been selling the jewellery. A heavy thought comes with an even heavier feeling, settling in the pit of his stomach, and Dan Feng chastises himself before he humours the theories any further. That is what we agreed on. Disappointed he would be if, somehow, Yingxing were failing in doing so, as if the High Elder’s gifts were not even proper to be sold in the illegal markets. 

He did not like it, anyway. 

Dan Feng would not wish for Yingxing to keep something he dislikes… it is the bare minimum, he says to himself.

Roaming over and over with predictable results will take him nowhere, and time is running out. He paid for an entire night, but it will be done as quick as a heartbeat if he gives into mindless thoughts and useless feelings, terrible as they may be. Do not be a petulant child. He tugs his bag and looks ahead, searching for a door with the picture of a spider-lily. 

When Dan Feng starts to wonder if the flower could have been painted by the courtesan’s hands, the door runs open. 

“You did it.” 

Yingxing sounds breathless, words coming out as a strained whisper, almost soundless, but enough for the patron before him to hear. 

For once, Dan Feng allows the smugness to take place, satisfaction momentarily replacing the irascibility nurturing before. “I told you I would return.”

It is the wrong thing to say, but with Yingxing, everything seems wrong, especially when the courtesan blows with a pout, allowing him to enter with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t feel too smart, Your Grace. It’s your money that’s going down the drain, not mine.” 

“I would have thought you cared about my financial condition if I did not know you.” Dan Feng carefully closes the door behind him. “Worry not about it, if such is the case. Regardless of what I pay your contractor or you, the Vidyadhara treasury is more than enough.”

“Forgive me,” far from being sincere, “I forgot you shit gold for a living.” 

Any other man standing before Yingxing and they would have started praising him, for better or worse. It is effortless, the way the courtesan does not need much to be seen as elegant, a sight for eyes used to bloodshed and have forgotten what peacefulness may look like. Yingxing only has his hair loose with a few strands up with the flowery hairpin and an acceptable grey-and-amber silk fabric for a dress; it appears to be old, yet well-kept, but Dan Feng probably arrived sooner than expected as its laces are loose, unfinished. 

Any other man and, maybe, Yingxing would not find it offensive, a tease in poor taste, if he received praise. Play your moves with care. The weight of his position may depend on whether Yingxing is fond of him enough to share secrets, after all. 

“Where’s Chunfen?” Yingxing asks, taking a step back and crossing his arms. In a fraction of a second, he snorts again and eyes the bag. “Don’t tell me you are actually going to paint me. I don’t truly have my hopes up.”

“Perhaps on another night, I shall fulfil this wish of yours.” Slowly, these awful attempts at offending him become amusing. “I had something else in mind, if you feel inclined.”

It is impossible to read Yingxing’s emotions in their entirety. That, he has known from their first meeting. It is easy to catch a glimpse of weariness, repugnance, and even ire; the soft venom and sweetness are more akin to loathing than actual affection. Little and quick are the moments where other emotions lose their veil, and as Dan Feng opens his bag and picks the newest gift, he feels victorious for finding yet another one.

Yingxing is ever suspicious of him, but his chest heaves loudly and precariously controlled as he undoes the bronze laces. Dan Feng supposes there is no actual surprise for which gift is given, but instead that it has been given at all. Just like his presence.

“I should really charge more for this,” mumbles Yingxing, taking a deep breath and observing the fabrics on his hands. His eyes become gloomier, and curiously, it is as if he forgets there is a client in his presence to whom he should direct his service.

Dan Feng admits it: it is as beautiful a commission as the last one, even more delicate. He requested the most serene of the blues, a full-body garment embodying elegance through soft layers and lapis-lazuli embroidery, lotus woven along its long sleeves and high waist. 

Not that the client himself will complain. “I figured you would appreciate it better than jewellery after you accepted the last gift.” 

At least, I have yet to see you sell the robe. For the bitterness to rise in his throat is inevitable, stronger than him, but he puts pressure against his fangs as a way to keep it under rule. 

“Another garment, really?” way too amused. “Didn’t I tell you to surprise me?” When Yingxing asks him, his attention is still on the soft lotuses of the sleeve under the touch of his thumb. “How much did it cost you? The tailoring is far from being subpar.”

“No need to be concerned regarding prices when it comes to gifts,” is what Dan Feng tells him, not allowing the satisfied smile of success to reach his cheeks. 

When the High Elder sent a request for five pieces of different dresses to be tailored, no one questioned his decision. Not the tailor, much less Shaoying. If anything, the silkweaver felt honoured for such a hardworking request. The black-and-gold was favoured, and Dan Feng can only hope the rest will, as well. What he will not disclose, however, is that it is worth it if Yingxing is left speechless before him. 

“I would ask you to wear it tonight if you favour it,” he says. “If you want to charge me more for it, then I will gladly pay, but it is for a different date than our usual.” 

Our usual. It is beyond strange to refer to having usual meetings with a courtesan. Never did he think he would utter these words.

“You’re unbelievable.” Yingxing turns, hands gripping the dress, and appears to be looking for any outer existence in the room. There is not much he can do aside from gathering a terrible temper in his voice. “Utterly, truly unbelievable. You…”

“A date outside.”

Yingxing stops in his steps and raises his gaze at him.

“…outside,” he echoes, slowly nodding. He swallows something in his throat, and his grip on the fabric relents. “What, you’re going to parade me around now?”

Does everything I do to you have to be arrogance wrapped in silk? “Should you find the idea unappealing, I will simply request for tea and no more. You can even disregard the request to wear your new robe and do with it what you please. The only thing I want, under our affair’s discussions, is that you make me company and tell me what I wish to know.”

Realising that even Taoran has access to things his lord has not is a sour thing. Sour enough to make Dan Feng push his tongue under his fang until he tastes salty copper. If anyone parades you around, it is him, and yet Yingxing stands here, staring at him as if Dan Feng announced he would bring him as a camp follower for the next campaign at the edge of the nearby galaxy. 

So, Taoran—but not me? Dan Feng feels more petulant than ever. 

“You better not take me to see the storyteller,” grunts Yingxing, already pacing towards the changing screen with unsettling steps. “I fear he’ll try to murder me or at least poison me for a good while if he sees me again. Or I could hit him. Seems more likely.”

Dan Feng bites the interior of his cheek and licks his lips. “It is not that I would not appreciate the sight of you hitting one of Taoran’s informants, but I had not thought about leading you there.”

“Where to, then?” He hears fabrics rushing, falling to the ground and slightly breathless groans.

“That would be for me to know and yours to find out.” Gently surprising Yingxing is becoming a specific kind of entertainment, and every word the courtesan has shared with him is taken into consideration. He does like the arts; he hates who shares them. “Do you favour sung tales?”

“Hard not to,” comes from behind the screen, followed by a loud snuff and silk-meeting-flesh. “When you grow up between singers and dancers, part of you starts to appreciate it… even if you’re sick of it after years and years of the same chords.” It bothers Dan Feng to ask about it; know which songs the courtesan speaks of. He does nothing, at the end, listening as Yingxing continues, ignorant of the dilemma his patron faces, “It’s been… a while.”

“Since?”

“There’s only so much the geji sing around here, playing what they want.” His voice twinges as if it is far away from this room, a touch of craving that cannot be regained. “The Zhuming was livelier, more passionate. You could pretend it wasn’t a whorehouse, and many didn’t care for it. They visited to hear the singers, praise them with shitty poetry or spoils of war.”

Dan Feng refrains from noting, but is that not what courtesans are for? “The Luofu has its artists, as well. Perhaps, tonight, you might find them skilful enough to your tastes. I hear they receive training from the masters from the Flaming Court, and even Yanting-jun himself approves of their work. You consider his words, no?”

A laugh escapes from behind the screen. “Ah, yes. Your… brother.” Yingxing sounds unsure, but Dan Feng does not correct him. “He’s less of a prick, thank you. Of that, I’m sure.”

Dan Feng feels his fangs grow a bit in his mouth. 

“Hardly a worthy comparison.” What, have you talked to him? Has he given you anything? “He is a patron of the arts, indeed, but so many of us are. I, however, have other matters to worry about for the moment. A next time, I might be kinder.”

“As I said…” And a figure draped in serene blue appears from behind the screen. “Less of a prick.”

Being proud is both a blessing and a curse, in Dan Feng’s perception. Rarely is he mistaken or less correct than others, and centuries of living have given him insights on things that are better appreciated over years and years rather than a simple, sole glimpse. He is proud that he is, once again, correct in what Yingxing looks good. 

Vidyadhara colours fit him. 

And he is cursed because, knowing Yingxing, it will not be his for long.

“I won’t charge you… much,” says Yingxing, brushing a long ponytail with the end of the flowery hairpin. There is red kohl under his eyes, perfectly painted, and what appears to be a subtle reddish layer on the lips, matching the strange pair of earrings he carries around despite telling him they are not to his taste. “If I actually like these musicians you want to show me, then I’ll take it as extra payment. If I hate them, I’ll charge you the triple for the annoyance.”

The courtesan will most likely keep his end of the deal, and there is nothing as of late that has been entertaining Dan Feng more than making him lose. “Earrings or pendant?”

“A ring.” Yingxing smiles sardonically, approaching him with faux velour. “Gems from Mendasia, maybe. Or cut in Verdantia. No one has one of those.”

“If you find it acceptable as payment, then I do not see why not.”

“You’ll just give me what I want?” Yingxing arches an eyebrow, lifting his chin. “If I give you some directions, you might finally get it right. And you just say yes?”

“Something so simple will be no issue.” It is not so simple. There is a reason no one in the Alliance could have a specific piece of jewellery. It is not impossible… but if it is to obtain yet another shocked face from Yingxing, being the High Elder will make things easier. Before his attention flies to where a pair of lips taunt close to him, he locks his gaze to Yingxing’s. “Have you sold the earrings I gave you?”

Yingxing does not hesitate. “Yes.”

“Hm.” Dan Feng looks down, where he sees the breathing motions from beneath the serene blue. “And the robe?”

“Sold it even faster,” says Yingxing, refusing to look away. “You don’t find good stuff like that ‘round here, you know. Gave it away this afternoon.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

There is more that he wants to ask, more he needs to ask; to know if he wants to keep this affair with the courtesan going. A hard man to please, and it is always on Dan Feng’s end to see what will trigger him, make him bend and be pliant to his questions. He cannot risk the chance of disheartening this courtesan so much that he gets lies rather than hard-told truths, so fragile is this layer of trust they get.

Because here Yingxing is. Beneath the courtesan’s chest, the heart bumps and bumps, faster than ever, almost making Dan Feng want to clutch onto it to stop it, get a whole truth rather than halves. 

What must I do to make you keep one of my gifts? It is weak to ask.

Thus, Dan Feng gives his arm. “Shall we?”

“You promised you wouldn’t bring me to the Exalted Sanctum.” Yingxing’s fingers grip tightly around the crook of Dan Feng’s arm, forcing them to halt right at the entrance of the cobbled alley.

“Firstly, I did not promise anything of sorts,” says Dan Feng, wanting to roll his eyes but refraining for the sake of the courtesan, whose lips are pressed and glares as if his eyes could kill. “I did say I had no plans to take you anywhere close to the Sanctum. I hear the Snywood Pavilion is awfully crowded tonight for a new piece,” he recites drily, glaring at Yingxing with the same intensity. “I have better plans. Trust me for once, yes?”

For a moment, he loses sight of Yingxing’s lingering ill humour, for he finds out a pair of violets will appear as a dark grey-blue, which is terribly vivid. “You test my patience with mirth, Your Grace,” comes as a murmur.

“And you, mine,” he retorts, gently pulling the courtesan forward and back on the trail. “Have you ever visited the night market?”

“Not as much as I wished…” Yingxing’s voice abandons the ire and welcomes doubt, luckily on a brighter side. “It’s not the place for what they want, usually.”

The Exalting Sanctum’s signature food street offers everything from traditional dishes to roadside snacks, and while being tied with Tranquillity gardens, its culinary street attracts tourists and locals alike. Nevertheless, Aurum Alley might be a district by itself without the Sanctum’s regard. 

Dan Feng takes Yingxing’s word as truth even before they leave the dark alley and meet Cosmos Street’s lantern-lit, orange-and-grey steps. The fingers around his elbow lose their strength, though not out of weakness, and Yingxing inhales deeply before they even reach the food stalls. Dan Feng has felt the smell of roasted meat for minutes on end, but Yingxing’s senses are only now guiding him, even neglecting his companion.

Rather than letting the fingers let go of his arm, Dan Feng acts first and thinks later, kindly holding them in place with his other hand. 

“I considered it to be a place you would find relevant for a nightly… date.” The word sounds weird on his tongue. “For our affairs, of course.”

Yingxing does not answer him. Not right away, much less looking at him. “Any place is relevant as long as you find it appropriate, dearest.” When he turns to Dan Feng, the sardonic smile graces his face and voice. “You still have to prove you don’t bore me to death.”

“The Delicacy Pavilion is right this way,” says Dan Feng. A hard man to please, indeed. And even more challenging to get a confession from. 

Despite his words, Yingxing does not even spare a glare at his client’s direction when they meet the food streets. Outworld tourists gamble and chat with locals who may or may not be scamming them, often the scammers being the little, devious children who run up and down the streets stealing food and tea from halls and stalls alike. Much like a visitor, Yingxing tugs on his skirts and directs his attention whenever someone yells for an advertisement, the open invitations sounding cozy enough to consider it. 

Children usually get this look of awe. Gone are the venomous words and untrustworthy stares, the blatant discomfort, giving space to a curious itching of fingers and eyes as dark as the nightly sky above the alleys, only broken by the fire lanterns from street to street and the courier cycranes. Not even they escape from the curious gaze, as if they are the most interesting attraction around.

Quietly found atop of a stone balcony, the Delicacy Pavillion welcomes whoever approaches them, much to Yingxing’s childish delight. 

“A friend of mine always ensures the food comes from Aurum Alley’s stalls rather than the Haven,” says Dan Feng, pulling the chair so the courtesan sits. “Call it a proud legacy, cultural heritage, but he believes there is more to food than only technique and ingredients. For his words, I believed you would appreciate it more than so-called refined local restaurants.”

Only when Dan Feng sits before him, flawless posture followed by a sigh, Yingxing heaves with a long, stuttering laugh. 

“Never, in a million years, I would’ve thought I’d be dining with one of the most insufferable men I ever met.” Staring at him, he whispers, almost mouthing, “The High Elder, nonetheless.”

“A million years is certainly an exaggeration,” retorts Dan Feng. “Even we, immortals, will not know an ounce of a tremendous amount of time.”

“Ah, forgive me,” without a true sentiment of excuses, no regrets. “You’re such an ancient creature with a young thing like me. I imagined you’d have seen it all the way you keep reminding me of it! After all, what are ten years for you?”

Truthfully, nothing. “Not much, admittedly.” But Yingxing raises an unsurprised eyebrow, unbothered by the answer. Dan Feng will realise later that his stares are anything but subtle when face-to-face, for the courtesan’s expression changes from humourless entertainment to confusion, ending in an actual strike when Dan Feng asks him, “What are ten years for you, then?” A lifetime, perhaps?

Yingxing blinks at him. “What, you have no idea of it? So much for slamming it on my face when convenient,” which settles a weird feeling within Dan Feng’s stomach, even pushing his claws and fangs out of hiding; before he can reply, however, Yingxing says, “That’s basically a phase of my life. For some, it’s even their whole lifetime. Especially during the war,” the last part could have been spat with a slap to the face. 

“Even immortals may meet an early end on the battlefield.” Which is why Vidyadhara numbers are lesser and lesser each year. “I am not trying to diminish you. As much as you enjoy antagonising me after so long.”

“Anything you say or do can be diminishing towards anyone, more so me.” Yingxing leans back on the chair’s support. “The way you carry yourself, the way you speak, I have no choice other than to believe you’ve been here from the dawn of time. How old are you, exactly?”

“…something close to seven centuries, more or less,” he answers, biting his own tongue. “Vidyadharas can live for a long time, matching the Xianzhou natives, but we have no maraphilia to be concerned with. You must know of the reincarnation cycle my race goes through.”

“So I’ve heard.” Yingxing opens his fan with a sharp snap! “Taoran talks a lot about himself when he’s happy.”

“I am no exception despite being you-know-who.” Dan Feng has to conceal his claws from breaching the gloves. “What about you?”

Yingxing pretends to pout, gazing at the fire lanterns above the street. “I guess I am getting old, but not in your eyes…” A click of his tongue. “Let’s say more than four decades have passed.” He faces his companion again, fan close to his mouth, where a taunting smirk occurs. “Am I too young for you?”

Dan Feng does not answer, not in words. He rolls his eyes and taps on the table, minding the claws still itching to be free. Aurum Alley is bustling with life, music and frivolous chatting, but all his senses can hear is the blood running under a short-life species’ veins too close to him. It enthrals his fangs to burst through the disguise and latch onto warm flesh— utterly unbecoming of him.

Instead of giving into the will of an archaic craving, he orders the food.

Jing Yuan was not wrong. The food is worth the mouth-watering edge. Dan Feng, admittedly, is not used to visiting Aurum Alley unless the Lieutenant or the foxian pilot drag him along for festivals and attractions, though no memory of the place is accompanied by malaise.

The yellow boulder beef chunks and offal together with redcloud chilli sauce is one of Jing Yuan’s favourites, and soon enough, it seems to fall into Yingxing’s grace, as well—though the courtesan is more entertained by the stories Short Auntie tells him.

“There was a poem from the Primeval Imperium days that went: ‘Looking upon the bullfight from a distance, the shadow of the hair bun mixed with the clouds.’ This is the origin of ‘beef offal.’”

Though Tall Auntie’s is more than satisfied, a silent win, no doubt when offering the songlotus cake. From Yingxing’s wide eyes and surprise at the crisp laughing sound when biting the snack, he must have never tried it before this evening. 

“If you think you can buy my favour through the stomach, you better find a better way.” Yingxing pins him where he sits with a glare. “Food won’t get you my word.”

“I am not trying to obtain more information in this manner.” Dan Feng might have found it funny coming from anyone else. Baiheng herself once thought she was being tricked into disclosing her affairs with Jingliu, and the memory brings a sweet laugh from him. “It is simply a change of airs. I expected the closed environment of that room to be breathtaking in the wrong ways.”

“Then you know it’s useless, and I’m using you for convenience,” Yingxing drawls, pushing the empty plate away. “What do you even expect me to say today? He hasn’t visited me between the hours of your last coming and this evening.”

Dan Feng clears his throat. “I am hardly doing this for the sake of kindness. It is not useless if it can get me what I want, and for the moment, you are the outlet needed.” Not that I would mind bringing you out again, though he never utters the last part loudly. “If anything, we are both using each other for convenience. Unless, clearly, you think I am a worse company than our acquaintance.”

Yingxing hums. “You want to compare yourself with other men in that wretched hole?” The smile he gives now is not sardonic, smug or that of a winner. His eyes do not even turn into half-moons, for better or worse. “Aeons, you’re desperate.”

“It is a matter of strategy,” he corrects, refusing to acknowledge the word desperation, which burns him from the inside if even considered. “A subtle one, where both of us will get what we want at the end.”

“…you really believe that.” 

At Yingxing’s ghostly murmur, he looks up. For a moment, the courtesan appears more like a phantom, pale even under the amber lights. 

“I will not go back on my word in this affair,” says Dan Feng, leaning forward on the table. Strangely, his hand moves before he realises it, and he stops it midway through touching his companion. Focus. “Loathe me all you wish, but I am being fair.”

“As long as it is useful for you, Your Grace.” Ah, back with the theatrical tone. Dan Feng is starting to hate that more than the lack of respect. “If I died right here, right now, you’d replace me in no time. After all, what’s one more death in the long game of war, right?”

What burns now is different than hatred and anger. Dan Feng does not recognise it, as much as he tries, yet he only stares at Yingxing, so unbothered and a few fingers away from being touchable and reachable, waiting on him. Something is wrong. 

“Will you forever resent me for that dreadful argument?” he asks, because he must know. 

“I don’t know,” admits Yingxing, dropping his gaze to the table. “It’s not as if I enjoy being remorseful, but… it’s the only thing I have. Do you know what that is? There are times I don’t know if I hate it or if I want it gone. Spite is what there’s left. It’s... tiring.” He licks his lips, taking a deep breath. “Maybe that’s a short-life species thing. We may forget too soon. We live too little. We feel too much. All at the same time.” Then, he finally stares at Dan Feng again. “That’s so below you, isn’t it?”

Is it? Despite all Vidyadhara’s teachings, Lady Xuepu’s words, and Taoran’s remarks, Dan Feng has never figured it out at its core. It is dangerous to wonder and even more hazardous to find out.

“I cannot afford to allow grief and despair to have their way on me,” he confesses.

“Can’t afford or don’t want to?”

“I cannot allow it in any circumstance.”

“I think you’re lying,” Yingxing sneers.

“What you think does not matter,” says Dan Feng. Do you have to be so difficult all the time? “I am being honest with you here, but I cannot force you to trust my words. Regardless, it matters not.”

“Is that what you want? For me to trust you?” Evidently, Yingxing’s voice has no warmth whatsoever, dripping more than simple revulsion. “You want my loyalty, my trust, my words, my presence—what else?”

This is not going anywhere, thinks Dan Feng, sighing deeply until his lungs burn, full and heavy. He will not bend, and for any other person, they would have folded shortly after meeting him, or their bending would not be relevant at all to him. Yingxing, as always, is between being the solution and a predicament, more of the latter than the former.

“Your cooperation is the only thing I need,” he says, calculating the value of each word. For someone as volatile as this insufferable short-life species, even his breathing should not indicate a faltering edge. “Convenience, for both of us. If I wanted you harmed, I would have done it ten years ago.”

That, for once, shuts Yingxing up. The courtesan does not hide his unhappiness with it, and if eyes could kill, Dan Feng might have had a taste of what finality could be to him. What a way to depart; all because of a mortal. It is fair as he never considered the battlefield his grave, but the heavy silence between them suffocates enough. 

“Do you think this is gonna work?” Yingxing asks, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table. He does not look at Dan Feng, and for a second, he seems too young to be where he is. Maybe he is too young.

“We are spiteful enough,” mutters Dan Feng. “All is fair in war, whether met with quills or steel.”

“Oh, you’re spiteful.” He would have never thought hearing Yingxing’s sardonic laugh would be a relief at any point of their affair, and yet, here they are. “Prideful prick, spiteful bastard. It’s getting hard keeping track of them all.”

If being badmouthed so openly, vehemently, and face-to-face is what he needs to ensure he is not on the losing side, Dan Feng will endure it. Yingxing’s words hardly offend him the way the mortal desires. 

For now, however, he can change the subject and save them some dignity. “Tell me, have you truly not been here in a long time? Given your reaction, I would have thought you never visited the pavilion.”

“I was too young.” Yingxing shrugs, crossing his arms and curling his fingers around his fan. “One of the first places I’ve been, but mostly because it’s the Sanctum’s inner district, and pass it on the way. I never actually… stayed here.”

“They offer the same attractions as the Tranquillity Gardens,” says Dan Feng. “If a play of excellence is popular around the Sanctum and the Haven, trust that it has its roots around Aurum Alley.”

Yingxing beams, a bit too weak for the ever-flaming energy—spiteful or not—that runs in him and elegantly lifts himself, serene blue flowing as waves and not caring for the fallen leaves upon the cobbled balcony’s floor. 

“You still owe me that play.”

Dan Feng considers it a victory that Yingxing even sounds willing, lying or not.

“The Zhuming values more the quality of its craft than the scenery given, though stages were built for the sake of performance.” Yingxing takes a deep breath and turns to his companion. “If you think I’ll overlook any mistakes just because the street is presentable, I’ll charge a grander fee.”

They just sit before the open stage, an open balcony surrounded by painted murals and wooden tables, before the first complaint leaves the courtesan’s mouth, between amusement and disbelief.

“Is the place not to your liking?” Dan Feng mentally prepares himself for a headache, another argument or even a needless fight that Yingxing wants to pick only to drive him insane. “I agree that money can only so far value a presentation, dear, but those are with the Sanctum.”

“Oh, I like it here,” says Yingxing, sparing long minutes to observe his surroundings. “I prefer it, actually.”

There is no room for disagreements, even for Dan Feng. Being Yinyue-jun, wealthy presentations are met with professional entertainers and rains of jade and gold: grand stages and curtains, cleared pavilions, and entire halls where guests admire from high seats and balconies rather than meet the artists at their floors. Not a single element in theatre meets any less than a noble payment. And yet, the most memorable plays and songs come from the lantern-lit streets during the final days of festivals, met within the edges of the districts, more commoners than titles, and where both he and Baiheng needed to hide their identities with cloaks and masks to enjoy it. 

Dan Feng can read between the lines of Yingxing’s attraction. Rather than listening to the ruan and guzheng’s tunes as the musicians fix the cords, the simple singers turn their voices into an instrument, and the commonfolk chat in awe before the performance. He listens to a heart nearby, pumping so loudly in his ears that it is almost part of the theatricals. Worse than the pump, pump, pump, he listens to the shushing, too-quiet flow of a thicker, darker essence running within the mortal’s veins.

Cease it, cease it now, but Yingxing is simply obsessed with the sword dancers becoming one with steel, his eyes flowing from violet to a charming obsidian found in gemstones. To cease it would mean to ruin the image, and imagery will, unfortunately, always be in Yingxing’s favour.

“I bet the swords were crafted on the Flaming Court’s forges,” says Yingxing, stealing Dan Feng’s attention from a vicious thought to the present. “You can hear their sting, can’t you?”

I was listening to your blood, but Dan Feng concurs. “Do you like swords?”

“You know they’re well-tempered swords as they could wound you from looks alone.” Yingxing turns to him with a glint of mischievousness. “I find the Luofu quite lacking in weaponry, truthfully. You have to compensate with your Generals and aggressive fronts since your steel could make Lan Themselves cry to sleep.”

Dan Feng jeers. “Fair to assume you are not a novice in the art of the sword, then?” 

There is an appreciation to it, the image of Yingxing in one of the sword dancers’ places, guiding the blade as an extension of himself. And from the Zhuming, nonetheless. 

“At least better than many of yours, surely.” 

“While the dancers are more than talented and skilful, you know soldiers give up on charm for the sake of battle.” 

“And I stand by what I said.” Yingxing leans his head to the side, tapping on his fan. “Why, you think I wouldn’t know how to use it? Everyone can learn. You just poke it.”

Jingliu might have had a stroke if she heard these words from anyone, more so if they came from the mouth of a disciple. Dan Feng remembers, once, many years ago, a younger Jing Yuan, yet to be Lieutenant, commented something similar, just as blasphemous to the Sword Champion’s ear… only to end the week of training with wounded hands, incapable of holding anything else if not for the sword’s hilt until he took those words back. 

A scornful laughter would be the answer. If it had been anyone else, Dan Feng would have humbled them with only a few sentences, perhaps a brief spar that would not have taken long when the person was so confident in themselves. 

But Yingxing, who speaks as he would recite poetry rather than an offense, is unbothered.

“A childish manner of describing a killing, yes,” Dan Feng drawls out.

“You say as if it’s hard,” Yingxing almost breathes the challenge, like smoking it from the pipe rather than speaking. 

And the High Elder still refuses to lose. He leans forward, elbows on the table and close enough to whisper; a sentence for the courtesan and the courtesan alone, no one around them allowed.

“Have you ever done it? Killed something?”

Yingxing mimics him with the addition of the closed fan, almost poking Dan Feng’s cheek with it, and breathes, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Yes, it is the first thing that comes to Dan Feng’s mind. What is there not to be curious? It is a thought more intrusive than reasonable. The line of interest and usefulness is thin. How far is this interest genuine and not an impulse?

“Now, don’t be scared,” sings Yingxing, breaking a quiet spell between them and returning attention to the beautifully crafted murals for the stage play as if he had not tried to nip an antediluvian creature with a short stick. “No need to fear I’m gonna wield a needle against you. You’d kill me in a second, no?”

“I have no reason to kill you,” says Dan Feng, wondering if it is him who was nipped or Yinyue-jun. Does Yingxing see anyone else before him? “Do you have any reason towards me?”

The way Yingxing bites his lip could mean a dreadful realisation. 

It is for the best Dan Feng does not delve into it, or else he will give into something dangerous.

“You still have to surprise me this evening,” murmurs Yingxing, eyes fixed on the open stage, where more lanterns are lit, and the fire among the crowd is burnt, diving them into a comfortable darkness for the show. “Think about that ring, will you?”

Silence befalls the pavilions with only a few whispers here and there, the flickering excitement for yet another story to be enacted. Dan Feng will not be the one to break the quietness, but he hardly cares about the play when his eyes stop on Yingxing for a second too long at the wrong moment.

A certain Emperor of the Han dynasty loved love even more than life, and longed for a woman so beautiful that he could forget the court and all his duties. His empire could collapse, and he wouldn't care.

Dan Feng is not met with awe. The actors’ movements resemble that of waves, but he sees small pecks of equilibrium that the public, distracted with the singing, will not notice. The songs are beautiful, much as Jing Yuan had told him, but the actress’ lungs burn with intent. Dan Feng sees it from the front row. Her chest heaves, yet it is no less beautiful to be seen. For a moment, even he could find emotional release or the closest thing to it.

He finds that, no, it may not be the singer who brings something out of him, but Yingxing when he turns to ask the courtesan how he fares the stage play.

Rarely does his action falter, or his thoughts halt out of shock.

Do you like the story so far? It seems like a useless question, one that Yingxing might not even hear even when coming from behind him, spoken so softly against his ear and breathing against his nape. Does it satisfy you? Scabious eyes do not even remember a companion sitting beside him, not when the courtesan tugs on his fan tighter than ever, leans forward, breathes profoundly, and sighs with reverence.

Her sweet smile warmed His cold and lonely heart. The ladies-in-waiting from the six palaces with their powdered empty faces couldn’t compare.

For a foreigner, the courtesan belongs more to this place than most. His eyes adoringly follow each sword dance, and he recollects every line under his breath. It is so subtle, anyone could have missed, but Dan Feng, oh, he cannot look away, not when those broken lips move so little and can never close for its awe, or the tiny gasps, inaudible for the crowd when overwhelmed with singing and the sharp-kissing sound of intertwined blades, but too clear for Dan Feng.

He knows how the play ends; everyone who lives on the Luofu, born or solely raised, knows it. The bittersweetness is taken too much to the heart or too much as a punishment. 

All he remembers is Yingxing the night before, body giving away as an autumn leaf lingering on a weak twig, only to amuse his importunate questions under the disguise of curiosity for the sake of… of what? Using Taoran as a predicament is his only way out. There is nothing else, obviously. 

But her jade countenance was now crisscrossed with tears.

Like a pear blossom wetted by the springtime rains.

Yingxing did say these stories are not… hated by him. Dan Feng does not know what to do with it, if not see how far it goes, yet all he sees are glossy eyes, shadows that could have been painted on the courtesan’s face rather than being a trick of light, and the frantic pumping of a heart within ribs that are not his own.

Dan Feng is the only one not applauding when the fires are once again lit, and faux, sweet-smelling blood lies upon the open stage, forgotten as the actors rekindle praises with large smiles. Or so would Dan Feng see if he strayed his attention away from the courtesan.

This is beyond a predicament. Is this what Taoran sees?

Dan Feng shakes his head and swallows until his throat hurts, hiding his hand under the table. His finger joints turn into pearls, breaking under the skin, and he must suppress a hiss. This vessel is too small, too prone to weakness, too meek, and it is the only flesh suit he has ever known; if Dan Feng suffers, Yinyue-jun meets relentless torture. He, however, has other important things to think about. 

Such as Yingxing’s loud swallow and sigh, leaning back against the chair with the most erect posture in courtesy, and countenance changing to that of a bored guest. When he turns to Dan Feng, he quirks his lips.

“Did you like the play, my lord?”

Is this how you speak to Taoran? “It is you who I aimed for this play, so I ask you that. Did you like it?”

“You’re ever so kind, thinking of pleasing me.” Yingxing tightens his jaw, seeming to bite the interior of his cheek and glaring at his companion. “It was better than that storyteller’s, surely. Out of spite, however, I’d say it isn’t hard to surpass his creationism.”

“If your enjoyment is purely tied to your spite to appreciate this play, I fear I have not given my best to surprise you,” Dan Feng half-admits, half-lures.

“You promised me a ring should I find the musicians unsatisfactory. Aren’t you a man of your word?” Yingxing crosses his arms, fan tightly shut under his chin. “My, my, imagine this. Yinyue-jun’s word is worth less than a whore during war times.”

“Have I broken my word until now?” Dan Feng ignores the fans begging for release. “And I believe you enjoyed it enough if I speak my mind.”

“You always speak your mind, whether I want it or not.”

“I can bring you to another presentation. That is far from being the issue.” Dan Feng whiffs and takes a deep breath, getting up from his seat. The guests and passerby locals meet for post-theatrical bliss and a few more congratulations to the artists, though Cosmos Street hardly loses a life. “No, it is not even an issue. But you are too arrogant to admit I managed to please you. That is fine.” Then, he extends a hand to the courtesan.

Unsurprisingly, Yingxing glares at him, lips perking with a will to smile or spit on him. It sends Dan Feng into a content spiral, knowing he can unsettle someone so insufferable with a few words, if not his presence alone. 

Even more so when Yingxing accepts his hand. “Oh, you’re so full of yourself.”

“Hard not to, when I am correct most of the time. Always, if I want to count the blessings of all.” There are war victories, and victories achieved in this strange, intimate affair. Winning in both is essential if he wants to be in control. “Now, that was not bad to admit, was it?”

“Admit?” Yingxing raves, but still curls a hand around Dan Feng’s elbow. “Where have I admitted anything? You make up lies and believe them yourself! No wonder you’re so delusional sometimes.”

But Dan Feng can see the light rose on the courtesan’s cheeks and down his neck, the frantic heartbeat within his chest. “I only comment on what I see. Tell me, was it the unconditional devotion that led war astray that left you gasping on your seat, or was it the beyond-death yearning, a timeless craving?”

Yingxing rolls his eyes and tightens around the crook of his elbow. “May Lan forbid you ever take someone else on a date from now on, you arrogant…” He seems to bite his tongue and mutter a foreign curse under his breath, even his accent slipping stronger than before, only to take a loud and deep breath. “Nice try. I should charge you for being a pain in my ass.”

“What language is that?” 

“Huh?” Yingxing falters in his step, blinking and facing him with an arched eyebrow.

“That is not just the Zhuming script,” says Dan Feng, gently pulling them forward and into the street. “I would recognise it from afar, even living on the Luofu. We receive many Zhuming artisans and apprentices for martial arts and the Wardance competition. I am familiar enough with the tongue, though most familiar yet with the damnations.”

“I’ve told you.” Yingxing swallows, shaking his shoulders, but with no sign of pride in his tone as before. “I did live there before coming to the Luofu. Foreigners also come and go throughout the Alliance. It’s just one of their tongues. It slips, sometimes.”

Lies. For a deal that requires both parties to not lie to each other, the courtesan seems to be flirting with the idea of omission, much to Dan Feng’s displease. Reasonably, his mind tells him it matters not; what good or importance does to know of this mortal courtesan’s past? He is convenient, and it should stay as such. Otherwise, Dan Feng would not be subjecting himself to frivolous dates when he could be receiving Shaoying’s reports.

But he has been enjoying the date. And Yingxing, wanting or not, sparks interest.

“Tell me of your home planet.” Dan Feng pulls him closer, gently, stopping amongst the cheering street.

“Hm? What’s with that question?” To say Yingxing tenses is a euphemism.

“We receive many tourists, indeed, but they usually come from the same places most of the time,” says Dan Feng. “After so long, you get a good ear to their accents. And here you are, with an accent I have never heard before. And unfamiliar words.”

Yingxing snickers. “I don’t expect you to know every language in the universe. In the galaxy, even.” Easy it is to brush things aside, or Yingxing is used to it. Maybe, with any other client—even Taoran—this actually works. “Why, even with your centuries of living and Lan-knows-how-many lifetimes, no one expects you to know everything.”

“It is not about knowing everything.” I am aware, bitterly, he recognises it. “Humour me, then. I am merely curious.”

“…if that’s so, then you owe me something, too.” Yingxing does not offer him a kind beam. It is stretched but never reaches his eyes. The scabious is pure obsidian when no lantern’s light reaches it. “A fair exchange.“

“Everything with you is an exchange.” It settles a queer sensation in the pit of his stomach. “And what will you want to know?”

“I tell you of my home, and you tell me of yours. Everyone knows you’re not from ‘round here, anyway.”

My home? The word sounds too foreign in Dan Feng’s mouth; maybe, in Yinyue-jun’s tongue, it feels less strange than in the Xianzhou dialect, but when he quietly mouths it, tests it, it feels outworldly rather than familiar, even if by a long, long time. Even if he could revive his past lifetimes in the flesh, in their entirety, without missing a beat of their reincarnations, he knows he will not comprehend what is there for home. Yinyue-jun has origins.

When he was but a youthful scholar, he remembers writing about this estranged home—could home be estranged? The memories are too broken to be remembered despite its blood longing for the primordial ocean, much like the ones in Scalegorge Waterscape, but infinitely vaster, more enticing than the lunarescent depths beneath them. What was land needed for, when the ocean took over it all?

“There is not much to say when most of us, including my person, have not been there. Not as you would expect it.” Dan Feng searches for words, or he tries to do so. A dormant longing is unmistakable, so he returns to when he was too young even to understand what being Yinyue-jun means. “They were more carefree in the Roiling Deep than us in this ship, an entire planet they roamed without a single worry in their bones. An ocean as far as the eye could see, covering up everything.

“Back then, we could still use the power gifted to us by our dragon ancestor, Long. As the prime species among those sea creatures, everything was within our control. If a fish species was too bony, we would remove the bones from inside their body. If a sea beast was too small, we would fatten it up and make it proliferate. If a seaweed was too bitter, we would sweeten it until it was delicious.”

Lady Xuepu used to say that, back then, they could use their powers derived from Long to change the form of any creature, as easily as children playing with modelling clay. Their ancestors could modify fish into a thick mountain of meat, gouging meat from this hill whenever they wanted a bite to eat. Back then, crabs could have thousands of legs, each leg filled with delicious crab meat. I wish we could go back to those days, he remembers commenting, snorting as he played with cloudhymn. Lady Xuepu said they never could return to it.

One day, when they could no longer control the powers of their dragon ancestor, all of the creatures in the entire ocean became their enemies. The fish were toxic, the sea beasts hostile, and even the seaweed could prey upon them. Later on, even the microscopic creatures in the Roiling Deep became dangerous. They multiplied until the oceans were no longer fit for the Vidyadhara’s survival.

And even later, they became a member of the Xianzhou Alliance. Life is good aboard the Xianzhou, but the freedom of the ocean is something they will never recover.

But Dan Feng does not dare to utter how things came to be.

“That sounds like a beautiful place to visit,” echoes from beside him, for he knows no better.

“Hm. Perhaps.” Dan Feng wants to say, yes, it is, it is the most beautiful place in the universe, but it tastes like a lie when he, himself, has never seen it. Yinyue-jun has it, at some point, and it is a far-fetched conclusion. Why, then, does Dan Feng feel so close yet far from what should be his cradle? “Now, word for a word. Fair exchange, correct?”

Yingxing presses his lips together, tight and most likely harmfully, before releasing them with a long sigh. Rather than exasperation, however, it comes as an unexpected, welcoming tiredness. 

“It wasn’t a world made of oceans. We had those, but they were far, far away from us all. I remember enormous lakes and rivers we couldn’t dare to play in, or else it’d take us somewhere else, if at all.” Dan Feng wonders if, as the words flow, Yingxing even remembers he has company. “There was a desert if you ventured far within. People’d call it the most barren region. No water. Not even a bird. A sea of death, yet very much alive. At night, you’d hear it—the shifting sands, they sing. Voices like spirits trying to lure you off course.”

“A deserted land?” The paintings hidden under the heavy curtains in the courtesan’s room would chant otherwise. 

“Only if you dared to see it.” For some, it would only come as a too-clever remark. Dan Feng wants to hear it as a promise of a brighter novelty. “Where you have limitless oceans, we have greenery. Enormous valleys that’d engulf you, bigger than this whole flagship. And they were so colourful. Not a day they’d go by without the cicadas and chirping birds. Days were longer, too… shorter nights full of breeze. The sun was real, too.”

“Is the sun not real enough for you? It paints the sky azure, reflects the seas, it shines so bright it could blind you, should you stare at it nonstop.”

“Does the rain feel real to you?” Yingxing brings no accusation in his tone. “When the waves crash against your shore, do they feel like those of your home? Because it doesn’t for me.”

Dan Feng nods meekly, pressing his tongue under his fangs as he smiles tightly. “I see.” It is a sour reminder they were never meant to come here if not for losing their planet. Ah, to not be a pawn in the grand scheme of the Abundance and the Hunt. “Are we not two exoworlders on a foreign land, then?”

“…I suppose we are.”

At last, we match on something.

Yingxing does not look akin to sharing more than that, and… Dan Feng cannot blame him. If the High Elder has his own secrets to keep, a courtesan from the Silk District might overdo him. The descriptions could be any planet and none of them at all. Verdantia has no deserts, rich in forests and jungles, and open fields meeting waters just as green as its leaves and grass. Vonwacq, perhaps? The last Dan Feng heard of it, its trees grew so tall it covered the sky. 

It is too far from what he tells me.

A gruesome feeling hits him, though. If Yingxing is among the Xianzhou Alliance, chances are they will not know of this unknown planet of his. 

What happened to you? 

Dan Feng remembers their words on their first meetings. No one within the Alliance is untouched by war. It should not matter this much, nor shock him, that war makes orphans and undoes laces between people. The courtesan is not the first and will not last as long as the Abundance and Their followers wander around, nor whilst the Hunt has unforgiven anyone and anything on Their way for the sake of vengeance, hidden with conquest.

A heartfelt laugh brings his attention back to the present, where Yingxing bites his bottom lip and almost nips on the fan. Dan Feng does not think he has ever seen the courtesan this… happy? Such a foreign word for a thing like him.

“What has you now?” he asks, guiding their steps through the hustling streets of the night market. The singers are not far away. “If I remember correctly, I am no court jester to be made fun of.”

“I was just…” Yingxing latches onto his elbow and slowly stops his walk.

“Just?”

Something is said, he is sure, but everything turns opaque to his ears when he sees Yingxing’s motions: a hand pushing a loose strand of black and silver hair behind his ear, a gentle eupnea for another strand falling over his eyes, the soft signs of bite marks over his lips, no longer with signs of lipstick but the saliva sparkling over the thin flesh. Skin softly stretches around the lips and at the corner of the eyes like a pencil’s brush. 

But it is the eyes akin to underwater lotuses that catch him off-guard, especially when the courtesan places his closed fan under Dan Feng’s chin and lifts his face to him, amusement dancing in his features.

“If I didn’t know you, I’d say you’re cute.”

Dan Feng sputters a curse under his breath, catching the fan in a tight grip. “A skilful liar, you are,” he mutters, lowering the courtesan’s fan and ignoring the husky laugh on his face. “That is not a word people use to me, normally.”

“Ah, but they don’t get to see this adorable piece of you, do they?” Yingxing gently taps his fan against Dan Feng’s face. “Tell me how not to make fun of you, dearest, when you come to me looking so green and so fresh. A blossoming, untried boy.” Each word descends a cadence, no doubt a tone befitting the dens of vice, reaching a whisper that kisses his face. “You might have to help me recall what Yinyue-jun looks like. It’s been so long since we saw each other…”

“I might have to relive your memory.” Dan Feng feels more than just the fangs bursting in his mouth. 

“Can’t wait for it, dear.” 

The fan opens in a snap!

With one last blow of air with too much amusement, Yingxing pulls Dan Feng closer, their faces a breath apart. 

There are curses ready to be spat on Dan Feng’s mouth, vicious and more malevolent than ever—who would even dare to approach him so intimately, if not with deadly intent? As stupid as it may be, no one would even manage to step so close to him to do anything. Who would ever dare, if not the mouthful courtesan who never hid his intent to get rid of Dan Feng at the first chance he got? 

Yingxing should know better, he is more reasonable than that. 

It happens so fast; his eyes catch it as a mortal’s blink. Yingxing’s arm pulls him chest to chest, circling his shoulders with a will. The High Elder’s own arm grabs him by the waist, and he hears a soft gasp quickly hidden with a giggle.

Dan Feng holds that thin wrist near his throat, claws breaching the soft tissue of the glove and onto the smooth skin. He hears, feels the blood pumping under his touch, the pulse begging to be slit, only to find Yingxing’s lips dangerously breathing on him and threatening to kiss with the broken, thin skin of his mouth when he listens, honey-touched and lingering with dread:

“We’re being followed.”

Dan Feng no longer listens to the hustle of Cosmos Street. He stills in place, attention solely on the courtesan before him who, despite his sweet, sweet cadence, stares at his companion with dreadful seriousness. 

Vidyadhara’s senses are above excellent; Yinyue-jun’s, then, being the greatest of them all. In an average conversation, he will speak of war times, the necessity to improve or put his life—his people—at risk. A darker part of him knows better, though he rarely voices it to the world. Not everyone is fond of monsters, after all.

Have I been so distracted I noticed nothing?

As if he needed a reminder that this affair with a mouthful courtesan could drag him lower and lower. Even if disguised with this human shape, his ears lose no skill. He does not move his head but can feel the ghostly feeling of his pointy ears twitching: leaves crushed beneath many feet, heavy steps on the cobblewalk. Bottles are opened, cheers echo from the terraces, feet run up and down the street… 

…and there, he feels it. A lingering, controlled breath only a few guests away, behind a food stand. 

Can you see who it is? He cannot discern, but the veil reeks of familiarity; the smell of iron, salty sweat he can taste in his mouth, the heaviest leather shoes—boots, he can tell—stomping rhythmically on the stone. 

It is not Taoran, not a Vidyadhara. There is no pearlescent scent, the sting of snake-like irises on him, the odour of sand and corals. A Xianzhou native, then. No doubt Taoran’s fault.

“Do you have any animosity with anyone?” Dan Feng asks under his breath because he must try, it cannot all go to waste so soon. “Anyone who might dislike you?”

Yingxing smiles sweetly, but his pulse is racing. Damned liar. “Hard to say,” he whispers against Dan Feng’s cheek, licking his lips. “Useless question to you, isn’t it?”

Dan Feng rasps, assenting. “Quite useless.” Before him, Yingxing has the mask of the noblest courtesan an art piece could ever sing of, but Dan Feng sees it perfectly: the nervous blinking hidden with a sly gaze under the eyelashes, the slight tremble at their corner messing with the red paint. The thundering heartbeat. “Follow me.”

The courtesan’s wrist could break within his grip. Dan Feng circles it thoroughly with his hand, and he feels the anxiety against his fingers, even with the glove between them. When he pulls Yingxing down the street, he undoes his hold, down to the waist. Something falls, but he does not look back. He ignores Yingxing’s quiet gasp or the mouthed, unvoiced curse but smiles in a silent victory at seeing their steps not falter.

Nor the steps behind them.

“It sounds like a knight,” he murmurs against Yingxing’s ear, tugging him down the street and around the corner. Fewer and fewer people visit these darker alleys. “Is it one?”

“Yes,” hisses Yingxing. “Do you think he’s stupid enough to just—”

“Yes,” repeats Dan Feng, eyeing the area. It is not as lit and decorated as the rest of the district, and he vaguely makes the shape of the old tea shop, already closed. “Rather they are after me or you, we have a part to play.”

“Well, in that case…” Yingxing takes a deep breath and stops. “Fuck you, dearest.”

Dan Feng only has time to glare at the courtesan, tightening his hold around his waist, before a pair of hands pulls him behind a lonely house’s balcony. If not for the wall behind Yingxing, they would have met the floor without any grace. With a heavy thud!, his palm hits the bricks close to the courtesan’s head. 

“Have you gone mad!?”

“Play the fucking part.” Yingxing lost all flattery on his face. His lips curve downwards, gritting his teeth. “What? Don’t tell me the damned High Elder doesn’t know how to feign a fuck.”

“So you have gone mad.” Figures I would get a madman for company. 

“Speak for yourself—!”

Clank!

Yingxing stills where he stands, and Dan Feng whips his head to the alley’s entrance, where a body leans forward against a pillar. A metal bracer met the floor, shining even under the weakest light in the street, and a strand of white, fluffy hair in a ponytail escapes the dark cape.

Dan Feng loses the anger, changing it for utter confusion when he recognises the too familiar shape.

“Jing Yuan?”

He, unfortunately, would recognise that sheepish, faux-innocent smile anywhere. It is the same smile the Lieutenant gives Jingliu before he escapes their sparring sessions or leaves Dan Feng to argue with Lady Xuepu by himself as he places an empty wine glass in his hand. The High Elder wants to smack that laugh with his tail.

“You know him?” Yingxing’s question pulls him, and he meets the semblance of an infuriated creature who probably wishes to push him mercilessly. Ha, just try it. 

Clearing his throat, Dan Feng takes a deep breath and resists the enormous will to let his talons pierce the glove. With a gentle push, he pulls away from the courtesan, ignoring the quivers in his hand. It weighs and strangles his bones and tendons, forcing him to curl his hands in a fist with a good inhale before he turns to the alley’s entrance.

Control yourself, he keeps telling his hunger, what are you, a mindless marastruck? “Is there a reason you have been playing the spy?”

“Ah, A-Feng,” greets Jing Yuan, picking up the fallen metal bracer from the ground. Then, he unveils the cape, where a mane of silver takes more space. He is shameful, a rare sight for Dan Feng; the Lieutenant is often more confident and nonchalant than embarrassed… much to Jingliu’s disapproval. “I just thought I recognised… uhm, you know.” 

Jing Yuan is certainly cleverer than Dan Feng had given him credit for, despite the credit itself being magnanimous. “I admit I should have gone with a more undefined disguise and namesake if you could see through me.”

However, he finds confusion in the Lieutenant’s face, for a second only, though undoubtedly present. “Yes, yes,” Jing Yuan agrees, but uncertainty prevails in his voice. “I believe I spent too much time with you in the training grounds to know a few things here and there. Speech patterns, posture… but I wasn’t going to tell on you, if you—”

“So you two know each other well?”

As Jing Yuan’s breath itches and he blinks, swallowing loudly enough for Dan Feng to hear it, the latter turns to Yingxing, who has his arms crossed over the chest and a less-than-glad semblance to ornate.

This should have never happened! Ancient curses swarm his mind, threatening to fall on his tongue and drag him down to the pit. Yingxing was meant to be something kept between him and Dan Heng, a Nameless stranger with no past to speak of, not shared. You already share him, he reminds himself, which makes him bite his tongue with the sharpest fang, begging for blood. It will heal in no time. 

At least, it is not another Preceptor or a random Cloud-Knight. Long knows how many problems one could bring him if he suspects a foreigner messing around.

Before Jing Yuan ruins any advancement he obtained in the past few weeks with only a few witty words, Dan Feng composes himself. “This is Jing Yuan, a close acquaintance of mine,” he says, extending a hand in presentation. “He is, indeed, a pretty clever thing. And trustable, before you ask.”

The way Yingxing tilts his head, bites his lower lip and taps his finger on his arm tells enough of what he might want to do. To punch Dan Feng is beyond visible, from the first meeting and in every single one of them. Scream, maybe, when he gazes at Jing Yuan with the same feigned tranquillity with which he regarded Dan Feng moments before, pretending to be luring rather than running. His chest heaves and his pulse is on fire. He might simply curse the two of them and leave, stomping away.

Instead, Yingxing uncrosses his arms and turns to Jing Yuan. “You’re not a regular knight, are you?” He gesticulates with his fingers in the air, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, not yet welcoming. “I know a poor disguise when I see one. You work close to the General, don’t you?”

Jing Yuan clears his throat, daring to take a step forward. “First Lieutenant.” There is an evident pride in his words, but none of the full-chest, winning arrogance directed at others, the lazy, effortless conquest. There, Dan Feng sees a bit of reluctance, a humility rarely seen. Ah, yes, now Dan Feng remembers: a younger Jing Yuan, when they first met, exposed the same fragility. “Oh, you let it drop…”

The Lieutenant groans as he taps his garments. He silently hums and picks up a familiar closed fan from under the cloak.

“I saw you losing it as you… pretended not to run.” Jing Yuan clicks his tongue.

Yingxing’s lashes flutter as he blinks, and he has a darkening gaze as he approaches the man with a careful hand and wraps his fingers around the fan. 

“Thank you,” he says, slightly out of breath and licking his lips again. “I didn’t even notice I had lost it until he pulled me.” And there, he pretends not to glare at Dan Feng, side-eyeing him. To Jing Yuan, he beams more warmly. “I appreciate it.”

“And you thought it was a brilliant idea to stalk us?” Dan Feng asks, cutting to Jing Yuan. He will not think of Yingxing sweetening with such a simple thing as his beloved fan in his hands. He exhales, feeling the exhaustion of the past days falling on his shoulders. “What if I were not myself but a guest with ill intent? Someone who loathes you, most likely? Have you considered it?”

“Then I’d be stumbling upon a white night liaison, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t be the first time. I just wanted to get off Jingliu’s radar without anyone telling on me, either.”

“You are no criminal,” Dan Feng points out. 

“Do you know she pays Short Auntie to tell of my whereabouts?” Jing Yuan pulls on his cloak. Then, more directed at Yingxing than the High Elder, he mutters, “At best, she thinks I’m with Teng Xiao… is it really a terrible disguise?”

Hiding a smile with his now-recovered fan, Yingxing weakly coughs before tugging the fan closer to his chest. “Most men are trying to hide themselves, usually from their wives, though. They leave with less armour to avoid dragging the attention, though your hair is pretty telling, I fear. Never seen anyone with so much hair to brush away.”

Because if anyone knows what a suspicious man would look like, it is Yingxing, leaving a sour taste in Dan Feng’s mouth. No, do not think about this now. 

“Listen, Jing Yuan, you cannot tell anyone of this.” Dan Feng hushes it more like a reprehension, quick as a whip, sterner than he wants to. The slip of tone down on him later, and he puffs. “Not even Jingliu and Baiheng can know of this.”

“I wasn’t going to tell anything to anyone.” Jing Yuan is reluctant, minding the words as he gazes between the courtesan and the High Elder in disguise. He might have hurt the young Lieutenant, but with his title on the line and Taoran’s loyalty flickering, he will have to hold a grip stronger than iron. “Why would I? I mean, I was wondering when you’d ever get---”

“It is not what you think,” Dan Feng cuts him before he can finish and hears Yingxing’s breath halt beside him. “It is… intel. Precious intel. Ying— Lily has insight on information that could be valuable if I want to keep him in line.”

Jing Yuan hails, between a frown and surprise. Dan Feng wonders if he went too far with this whole affair, and the Lieutenant’s expression screams yes, you have. There are countless other options to have taken rather than risking his own identity, reputation, and even cutting the already-thin trust between Yinyue-jun and the Preceptors. 

A damned spy, he could have sent Shaoying ages ago. Long knows what went wrong.

Perhaps not even his forefather knows what roams in his mind, but neither does Dan Feng.

“You have nothing to concern yourself with,” says Jing Yuan, offering the kind smile he provides Teng Xiao in meetings or with the Ten Lords when inquiring about their war campaigns; a smile meant for diplomacy more than friendship. A professional affair signature. Jing Yuan swallows and clicks his tongue, acquiescing, then looking up at Yingxing with the warmth of that once youthful yet-to-be knight. “I apologise for my intrusion. This is not the best or proper way to meet anyone.”

“No need for apologies.” Yingxing beams, the gentlest echo for a voice. “Not every man would’ve retrieved such a stupid thing as a fan, would they?” He scoffs in light amusement. “Stuff of stories.”

“A-Feng, I…” When Jing Yuan turns to face him, Dan Feng’s heart constricts. What have I been doing? “I shall tell no one, fear not. If you need help…”

“I will keep it in mind.” Dan Feng clears his throat.

The seconds between them last longer than a Xianzhou native’s lifespan, in his senses. To the courtesan and the young Lieutenant, it seems, not so much. Dan Feng can hear it all: Yingxing’s thumping cardiac muscle, the heavy breathing hidden under the calmest demeanour an actor could deliver, the wet sounds of his tongue veiling his lips. Or worse, Jing Yuan’s steps as he pushes further away with the last farewells. If evermore or momentarily, to whom, he can only wonder. 

Dan Feng realises, then, that he has never, truthfully, apologised.

“I apologise for this,” he starts, clinching his fingers in a fist. Anger? No, it cannot be. It is not red like wrath, but he swallows something crimson down his throat. 

“Hm?” Yingxing turns to him, unbothered. “For what, exactly? There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“This impromptu event.” As much as he tries, Dan Feng cannot understand which emotions flicker through the courtesan’s eyes. Aggravation? Loathing, even? Exhaustion is always present. “Meeting anyone else in this affair was not ideal, and I put you in a vexing position.”

Rather than answering right away, venomous or defeated, Yingxing regards him, biting the interior of his cheek. “Now, what position would that be? I’m a whore, remember?” If only eyes could cut. Careful, calculated steps approach him, and the fan threatens to lift his chin once more… only to simply touch his chest. “He’s a way sweeter boy than you.”

Dan Feng huffs. “Jing Yuan has always been kinder to friends and foes alike than I ever could. That is true.” No wonder a creature of beauty is always wrapped around his arms at feasts and festivals, come and go. Or enemies that fall as he tells them to. “It was, however, not what I had in mind for the evening. I understand this affair of ours is not to your comfort, and having others meddling in it may be…”

“Just shut up.” Yingxing rolls in his eyes, though lacking the usual annoyance. “It’s not like you don’t bring that little painter of yours or have a spy here and there. Or, what, you’re gonna tell me they think we’re fucking?” When Dan Feng says nothing, Yingxing narrows his eyes, quirking his lips. “They don’t think we’re fucking, do they?”

“Chunfen knows better than to pry into her High Elder’s affairs,” is what he tells the courtesan. They do not think that, is what he wants to reply, reassure Yingxing there is nothing beyond the professional intent and secretive intel not even Chunfen knows of. The words, however, refuse to come out. They do not. “There is nothing to be concerned with.”

“Alright,” Yingxing whispers, slowly consenting. He looks terribly amused, even if concealing it with peacefulness. “But I wasn’t concerned with that.”

Dan Feng frowns. “What were you worried about?”

Yingxing, to his dying curiosity, does not tell him. “Then the date is over. Shall we go back?”

Even with centuries of age behind him, reincarnations of history and the High Elder’s reach of influence, some things are unknown to Dan Feng. He is familiar with grief, the lingering loss, but more often than not, he finds himself wrinkling in confusion at someone falling on their knees, silently crying. Such is the way of war, despite centuries apart from death and memory. It fades, the loss, and they should move on quickly, more so than him. 

Dan Feng is fated to remember. The Permanence is beyond immortality. Why do they linger? They are no Vidyadhara, no High Elder to be cursed with such a burden. The Abundance comes for the body… and oh, the mind still rules over it, more potent than any material aeonic curse. How come? These mortal feelings, fleeting as they are, should not be with him.

They belong to Yingxing, quietly holding onto his elbow and never sparing a single look at him as they return. His hands tightly wrap the fan, no quivering visible. Only a few know how to hide the nervousness so well, yet Dan Feng hears it. The heart never stops pumping, more than the constant chatting in the district, the opaque buzzing as they pass the dark alleys and meet the hustle and bustle of the Silk Road, forever night and forever vivid. All he hears is that damned muscle wanting to burst from the bones.

“You have spoken of your homeland with fondness I had yet to see,” he starts, planning the eloquence before uttering. Even if Yingxing does not turn to face him, his limbs meet a light frigidity. He is listening. “Surely, you have stories of your own and not from the Zhuming.”

“Are you doubting the Zhuming talents?” With mirth as a mask, Yingxing leans into him. “I didn’t expect this attitude from you, Your Grace.”

“Far from me being sceptical regarding the Alliance’s proficiencies when we thrive with it. I ask out of… interest.” Curiosity feels weird. After so many times, it stung his tongue. It sounds childish, unbefitting of him. “I have had fervorous dialogues with centuries-old scholars revolving around the arts, but yours is biased. It is less dull than what they could give me. I wonder why that is.”

“…law of exchange.” Yingxing stops, finally face to face. “You said it yourself. We’re both from out of here. Or you’ll tell me Vidyadhara chants have fallen into the Xianzhou’s lyrics? I’d mourn as a widow mourns her fallen husband if that’s the case.”

“I fear we are too proud to let a similar scenario happen.” It is not a proper acceptance or a welcome conversation, but Dan Feng brings Yingxing to a hidden corner beneath a stone balcony. One turn and Yingxing will return to heavy curtains and strong incense of a garden-like pavilion. “The wind escorts the moon; the moon escorts the wind. When the moon sets, who can the wind be with?”

“Of course you have a poem on the moon,” Yingxing murmurs, lips quirking. “You’ve written it yourself?”

“My predecessor, Yubie.” Some would claim it is him; who is Yinyue-jun, if not Many? He who Imbibes the Moon once carved the poem on jade. “It is a mere folk tale, better recited in Vidyadhara tones.”

Yingxing crosses his arms, fluttering lashes and humming in thought. “I don’t… know how to translate it, if I’m honest,” he admits, daring to be timid rather than dismissive. “My m—I used to listen to a few songs when I was young. Decades ago, mind you. How could I get it right…” He mutters, mouths to himself, tastes foreign whispers between his lips before taking a deep breath. “If we cannot meet again in this life, let it be so that we care and help each other; by all means in all our future lives, like a mother loves… her only little child.”

“Future lives? You know of reincarnation?”

Yingxing suspires, light-hearted. “’Course not. It’s a poem.” For a moment, I thought we could go beyond being foreigners in accordance, but Yingxing does not notice the faltering disappointment; Dan Feng himself knows not why such a despondent feeling hits him. “I can’t tell you more. I’d make a mockery out of them all.”

“Translation will never match its true sentiment,” agrees Dan Feng. Vidyadhara language has long changed since they fled to the Alliance, though ghosts of old hint in his mind.

“It’s not just language.” Yingxing shakes his head. “Some are tales turned into songs turned into written poems. I’ll never have them as they should again. Which instruments do I have? A sanxian, maybe, or the guzheng. But it’s been long since I could learn the songs. Memory isn’t loyal.”

Dan Feng halts his tongue before he can ask, how come you say ‘never’? A little too late, Yingxing realises his tiny slip, breath itching and licking his lips. For all of his arrogance, he looks away first. 

“What will you want in exchange for telling me about you?” This question he cannot control. Cursed you be, control yourself. 

“Why would it be any relevant to you?” Yingxing leans forward, shadows partially veiling his countenance. “Be reasonable, dearest.”

“You speak of lying memories and songs I will never hear, settling a queer wish to listen and see what you so highly speak of.” Be reasonable, it echoes nonstop in his head and paints his tongue in bitterness. “Forgive me if a spark has risen with the unknown.”

“You and I will never hear them because you know damn well what happens to a planet invaded by Borisins,” Yingxing cuts him. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

“How young were you?”

“Not young enough.” It is a snap, but reeks of sorrow. “It’s for the greater good to be left behind, no?”

Never had Dan Feng’s words turned so venomously yet sweetly against him. The worst, he suspects, is that Yingxing carries none of that poisonous touch and tone to the voice when they first met or their poignant encounters. 

No, Yingxing speaks softly, too far away from him, and yet so near and touchable.

Which war campaign was I overseeing when you—

“How old were you when given away?”

Yingxing does not look at him now. Instead, he keeps his fan close to his mouth, and his wandering fingers play with Dan Feng’s collar. 

“Hard to say, after so long, and they start to blur with one another with ease the farthest they are from the present. But worry not; they waited until I was five-and-ten to flaunt me around the ship.”

Five-and-ten, an age too young in a Vidyadhara’s eyes. A decade is nothing. Half a decade is even less. Dan Feng must swallow, or else he will let the hecatomb of thoughts dictate what will be uttered next. Decades. A short-life species should feel time running…

…not Yingxing, though. 

“I am sorry for what has befallen your home.” 

What I spat at you ten years ago.

“Such is the reality of war, Your Grace,” whispers Yingxing, pressing his lips in a weak smile. “Who in the Alliance knows nothing of it?”

There will be things Yingxing will not share even if given all the gold in the Alliance, all the plundering goods and spoils from the Abundance, and it is a strange taste of defeat that swarms within Dan Feng. Yinyue-jun, Scion of Long and commander of rain and clouds, the oceans and seas. And he wonders if a lonely courtesan is who bestows him with loss.

It will not take much, not when they have only breaths separating them. Each exhale kisses each other’s cheek, and Yingxing hums quietly, peering at him from under his eyelashes. Here, he sees them, long and a bit messy, smudged with black and red kohl, as dark as the eyes, gloomier every second. 

They can put an end to this. Not the bloody history or remembrance, nor the backstabbing, for that they can only endure, turn a blind eye if needed. But it is fragile, this thing between them. Air is denser, yet can easily scatter their words, for they are not required. It is pure, utter recklessness, one which Yinyue-jun wants, but cannot afford. 

Should not. 

“What will it cost me to have more than this?”

Yingxing echoes a light wind, diverging the stare, and he gives him a tired smile, not for the first time but certainly not the last. “I wish you a good night, Your Grace.”

Dan Feng still smells the soft incense on him when the courtesan leaves, light as rain, but he brushes his fingers together… where he last touched strands of dark hair as the courtesan pulled away. 

Goodnight.

Chapter Text

Yingxing finds Jing Fei’s beauty to be unmatchable.

The stuff of romances sung in legends, he would say to himself, for she would fluster and slap his shoulder with her tiny fan. The girl is the classical Xianzhou beauty: flawless, unblemished porcelain skin akin to lilies, with eyes as dark as onyx stones, full of life and heart. Her hair never stops growing, seeming endless, a river of black that would put nobles’ naturals to shame, glowing as a river, a silken mirror. But anyone could have such an appearance if jealousy speaks.

But her eyes were soft in their shape, dainty and pulled by a painter’s brush, the tail of a pencil for lashes. Her mouth, the heart-shaped, rosy lips, which are doors to the gentlest voice a woman could possess. And so were her cheeks, and her slightly pressed nose.

It may be her feet. Naturally small and perfect for dancing, and no need to break them for the sake of pleasantries. Not that it would last much, with that cursed healing. These are small privileges, one could say, and no arguments would be held if so.

Above all, she does not age.

“I need you to stop fidgeting, jiejie,” complains Yingxing, one hand flying to hold the dancer in place as the other keeps the brush taut between his fingers. “I will mess up your painting if you don’t keep still.”

Jing Fei huffs, more humorous than one would have liked. “Do you think he’ll want me to play him the ruan tonight?”

“I don’t think it’s the ruan he’s after. Close your eyes.” Swift and gentle, Yingxing turns her face into the finest porcelain piece, pure white on her skin, naturally red cheeks becoming one with snow. And he ignores her nose’s twitch. He has not even gotten to the powder yet. “You should wear peaches, maybe lilac for silk. What about the sandals?”

“He won’t be looking at the sandals,” she mimics his retort, to which he complies with a hushed, fair enough. “He genuinely likes to see me playing, you know. He even bought me a fine new guzheng, just for me, so I could give him a show any time he comes around.”

Jing Fei’s client is one among many of the Cloud Knights that visit the brothel, and for some reason, he cannot fathom, she is as smitten with the soldier as he is with her. Yingxing will not speak ill of the man if it displeases her, but little does he see that it is worth such a fuss and excitement.

Not that he finds any excitement these days from infatuated, love-drunk soldiers.

Yingxing had seen him a couple of times from afar, only once in person—a meeting he was thoroughly ignored and would be offended, if he were not confused by the way Jing Fei kept biting her lower lip and blushing, blushing! Of all things, especially from a courtesan who should have lost any shyness decades prior.

So Yingxing only nods, suppressing any unsavoury comment on how the knight always looks too fresh for the military, no smell of iron and no sign of blood in his armour. It might be the hair. Yingxing has a hard time finding hair of grain to his tastes. As if it is not sufficient, he also sounds too aloof, lost in his own world.

At least, he looks clean.

“A determined one, indeed.” It is easy to paint her face, no cracks aside from crows’ feet and wrinkles that are born not of old age, but wide smiles and shining gazes. Even if there were signs, the makeup would cover them up. “And is he fine with you and your crowd this evening rather than alone?”

“…hm. It’s not as if he closes himself off to me.” Jing Fei opens her eyes, taking a deep breath and blinking some of the excess white on her lids. “But he will see me alone eventually. That’s what matters, right?” She tugs on his robe, fingers clutching on top of his thighs. “He made me reach my peak. Where else will I find one of these?”

What a bottomless pit we’ve reached, to celebrate stupid things, the bare minimum. Yingxing cannot even disagree.

“As long as you’re content with him.” Lies, and they both know it. Jing Fei scoffs lightly, and Yingxing follows with a restrained chuckle. “Better than the last one, at least. What did I say about opening your eyes? Keep them closed.”

“Much better.” She obeys him with a smile, sighing deeply. “Ah, you can’t find a man like that out of romance plays and legends! I still can’t believe he reached out to me. A decade later, and he already makes me feel like we’ve been together for no more than a week!”

No more than a week. Yingxing blinks, faltering as he gives one last brush of the white paint over her face, an impeccable canvas ready for more ornaments. She truly has the perfect face for a romance. As much as she sings praises for her client, an unreachable fantasy, she is not so far from being a beauty to be sung by poets and musicians.

Yingxing envies her.

The porcelain will not have any cracks for centuries to come, if at all, and her bright-eyed, youthful demeanour will be revered; one of the only good things coming from the dreadful Abundance curse, a dove from the Plague’s hands. She is not exotic. She is dreamy.

“I’ve never seen you this taken with a client before,” he teases, biting his lip as he applies powder on her face, suppressing a chortle when she twitches her nose again. “Hold your sneeze for a while.”

“You can’t blame me!” Gods, sometimes she is more of a younger sister than a woman, full three centuries older than his mere forties. When Yingxing is done with the powder, she arches an eyebrow and pierces him with a glint on her eyes. “Tell me, what about that boy?”

Yingxing hums, searching for the lips’ pencil and the red dye. “What boy?”

“Oh, please. Spare me the nonsense. You speak of me with my knight, but I find you taken with a nameless boy every other night.”

Oh. That boy.

What can Yingxing possibly say? He gets on my nerves, and some more, which I fear is enjoying. He blames it on his need to be kept on the ground, reality-checking every now and then out of fear of ascending more than he is allowed to. It is harder than expected to get rid of that face from his head.

Resentment, guilt, curiosity? No, now you just sound like him. It is not in a courtesan’s best interests to be the one bearing the desire for knowledge, the curious will. That is for clients alone, so they come back until no strales are left in their pockets, and no ego bears their name.

Dan Feng? He might have more ego than power, and Yingxing scoffs alone, amused by its own, silent joke. There are no words to describe that terrible, violence-inducing man as a thing to be consumed by.

“See? You’re even smiling.” Jing Fei’s voice makes him blink, and he rolls his eyes. It is not out of fondness that he brings his lips into a crescent moon… not that he will tell his jiejie that. “It’s always the quiet ones that make it best.”

He’s not quiet. Dan Feng is insufferably talkative when he wants to be, pompous and full of hubris.

“There’s nothing special about him,” says Yingxing, searching for the red lip taint. “Do you even need the lipstick? You brag with taste about how red your mouth is without pushing or biting it.”

“Yes, he likes the print on his neck. And don’t change the subject, stop lying to me.” Before Yingxing could start with her mouth, she grabs his wrist. She has a strong hold despite her size, but is careful, gentle, even, though her eyes bring wicked senses into his troubles. “You think you can hide from me? You were distracted when he courted you outside. Distracted.”

“Anyone can get distracted with the lack of sleep, annoyance and a pocket of strales in hand.”

“Let me rephrase it—you were sighing and grinning.”

Yingxing rolls his eyes. “Such a grand tale to say I’m infatuated, isn’t it?”

“I’m not letting you finish unless you tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Aside from curses, aches in my limbs, and a Lan-awful idea to make him angrier than ever. He will not tell his jiejie any of it, too.

Their date was not even a bad meeting, if the courtesan is honest with himself. There have been worse in history, especially his own, and at least no demand for lewd encounters trailed behind them. A bit of fresh air, but at a cost I have yet to find out if it’s worth paying, but all doubts could be, momentarily, thrown out of the window and down into the gutters for some little poetry and petty arguments, all for the sake of confrontation.

Dan Feng entertains him. Yingxing enjoys poking at the crown on his head and seeing how far he can go until it snaps, or he finds a meaty scale wrapped around his neck as punishment for straying too far from decency. The courtesan has been punished for less in the past, but taunting the almighty High Elder of the Vidyadhara might be a step no one would dare take. Taoran sure avoids it.

“He’s… clever,” he tiptoes with his words, taking a deep breath. “A bit naïve, if for what matters, but is smart enough to get it quickly.” Yingxing does not lie. He calculates. Meticulously brings forth what is true, though through the wrong lenses. Ah, he was also shy. A snort escapes him before he can control it. “I don’t think he’s ever seen a cunt in his life.”

And he was asking for more.

No more than a month since their last meeting, that strange yet enjoyable date out in the open, and Yingxing is at a loss for what is scratching at his door. More what? Yingxing cannot yet discern between the will of strangulation and what some would call desire, not when it comes to Yinyue-jun.

The High Elder offends and praises to his will, does not care for those he inflicts pain on, and is too high on the ladder to grasp what Yingxing says—but he did ask, nonetheless. It almost looks as if…

Yinyue-jun shows no signs of affection but will not hold back from telling Yingxing what stresses him, what disgusts him, ending just to ask the courtesan for trivialities no one cares about.

He wanted to know poetry from Yingxing’s lips, and that should not have made the courtesan’s heart flutter, or his stomach turn itself inside out.

And he will not think of the stupid push against the alley.

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut it, jiejie.”

“You like him,” she says, not minding that Yingxing might mess up her makeup and, therefore, ruin her presentation tonight. “He’s cute. I’ve seen him argue with Alphonse to get you alone, steadier than a mountain. He’s indeed very smart. And rich.”

“Yes, yes.” Probably the wealthiest man on this flagship. “Stay still for once? You don’t want your knight to find you with a mushed lipstick and think another got you first, do you?”

“And that proves me wrong in your eyes?” Ah, that malicious glint of hers. “Tell me, is he any good?”

“I told you, I think he came to me as green as any other boy.”

“It doesn’t mean you haven’t changed that. Or at least seen him.” Only then, Jing Fei shuts her mouth, though no loss of the grin.

Yingxing can only get so much fun in this place as the curtain-fall hour arrives, second by second. What reputation is there to break, anyway?

If there is one thing Yingxing is, that is petty. Petty enough to argue by himself, hate alone, and resent everything in his guts without sharing any of it. And enough to ruin just a little more of Dan Feng, even if only he will ever know who he speaks.

For what he is doing it, he knows not.

“He was too fast,” he says, lifting the corner of his lips. “Very endearing, really. I feel honoured.” Or maybe not, because he is too arrogant and proud to give up first.

What a terrible idea, to think of one of the worst people you know, the man you cannot stand, and how he would look in bed. Or anywhere else, such as under a lonely balcony in Aurum Alley.

“Good enough to make me laugh, though.” This truth tastes bitter in his mouth, and he bites his lip at the realisation. Of all things for Yinyue-jun to be, funny should not have been one of them. “He’s easy to tease, and he tries to keep quiet when you know he wants to simply spit at you, or curse at his Aeon. Whoever that is.” Long is dead.

“He makes me want to bite his cheeks whenever he comes around.” With her lips delineated in bright, pomegranate-red, a heart for mouth, she can finally speak as she pleases, much to Yingxing’s chagrin.

“There are more interesting men out there,” says Yingxing, a smaller, thinner pencil between his fingers and dripping it in black kohl. “Close your eyes.”

“What a lie, especially when it’s you. When was the last time any other man caught your attention?”

When was it? Never, most likely. Yingxing can count on one hand and a few missing fingers how many times someone was interesting enough to make him curious, or pleasant to know, pleasant overall. He may find humour in Dan Feng’s innocent disguise, the hints of green in his person, but any other client would have driven Yingxing to an endless boredom, waiting for the night to end.

No, he cannot recall a time a man has picked his gaze in more ways than one, the interest to keep them together or wish for more.

The wrong attention, the inevitable remembrance when it comes to what he dislikes.

“Sometimes they’re cuter than I expect them to be, it’s true,” abides Yingxing, a long exhale escaping his lips. “I forget them easily, jiejie. You know how difficult I am to keep around.”

But Dan Feng is too hard to forget, as much as Yingxing wishes he was. All would be easier if he would forget me, instead, so the courtesan can live it with himself, wait for time to heal the wounds and clear his mind.

“Will you come watch me play?” Jing Fei asks as she flutters her eyes a little. “It’s been too long since you’ve been at one of my presentations, and I miss the little flower at the stage’s feet. When was the last time you played?”

Yingxing scoffs, cleaning the pencils in a pot of soon-to-be sullied water. “For a while, yes, but I still need to get ready. I have yet to bathe, too.” He ignores the last question, for the sake of his aching chest.

“And… will you paint yourself?”

Despite Jing Fei’s appearance, seeming younger than her companion, it is easy for Yingxing to forget she carries centuries above him. Her face is ornamented as a lover from a romantic play, too ageless and untouchable, and she reminds him of the truth when her voice drops, lips losing any smirking tone and eyes fixed on him, almost unblinking. There is no humorous intent in her question.

The pencils stop swirling within the pot, clear water now a deep, greyish green.

“You know I can’t.” There is a tiny smile formed by Yingxing’s lips, one that never reaches his eyes or screams revelry.

For long seconds, she says nothing, and they could have fallen into a comfortable silence if not for the footsteps upstairs resounding deep, messing with the wooden floors, instruments moved here and there all around, and muffled voices twisting with one another.

“Very well, then.” With a deep intake of breath, Jing Fei lifts herself with the grace of a natural-born dancer, swiftly on her feet without the help of her hands. “Will you help me with my hair and robes?”

“Of course.”

It reminds Yingxing of when he was but a young boy yet to bloom, running errands and helping his older sisters groom themselves each night as he learned each step required for one to serve. Once, he had been in awe. Dare he say, he was in love. Art could be found in anything, should the person have the eyes to see it. Once, he even loved to colour his face in snow-white paint and look like a painting, a figure from parchments and panels.

Once, a long time ago, before the wrinkles began to show.

Despite Yingxing’s unsavoury comments that he shall keep it to himself, he may see why Jing Fei is so taken with a man who treats her as if she were the only living one in the room.

Loved is a too strong word, and Yingxing will never utter it, though sparks of adoration are, undoubtedly, present. Having a man with the power of life in death turned into steel and kneeling before you is a pleasant image, a fantasy that may not be normal, but is not unheard of.

Who does not love being cherished?

Jing Fei is, now, the most beautiful gem to find among several flowers. No one plays the ruan like her, and no one has the same elegant flow of willowy fingers between the instrument’s cords. Every time she blinks, her long lashes flutter charmingly, and she does not wear her heart on her sleeve when it is on her lips instead, for all to see.

When was the last time you played?

Before his attention began to be requested elsewhere, bitterly. The Zhuming had been a more welcoming place for those who seek the arts revered by the commonfolk and nobles alike, no intentions behind courting; appreciation for the sake of itself, as beauty is an intelligence of its own. Superior, even, since it has no science behind it, no logic, if not emotion, and simply being beautiful.

He cannot remember the last time was, that he played for the sake of playing, but it must have been the last time he also wore white paint on his skin, and no hunger prevailed upon him.

Yingxing receives the letter after that fucker starts talking, much to his dissatisfaction.

The letter was opened before, he notices. The wax seal is broken, and there are too-thick fingerprints at the corner of the paper, which is of high quality as Yingxing inspects it, coloured with mother-of-pearl and smelling of ink. It was written this morning, he presumes, and no more than that.

Pushing the broken seal together, the wax forms the sign of a faint lotus. He suspects the sender, though it is confirmed as soon as he hears:

“And how is your date goin’ with that boy, Lily?”

Alphonse is too chatty and an adored fan of gossip, it is well-known throughout the entire district. He may speak as a drunkard and bubble too much on trivialities, not even hiding the mask of a stupid merchant, too dumb for local rules, but he always knows what to make one tick if he is focused enough. He acts within a role just as good, if not better, than the courtesans he overlooks.

And now he offers a sickly smile with yellowish teeth, eyes red with herbs and bordering on sleepiness.

“Date is going well enough since he keeps coming back, don’t you think?” Yingxing does not roll his eyes this time. There is no need since he suspects the brothel owner knows him. “When did you start asking for input?”

“Since a client brings profit and a fucking headache.” Ah, he’s pissed.

Yingxing stops with the letter half-opened in hand, fingers twitching to rip it apart, or to just read it, like a normal person should. “He’s not so annoying. Why is that?”

“You know how many complaints I received since he first came?” Shit, so that is the issue. “I can’ just let ‘im have it all, Lily, it’s bad for business.”

“Not your business.” If Yingxing were found in a less-than-foul mood, so common in his youth, Alphonse would be met with fewer teeth in his mouth and a quivering leg while going home. “You should be glad someone is such an avid regular, it’s strales for both of us, and my contract never gets revoked.”

For the last bit, he beams like one of those actresses in stage plays, compassion for lipstick and peacefulness for eyes. It is better than cursing the heavens and the earth, or the Aeons these people are so fond of.

“Money isn’ the only thing keeping this business afloat, darling, think a little.” Yingxing does not want to think; it hurts, as if he has not been taught the hard way what is at stake. “He pays for ya, that’s great and all. How long ‘til you last and the money stops coming, sweetheart?”

“You think I’m dying so soon? My, then give me away to someone else if it worries you this much.”

It is not talked about, not this openly. It is like a silent agreement, yet so visible and obvious that no words are needed to be spoken when the time comes.

Yingxing withers like a flower. Xianzhou natives find it exotic, but not for long.

“And then, after you’re done, what happens to me, eh?” Alphonse smirks, daring one step closer. “When he can’ pay ‘nymore for ya, to outdo them all, but my reputation is tarnished. Who’ll come here when they don’ know if they’ll get what they want, ‘cause of a spoiled brat?”

“I’m sure you can figure it out.” Why would I care what happens to you, at all? “I don’t know what you want me to do. Convince him not to come°? Restraint himself? He’s quite eager, I don’t know if he’ll listen to me all.” He hasn’t listened to me when I told him to move the fuck away. “You know how they are when they’re happy. They pay.”

“I’m not askin’ you to stop fuckin’ him, sweetheart. I’m askin’ you to keep him on a leash.”

Keep Yinyue-jun on a leash? Ha. “I’ll do my best. You know I do.”

Better said than done, and he knew from the start.

“Hm. You’re not wearing paint, are ya?” Alphonse brings a finger to his cheek, where he scrapes the skin. His eyes, however, are below the courtesan’s view.

Yingxing snorts. “Of course not.” A hand to his own cheek, he feels it: dry paint scraping under his nails, and some has yet to dry. “I was helping Camellia, that is all. She looked beautiful this evening, right? That was me.”

“Good. You know it doesn’ do well. Your face and paint… tsk. They want to see those lines, sweetheart.”

Alphonse leaves with a well-knowing grin on his face, looking more like a rat than ever, and Yingxing bites his lip, or else he will utter words that a courtesan of his name should not dare to. There are limits to everything, including politeness, and he has nothing else if not face to save.

The letter falls to the floor, and he runs to the basin, letting it all out from the mouth.

Everything feels bitter—his mouth with sick, his nose twitching at the smell, and his legs are weak as glass, thin and one hush away from breaking in countless pieces. He had not realised his eyes were so heavy with desire for slumber, but he gives in not in bliss, but to avoid seeing what he puked away. His chest aches. He might have vomited his heart and lungs in the process.

Yingxing does not know when it all went wrong. No, he lies, he knows when it all started. There were growls and an unwavering red moon, a slaughterhouse in the open, a pathway formed by torn limbs and crimson rivers. The stench does not leave, possessing his nostrils, breaching his lungs and his guts—

Mother-of-pearl catches his sight.

With a trembling hand, Yingxing cleans the rest of the sickness in his mouth, tangled with saliva, and grunts as he sits against the wall. His body is heftier than ever. Ah, if only he could lie down and sleep forever.

My ancestor might have been a better poet than I ever could be.

On an evening when the spring mists

Trail over the wide sea

And sad is the voice of the sea

I think of my far-off home.

D.H.

Part of him should not enjoy the words. There is reason in loathing, a logical foundation for the distaste and the self-sought fury for everything. He is justified, he is not insane, he has not been hysterical ever since he was a young teenager, the first few years into adulthood, so why…

I think of my far-off home.

…why is he not breaking his nails and cursing the letter?

It is fate, it seems.

It felt like years for a change, getting rid of the dirty basin and seeking clean, fresh water that, surprisingly, is also warm and comfortable for a bath. He would never let Hongjin see all of it, not when the boy gets jumpy and worried over the smallest things, pampering nonstop if he feels something is wrong. Yingxing will never stop thanking whatever Aeon is listening to him for Hong’er’s terrible senses, saving the courtesan a lot of embarrassing explanations.

As soon as he ties the knot at the robe and the last layer of bandages on his arm, which, much to his gladness, has stopped tingling after weeks, he hears knocking at his door.

Yingxing pretends not to mind the hair, still wet and only just not letting drops fall onto the wooden floor, or the badly hidden gifts hidden in the corner of the bed, underneath several layers of worthless silk.

“You always have a wonderful timing, dearest,” says Yingxing, the worst feigned smile one could offer. A terrible actor, when he wants to be.

Dan Feng rolls his eyes. “And when is it ever a good time, according to you?”

“Hm. Probably never.” Lies flow easily to the tip of his tongue. The time is perfect, or close to it, if he is honest, but he would rather eat shit than give this man any win over his head, only letting him inside with a forced, heavy sigh. “Where’s the little one? She’s so much better than you when it comes to company, I would happily let her undress me.”

Only after the courtesan closes the door that Dan Feng speaks, nose up. “I decided to give her yet another night free of duties, polishing her own works.”

But Yingxing notices the heavy bag, like the little painter’s, and a gift in his other hand. The wrapping alone is more valuable than most of his clothes, dam him. “Don’t tell me you will actually do it.”

What an unfair thing, this new Dan Feng’s form, that almost makes Yingxing giggle and lean against the door with mirth. Dan Heng is shorter than him, reaching a little of his neck, and the courtesan’s logical conclusion comes to, perfect to mouth the clavicle, if not lower. Or, maybe, it is the hair, which only makes him look younger than he truly is, and he is no Xianzhou native, but a Vidyadhara.

Youth is something else in this creature’s eyes.

Appearances lie, even when one is aware of what happens underneath. Dan Feng’s youthful, if not commoner, appearance brings forth the image of a boy who knows no better than a simple scholar in the military, too weak for anything that is not a feather and ink. Yingxing snickers. That youth’s hold alone could break his wrist if he feels like it. Yingxing could have sworn he would have done by now, and yet, Dan Feng only touches his wrist with care and something he refuses to acknowledge.

It doesn’t matter. It won’t last. Everyone tells him that, anyway.

“You will actually paint me this time? You?” Yingxing scorns with a less-than-precise step, almost playing the drunk companion in his movements. “I didn’t think you’d listen to me, even as a jest.”

“So far in our arrangement, and you still take my word for mockery? And here I assumed you were clever.” Dan Feng settles him in place with a lonely stare, raising the gift to Yingxing. “At least, you are cleverer than most people, and for that, I still hold you in a high regard. Maybe your fuss with me is blinding you to the simplest things.”

“My fuss?” Yingxing accepts the gift, but not without gritting his teeth or almost tearing the wrapping. It is a box, this time, though hardly difficult to carry. Yinyue-jun could carry it with a hand. “So far in our arrangement, and you can’t see why I dislike you. I thought we went over it.”

“Holding grudges will not help your cause. I…” For once, Yingxing sees Dan Feng falter. It may be the appearance of this youth that makes him look more vulnerable, or easier to hit, but he seems at a loss. The courtesan almost wants to tease him, bring his head to his chest and— “I ask not that you like me, thought it would not be a terrible outcome. For both of us, I say. I do not dislike you, after all.”

“Because I’m irrelevant in your life,” Yingxing replies, too dry for someone who had a mouthful of liquid moments before. “You won’t remember me in a few years, only as I’m useful to you. It seems you have a harder time letting go of things than I do, Your Grace.”

Dan Feng does not give in. There is no defeat in his semblance, nor that insufferable superiority accompanied by a stare that sees the courtesan as an anomaly rather than a reasonable citizen. How strange, he comes faceless and wearing a mark of his own that is not a simple face, a lonely man in the crowd without a real name. No, he simply lifts his brows and hums, placing the bag on the floor, near the tea table.

“I suppose some things are attached to us, immortals, the same way some are attached to short-lived species,” says Dan Feng, not a sign of offense in his voice. No, it is awfully calm, as if he has discovered new information. “See it this way: as time passes differently for me, I might view elements a couple of years ago as a recent development. I can also ignore them, should I find them irrelevant, as you claim. How hard can you forget something just spoken to you, when it has value?”

“Here’s the thing, you said it yourself that evening we met.” So far in our arrangement and he has no need to clarify what he means. Then, and only then, Dan Feng exposes a sign of vulnerability, as little as it is, eyes taut and with a single quiver at the corner. “Or has that information flown over your head in the past decade, Your Grace? Not relevant enough.”

“Then I confess to being a mistake.”

Count on Yinyue-jun to surprise you in the worst ways. It is becoming way too familiar, yet shocking, how Dan Feng manages to put Yingxing in a state of doubt. Yinyue-jun, apologising? Perhaps the disguise is slowly becoming a personality of its own, and who speaks to him is not the High Elder.

Yingxing should not become comfortable with the idea of seeing someone else before him. Dan Heng is not even a real client. There he is, breathing and speaking, touching him, and yet he is not a real boy who seeks him. Dan Feng wants something more, and if not Yingxing, it would have been someone else. The short-lived courtesan is simply the unlucky one to be picked in someone else’s board.

That makes him useful for the time being.

“Yinyue-jun, apologising.” Yingxing sees past Dan Feng’s current short hair, hooded eyes that still carry the moon in them. The creature in the room with him still commands tempests. He cannot be this reckless. “Who are you and what have you done with my client?”

“Amusing,” deadpans Dan Feng. He clears his throat, leaving a confident stance to a bothered one. Almost shy. “I admit, I am not always correct in what I assume, and sometimes, I am met with the wrong choice rather than a favourable one.”

Yingxing rolls his eyes. God, he is a prick.

“Fine, fine. Shut up.” What are you saying? He does not know anymore. If it were up to him, Dan Feng would never speak again, even if part of his chest longs for the extreme opposite. To conceal the hardened breath, he raises the wrapped box. “What should I expect from this?”

“With luck, something to your taste.”

Yingxing scoffs. “Why do you want to please me so bad with gifts?”

“Aeons above, you are difficult,” Dan Feng sighs, seeming on the verge of stress, which much amuses the courtesan. “How cheap of an arrangement we would have if I only concerned myself with value rather than input when your word has more value than what you think of.”

“I’ve had men giving me less expensive shit just to get under my robes. Forgive me if I still ask which intentions are present.”

Dan Feng, despite his titles and names, tautens his jaw like a common stubborn boy. Ever unblinking. “I do not seek to bed you.”

“I never said you do.”

With little care for where it falls, Yingxing opens the box, unwrapping with delicate motions but letting it fall without a second look. He is not keeping any of it, if not for the content, and maybe, not even that.

The first thing he sees is pearls. There are pearls for ornaments, like a pencil’s stroke in soft waves, and marrying rose lotuses. Then he sees they are made of delicate sewing, impossible to discern that there are jewels unless one forces their eyes to detail.

The box meets the floor when Yingxing lifts lotuses, realising how tight to the diaphanous bodice they became. A second skin, as to be tattooed on one’s skin. Pearl, rose and jade, with smears of black ink in contours, smoky ribbons for laces that are soft to the touch.

What kind of gift does a master give to his spy? Yingxing finds it even beyond payment.

One too many years ago, one of the most sought-after courtesans in the Flaming Court received a gift from her faithful client. There were no customers who knew not of their affair, and no soul could rest without hearing of them, intense like the fires burning within the forges. Yingxing recalls little, but sufficient to mark him: it was no normal piece of cloth to be given in the open, with witnesses to see. It should never leave the lovers’ room.

“It’s hard to think of something else when you offer me a gift such as this, dearest.”

“I carry no second intentions with this,” Dan Feng rebukes, rolling his eyes. “I wondered what could be to your likeness, what you might enjoy without, in your own words, parading you around. Something yours alone, and even for your eyes only.”

“So, you give me a bodice that screams for your name.” Yingxing snickers, biting his lips into a curled, malicious beam.

Lan knows what burns in his stomach. Is it wrath that Yinyue-jun views him as such? As if Yingxing himself has not reminded him, many times, of his position. The first real regalement of the night, then. Is it the want to laugh, open-chested and shamelessly? Yinyue-jun could be embarrassed if Yingxing knew him better or knew nothing at all.

Dan Feng scoffs. “If you were wearing something in my name, you would know.”

“Regardless. Fine.” Yingxing takes a deep breath, erasing any and every lewd, terrible thought that a simple bodice could have him do. “So, what’s going to be tonight?”

“You—very eagerly, I might add—invited me to paint you last time around.” Dan Feng collects, though the courtesan hears a tiny hissing sound before his client answers. “How did you put it, once? Ah, yes. How could I ever refuse you?”

The hints of teasing in each syllable raise the hairs of Yingxing’s nape, igniting small fires in Yingxing’s guts and sending shivers from the bottom of his spine to the legs, quivering limbs.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit.” Yingxing huffs, slow steps towards the changing screen as if he could step on glass, though the broken pieces come in the form of an insufferable man. He could easily cut himself. “I have high standards that I, myself, designed for quality when it comes to art.”

Though Yingxing cannot see Dan Feng from behind the screen, only a warm, faint silhouette, he hears the light, breathy laugh, “Empty words unless proven true. Say, perhaps you should pick up the pencil in the coming days.”

What does he know? How infuriating. “Is that a challenge?”

“Not a challenge, no,” he hears something soft. “An invitation, if you may.”

So many things rest on top of Yingxing’s tongue. I’ll kindly refuse the invitation, thank you, or a sultry Anything you ask of me, of course I shall, or even a childish Just you wait until I surpass you.

Yinyue-jun truly brings out the worst in him. For his own sake, he bites his tongue until he tastes the closest flavour to iron, and his tongue is too tender for him to speak.

The robes fall to the floor with a heavy yet fluff thump! that, no doubt, his companion must have heard, but nothing says. It is for the best. Yingxing has a difficult decision to make, eyes set on his forearm. The tenderness is not enough to hurt, not anymore, yet strikes an ugly sight when compared to the rest of him, while keeping it hidden… is the least he could do. He tugs at the bandages one more time. A safety measure. The linen is clean and unbothered, with no fear of staining with crimson so late in healing.

The garment is without patterns but made of sophisticated white silk that still plays softly with his skin, almost see-through. Little of his skin appears like a hidden brocade, and the bandages can camouflage, if only for a while. The bodice is colourful enough, and the pearl skeleton becomes one with the rest. Yingxing feels it, the bones clutching onto him as he pulls the ornamented laces. He takes one last breath, filling his lungs until it hurts, and gives one last taut call. At least, now he can hide the soft lift of his nipples underneath the silk.

“How do you want the hair?” he asks, a hand to his tightened chest. It does not hurt as he expected, nor is it suffocating. The pearly bones only hold him in an embrace, keeping him more in check for his posture. Maybe it’s a good gift, for a change. “I could pull it up if it bothers you to paint it.”

“In whatever way you wish to keep it,” he hears, and small sounds echo from the other side of the screen: wooden, metal, something fluff, the whistle of paper. Ah, and that is porcelain. “It is far from being a problem, if that concerns you.”

Yingxing knows he cannot be seen but rolls his eyes and mimics the response with sarcasm. Aeons, maybe I am childish. He obviously blames it all on Yinyue-jun. He picks the brush up, pulling his hair over his shoulder. It is too long to be acceptable, past his knees, and he should cut it soon.

“So, nothing else? No extra request, so I can abuse your benevolence, Your Grace?”

“…have you truly sold the earrings I gave you, the first time?”

The brush stops. Yingxing’s eyes swiftly move to the small chest, kept close to the bed. It’s taking longer than I planned to, is what he should answer, if he were honest.

Deals are usually quick, cheap, and you could get rid of whatever problem you have in a snap of fingers and a full sack of credits, but the earrings are a pain in Yingxing’s plans. Hong’er always returns with one of the pair in his tiny palm and another rejection on his tongue. There are clients interested and nameless ones that have shown strales dangling from their pockets, willing to buy the earrings, but they never seem to grasp the true value of the jewellery.

And Yingxing is anything but complacent. It’s my fucking freedom on the line.

Lying, on the other hand, is what he does for a living.

“Yes, I have,” Yingxing says, controlling his breathing. “What, did you expect me to keep it? Have you forgotten our deal?”

It comes more like a venomous spit than anything, and he hopes Dan Feng does not realise the slip. Poison gives way for truths to come out of their hiding spot.

“None of sorts.” And yet, your voice sounds strained. “I would simply suggest, since they could match, despite you disliking them. It matters not. Wear what you feel like. I would rather have you comfortable than by force with mindless requests.” A quietness, a soft breeze, the hui flowers smell mixed with wood, sweat and smoke, ruined by a heavy, breathy, “And the letter?”

“Lost it.” Lies, lies, lies. “Anything you ask me is a mindless request in my eyes.” Yingxing finishes brushing the last strands of hair, ignoring the thin silvery amid black that threatens to fall, and chooses to keep the red tassels for the ears. He is more tired than usual. “I still don’t…”

“You don’t what?”

Has your voice come closer? Lan above, Yingxing can feel Dan Feng’s breath on his neck, just like that night at Aurum Alley, as if that prick ignored the screen separating them and invaded his personal space. There is nothing behind him.

“I don’t understand the point of it all,” murmurs Yingxing, so low he wonders if Dan Feng heard him.

“Have we not been over this many times by now?” No sign of annoyance, which is bothersome. There are no signs of anything bad. “In what other way will you trust my words and actions?”

“What is there to trust?” Yingxing stomps on the floor before tugging at the screen, almost stumbling on his feet as he comes into view. “It’s all about money and personal interests here, we’ve said it. I mean… this!”

Dan Feng probably has not listened to him, for he keeps a straight face, always unblinking, observing the courtesan before slowly changing, diverging the stare. Yingxing wants to call him names, from coward to arrogant bastard. Look at me! Traces of anger build up in his stomach, tightening his breathing even more.

“You can’t even look at me now?” He wants that anger to turn into a screaming match, feel his throat torn apart and break words. He wants something, yet all he gets is the will to fall to the floor, knees faltering, and his voice, weaker than ever. Pathetic. “You ask all these things from me, give me things you say, ‘I hope you like it’, and can’t even spare a single look in my direction?”

It is illogical to be mad when Dan Feng gives him what he wants. Yingxing does not know if Yinyue-jun’s attention is a blessing, a curse or a warning, though he calls it a trap. It stills him in place, unable to flick a finger or look away, and he wonders if even his blood is spellbound.

Trust Yinyue-jun to kill someone with only his eyes, tempests be damned.

“Is this some sort of humiliation for you?” Dan Feng measures his words. Not a tone too high, or a hush too low, perfectly delivered. “Do you… view this as perverse?”

“I don’t know.” Yingxing cannot lie. “After so long, I don’t—It’s not what I asked you. Don’t change the subject.”

Anyone else speaking in such a way to Yinyue-jun probably had their tongue inflamed with liquid fire, iron-framed for the transgression. He has heard stories, quick as they may be. A better death than drowning, they all say, but Yingxing wants to disagree in this moment, pierced by a moon-eyed creature who is too gentle for his taste, not cruel enough to justify his loathing.

“Then I have no better answer for you than I did before.” Granted, Dan Feng is a politician at heart. “I wish not to make this unbearable or torturous for you, as it is no punishment nor carries malicious intent. I understand your feelings towards me are less than friendly, and I will not step any further than you allow me to. I promised this would not be a one-way deal, and it bears no vexation on your part to be fulfilled. If that is how you have felt during our meetings…”

“I didn’t,” Yingxing cuts him off. “Feel vexed, that is. Not in the way you think of.”

One learns how to love what keeps them from spiralling into madness when thrown into trouble. Yingxing can still paint, his fingers still work, his joints ache faintly. He appreciates well-crafted oeuvres and could spend days to no end observing them. Garments have always been pretty in his eyes, even before any Borisin or Cloud-Knight found him in bloody rags and visible bones for skin. He wishes he could do more.

“I suppose my requests are, in part, from a selfish will,” says Dan Feng, leaning forward. The Vidyadhara’s hand twitches, and he curls fingers into a fist. Yingxing swears he heard a stone-like hiss, swift, and something changed in those digits. “But no desire for others’ humiliation or sick perversion of the heart, if it worries you so to know. But I am selfish enough to ask you, if possible, not to make me reveal it.”

“How secretive.” What if I force your hand? As if anyone or anything could force Yinyue-jun, unmovable and untouchable, to confess. Apologising is, at most, the only confession he will ever offer. Yingxing scoffs, steadily leaning on the mattress. “What if I withheld information and demanded you tell me? Would you confess?”

If only to frame Taoran, are you willing?

Dan Feng holds the pencil brush as one would a dagger. “Then, I would have to endure missing vital information.”

Not for too long, as he lets the pencil lean between his fingers, becoming an extension of his bones.

“My, you must have terrible dreams in that head of yours. Are they truly destructive, humiliating in any form, so much that you beg not to disclose them to me?”

“I do not beg.” Yingxing swears there is a snap. Not of the brush, the silken paper, or even a porcelain cup. Something cracks, and he wants it to be the boy who kneels for him. It’s just for a stupid painting, nothing else. “I fear it is not easy to explain what is acceptable or not when it comes to one’s urges, not when we are different things in the schemes of the universe.”

“Poor Yinyue-jun, moon-eyed and virtue-faced,” coos Yingxing, allowing a smirk to form on his lips. “How could a stupid, short-lived mortal ever understand desire at its purest shape. Stupid of me to consider.”

“Not between long and short lives, no. It has nothing to do with longevity.” Dan Feng does not spare him a look for now, lowering the brush into ink and letting it flow on paper. “I am different even within my species, and such is the burden of a High Elder, and I would rather not speak of it.”

“I don’t care about your title.”

“Then let us not speak of what may or may not be in my cravings. They are, as we both enjoy saying, irrelevant. We have several other predicaments to solve that do not revolve around what we do and do not wish for.”

However, they do not speak. Not for long, just until Yingxing is satisfied with what he sees: Dan Feng crunching his boyish eyebrows, ruffling the wild strands that often fall before his sight, the small huffs that, maybe in his head, Yingxing is not listening to.

Ah, never mind the amount of fanfare and hustling on the top floors, the lewd noises are opaque to the hearing in the adjacent rooms. The short-lived flower, most unfortunate for the High Elder, will always pay attention to him.

“I could make you beg,” says Yingxing.

It stops Dan Feng from continuing his work. Anything that threatens his almighty power and ego, whatever makes him tingle enough to look up, bothered, uneasy, and one step closer to cursing someone out.

Preferably Yingxing.

“That is not happening.”

“Hm, and why’s that?” Yingxing licks behind his teeth, simply observing. One does not need to raise a weapon. “Anyone has a weak spot that makes them give up on pride.”

“Maybe common men,” Dan Feng grits his teeth, one hand gripping the edge of the tea table, where a tiny cracking sound echoes. “Silence is not always a bad option for you to consider when nothing you want to speak is helpful.”

“I’m not trying to be helpful.” Yingxing bites the corner of his lip, just enough for a delicious pressure on the flesh. “And there is no excuse for mercy when it comes to desire. Nobles and common alike will give up in a blink if swayed with the right object, you simply need to figure out which of them is the main goal.”

“I know you are not simple-minded, dear.” Oh, if Dan Feng is using the endearments with so much poison in his voice, then Yingxing did something right. “I would rather not for us speak on this. Talking in circles does nothing.”

“It does if it ends with me giving you relevant intel, as we have established.” They always return to this. It’s inevitable, it’s the core of this whole mess. Yingxing does well in reminding himself that Dan Feng is not exactly looking for anything else, as much as he is taunted with it all. “Why wouldn’t Yinyue-jun have something so precious it would force him to his knees? Surely, you’re not a heartless monster.”

Dan Feng scoffs, allowing for a faint smile as he focuses again on the work of ink and silk.

“Then permit me to remind you that, on our first meeting, heartless was your favourite word in describing me. Why, is your memory that fickle? Ten years is not that much time even in your mortal years, I am certain, especially when it regards one of the worst men you have met, as you well enjoy saying.”

“Oh, suddenly you recall every single detail spoken in that conversation.” Remembering only the convenient bits will serve both the best and worst of each other, but Yingxing is willing to bite until it cracks a bone. What else does he have, anyway? “The same way you apologised to me, I don’t see a reason not to apologise as well for a not incorrect, but hasty judgement.”

“Not incorrect? Well, then you defy the purpose of your apology.”

“Ah, you sure love to act like you’re heartless. That evening you did, and I hated you vehemently for it.” When Dan Feng says nothing, Yingxing sighs. “What other word could I have used when you wanted me to believe you were so above others that your feelings can’t be reached? Poor me, stupid old mortal, who didn’t know Yinyue-jun was a mess.”

“You say many words and hope for them to make sense,” but they know Dan Feng is wrong.

“You’re willing to meet a whore past curfew just to get a few words that in your eyes make sense, though.” Yingxing leans forward, pulling the legs under him. “You feel. That’s enough for wanting to beg, if needed.”

“Let us entertain your idea, then.” Dan Feng gives in, finally. The boyish looks only make him more charming, like a young man who is discovering rejection for the first time. “What makes you think you could make me beg?”

“I might have one too many ideas for that.” He is convincing enough that Dan Feng frowns, missing a stroke of the brush that forces him to focus again on the silk, muttering a curse under his breath. “Say, have you ever been with a whore before?”

“How is that relevant at all for the conversation?” Dan Feng never spares a look in his direction, too busy fixing the painting. Oh, he is even slightly annoyed, one hopes for breathlessness. “Now it is you who is diverging from the topic.”

“Not at all, though I don’t expect an untouched boy like you to understand what’s important for me.”

Boy this, boy that, Dan Feng stops for a brief second and takes a deep breath, that name is starting to get into his head, and if Yingxing is lucky, up to his nerves.

Rather than wait for a rebuttal, the courtesan exhales deeply, feeling the bodice around his chest keeping him in check.

“Come on, don’t be shy to talk. I’ll hardly judge you. You wouldn’t be the first virgin to walk through the brothel’s door. We always get those.”

Dan Feng replies not to any of it. He tautens his semblance, grips the edge of the wooden furniture, and often breathes too heavily for someone who should be calm.

Maybe for others, he is calm, but Yingxing is spending too much time with him to know better. Sometimes, he swears he sees claws poking out of leather gloves and pointy teeth when Dan Feng speaks, a forked tongue that should never be hidden to begin with.

Humiliation, a certain level of vexation, or the simplest shyness regarding sex. Dan Feng’s silence could mean one or too many emotions. Yingxing, who is not any better than a man, wants to dissect each of them and see what happens should he mess with the core of such a terrible being.

“Don’t tell me you never...” Nothing. “Ah, you must be lying. Such a handsome and charming thing like you, not even once?” He smirks. “Don’t tell me you’re impotent.”

That finally snaps.

Once, Yingxing met a pain-in-the-ass for a diplomat, a spokesperson from the Yaoqing who could not hold his liquor and certainly could not hold his tongue any better. He did serve a purpose when it came to not wasting the courtesan’s time, yet young in the Xianzhou’s standards, but clever enough to grasp the meaning— ‘First rule of diplomacy, lovely: don’t show your emotions’, as if Yingxing himself was not sufficiently good at hiding all of himself. The Yaoqing spokesperson was a better conversationalist than a lover, that he knows.

Dan Feng makes a mistake. For others, perhaps, it is not clear, and Yingxing applauds the High Elder for it: the flawless vessel of a god would never care for trivial matters such as mortals or wills of the flesh. After centuries being on top of the world, he has tended carefully for its appearance, no doubt.

Not a single hair is out of place, his hands do not quiver, and the semblance exposes nothing to the naked eye that is not annoyance, such a regular emotion in their meetings.

“I am not impotent.”

And yet, Yingxing sees it: the shine of a talon breaching, as thin as an earring’s pin, and yet so close to take over its owner’s limb. It may also be a trick of light when the courtesan notices the irises dance for a second, a thin line of black that blinks sideways, only to return to the normal confection. As if this boy before him is just that.

“Oh?” Yingxing lifts an eyebrow. Sometimes, playing does not hurt.

“Sex is hardly a novelty,” says Dan Feng, a small huff accompanying the rebuttal.

How fun, locks in a quiet argument with only his eyes, one which Yingxing humours him as he follows along.

“Ah, forgive me for considering otherwise.” Yingxing thinks he has never lied this well, and this obliviously, without a hint of attempt to be convincing.

Dan Feng returns to the painting with a strained posture, and the talons disappear as soon as they came. “Sex is simple and easy, though useless. My race cannot reproduce.”

“Who said anything about reproduction?” He knows he has Dan Feng’s attention when the pencil once more stops above the silken paper. “Don’t pretend you think that’s its only worth, not when you have those brothels full of scales and horns available for your people.”

“I have no control over those, since they bring no threat to my plans, or Vidyadhara’s goals in general. Whatever mortal desire one feels to seek in such activities is not of my importance. Sex is irrelevant, as many other things are. And I have found that sex is less than satisfactory for me. And no.” He pierces Yingxing with a firm look. “It was not a matter of impotence. Boredom.”

“And here I thought Vidyadhara whores were the better ones. Or so I keep hearing.”

All because of their healing properties and, as Dan Feng kindly reminded him, no chances of a worse side effect. Yingxing knows how distressing a seed that has taken root can be. How many sisters of his were screaming as—

“I will not blame it on the courtesans’ performances, as I recognise it is simply something I shall not care for. The coral brothels work for a reason, and they carry their duties finely enough to keep it standing.”

“Then why did you go to one?” Yingxing’s back begins to tingle at the base, spine shivering. Slowly, he lies down on his side. Aeons, he is getting older by the day. “At least a curiosity?”

“None of that. I never went to those brothels, as I was occupied. A kind favour from a General at the time, trying to win my favour in warfare, bought seven of the finest courtesans in the coral, and thought of good taste to have them sent over to my rooms during the festival.” Dan Feng sighs, as if it might not be the most humorous memory. “They were versed in other Vidyadhara arts, such as singing and dancing. One was particularly knowledgeable of politics, the favourite of a soldier who, unfortunately, met his death several campaigns prior.”

“Good company, then,” murmurs Yingxing, messing with a loose strand of fabric on his robe. Strangely, a sour taste reigns in his mouth, and a different fire burns in his guts. The image of Dan Feng surrounded by beautiful, youthful courtesans of his kind and familiarity might be a pretty fantasy, yet he clears his throat, refusing to wonder. Were they to his liking, in appearance? “And yet, the sex was awful?”

“My mind kept wandering to the healers I should send to the following campaign, and I planned each word to speak in a reunion with the Ten Lords, as they requested me for more Vidyadhara soldiers in the vanguard. As I said, the night was simply useless. Awful implies a certain kind of horridness that, despite my refusal, I believe was not present. Their performance was acceptable by any other standard. Just not mine.”

“Obviously.” Yingxing rolls his eyes until they ache, and he wants to gouge them out. Maybe he will gauge Dan Feng’s, instead. “After all, nothing is more important to Yinyue-jun than the welfare of his people. You had seven whores in bed, and yet you thought of warfare.”

“…the welfare of my people will always be a priority in my goals,” Dan Feng says, carefully, raising a dangerous, guarded gaze.

“I’m not saying it isn’t.”

“Well, you do imply it.”

If he expects Yingxing to apologise…

“Let me rephrase it,” as we often do, “Being a High Elder shouldn’t forbid you from knowing pleasure, regardless of whether you find it useless.”

“See it through other eyes, if you want to discuss it. Attraction is needed. Meeting my standards, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether.” Dan Feng regains some of his original peacefulness, no more gripping the edge of the table nor frowning, controlled breath and light hums in between words. “You are, sometimes, a difficult thing to paint. Chunfen has the patience of a martyr.”

“Then don’t. It’s okay if you can’t do it.”

Ah, what a liar he would be, to say he feels no satisfaction in defiance and be proven correct… if only the disappointment were not following, a pyrrhic victory flooding his chest with light burns, gut falling.

“Nonsense.” Dan Feng must be in the details, checking the thin head of the pencil every second with a drop of ink. “Difficult, not for your appearance. Your mouth, however, may lead men to ruin.”

“Aeons, what a terrible comment. And unoriginal.” This night, Yingxing does not feel his legs trembling when he lifts himself from the bed. He blames it on this brand-new goal of irritating Dan Feng and the curiosity which only grows within his innards, prying into what they should not. It does not stop burning when he kneels before his client, who does not spare him an ounce of attention. “Attraction, then. Do you feel it?”

“…would it be relevant to speak of this?”

With a voice like this, one only thinks you have fallen for the wrong object of obsession. There is something addictive in pulling such a response from none other than Yinyue-jun, all mighty and above mortal flesh.

Something small in his tone, almost boyish for his looks, yet unbecoming of his age and position, but Yingxing cannot help but find it fitting or, in the smallest ways, something he likes.

“You make it sound like I’m pulling a tooth out of you,” says Yingxing, tilting his head to the side, shoulders falling, and heart steadying. Or so he hopes. “What catches Yinyue-jun’s attention enough to allow him, if only a second, to forget his duties?”

The look with which Dan Feng directs at him could be sharp.

Yingxing feels it, icy and cutting his lungs, chest constrained by ornamented ribs of bones that are not his own. Small things get to him: the brush resting atop the silk, ink accumulating and spreading to its will. Dan Feng should be finishing his work, yet stops, and for long seconds, the courtesan wonders if so, his breathing halted with him.

And there it is, the strange, sharp focus, befitting a snake, that is no longer subtle. It is quick, unimportant for most, but Yingxing could never let it slide when here Dan Feng stands, kneeling for him, trying to pass as a nameless commoner who bears no ties with the Luofu’s Vidyadhara.

It takes all of Yingxing to not lean over and brush the wild black strands aside, revealing more of that youthful face. Is this how you looked when younger? Little does he know of the Vidyadhara, too private by nature. Dan Feng must have hatched from his egg with the face of his previous lord, and it withstands countless lives, over and over again. Too old, but not a soul would dare think of age when seeing it.

“Nothing,” says Dan Feng, a tone above a whisper.

“Liar,” says Yingxing, not losing a beat.

Blaming it on shame or annoyance, the courtesan knows not which, Dan Feng takes a deep breath before minding the details of the painting.

As if ignoring his companion is a wonderful idea. Yingxing disagrees wholeheartedly.

Slow-paced, as if he has all the time in the world to take, Yingxing pulls his body closer, leaning until he has no need to whisper and only his breath would speak, and Dan Feng would understand every word.

“You asked me, last time, what it would cost to get more, remember?” Yingxing found it daring, last time, but he cannot help it. He wants to see it as adorable, to pacify the beating within his chest. He gives in, raising a hand to the young man’s nape, pushing a few strands seamlessly. “There you have it. My price. Fair, isn’t it?”

Ludicrous. Did the High Elder think only he would be granted clarity for his questions, and the courtesan would be left with nothing but obscurity? Useful, for Yingxing needs to think is payment and nothing else.

Tear the High Elder apart, read his ribs and collect the blood, and make it a fair agreement. His body is already given away each night.

“A tooth for a tooth,” murmurs Dan Feng, still refusing to look at him. “I cannot argue against your words, that is true.” But his hand freezes every time Yingxing brushes his fingers against his nape, and his chest heaves. “The truth, at its core, is that I have yet to discover what could be of me. Beauty is too simple, yet undeniable when seen. However, if beauty were sufficient, blood would be spilt with more eagerness than it already is.”

“Men don’t go to war for anything less, Your Grace…”

“So the ballads say, and I cannot be one of them.”

“Hm. They go to war for you.”

Denying Yinyue-jun’s beauty would be the talk of a blind man, if they still have no sense whatsoever to utter such things out loud. It stings, recognising that, even in this awful disguise of his, there is still much to be appreciated, if Yingxing’s hands have anything to say, for they want to touch the young man’s cheeks, where a light rose is slowly blushing the skin. A trick of light, the flames dancing in the room… ah, but there is no denying it is darker. How cute, this coyness.

“…surely, you shall not compare me to the portraits of ballads and romances.” Dan Feng watches him from the corner of his eye, cleaning the fluff of the brush with a quick stirring of water in a ceramic pot. “Some may call you blasphemous for such a comment.”

“Hm, then they’d be wrong,” Yingxing replies easily. “Say, you won’t fake humility should I praise you, will you? I doubt you’ve ever heard a compliment in your life, especially when you’re revered in this damned flagship.”

“Reverence is different,” grunts Dan Feng, putting his pencil aside. “No, I am not unfamiliar with compliments, however…” For once, he seems to struggle in finding the perfect word to differ with.

Yingxing licks the corner of his lower lip. “Oh, you’re chary. I get it. You’re not the only one, you know.”

“Utterly useless to mention.” With a snapping huff, Dan Feng clears his throat. His hand is quicker than Yingxing’s tongue when the courtesan prepares to say, ‘I find you attractive’. Curse the High elder, always ruining his plans, but now pushing a long, silken paper at him. “Here, the painting.”

The suspicions of Dan Feng’s skill are proven correct. He is talented, and Yingxing fears he might just prefer this to expensive jewellery no one has the strales to buy. Who would have thought, for a second only, that Yinyue-jun favours details? The courtesan’s eyes, on silk, become glossy, too tangible to be ink and too vivid for a drawing, though he suspects his mouth is redder, and his lips, fuller. Is it from biting, or a cruel joke for his talkative teasing? Which joke becomes something beautiful?

Yingxing leads his fingers to the lips with no consciousness, then meets the ink-made ones, where some scarlet comes to his nails. He almost wants to add it to his real lips. He wears no makeup, after all.

“If you wanted a courtesan whose face was inked, you could’ve gone to others.”

“I added no more than you have,” Dan Feng cuts him, only loud enough for both. “You asked me to paint you. I painted what I saw. No more, no less.”

Then you’re more blind than I had conceived. Lan above, there are thin lines at the corner of the inked-courtesan’s face, though never losing its elegant semblance. The foreign silver strands, becoming more conspicuous, but Dan Feng made them look like long silver jewels, satin for headpieces. The naked arms.

Lan, you are the biggest liar of them all, Yinyue-jun.

But Dan Feng may think he falls for it.

Dan Heng is naïve enough to consider failure, knowing he is shy, not out of nowhere, because of nothing. Dan Heng, his adorable client, knows exactly where the redness springs and tries little to prove him wrong.

Dan Feng is too egotistical to think of failure. If he acknowledges the lack of success, it is nothing but quietness, the silent realisation, wilfully ignorant, so another plan blooms in his head. Or so it should be, for someone like him.

He realises, there and then—it should not be a youth with him. Where is that heartless being who could have stricken him down on their first meeting?

“You know,” Yingxing begins, voice as soft as silk, swallowing nothing but saliva. Carefully, he pulls the painting near his chest, like he would to a cherished piece. Almost like a true lover. “When you lie, your eyes flicker.”

Dan Feng blinks, and for once, turns to him. Ah, if he had the long ears of their first encounter, Yingxing is certain they would flicker as well.

“Yinyue-jun, the unmovable creature, never-before matched, given away by nature.” The courtesan should not be enjoying this, but anything is worth it, if only to see those talons carve through leather and eyes reveal too much of their owner. “Humour me for the moment. Didn’t you ask for a price? For a man who pays years of salary in a single night, surely a few words are nothing.”

“Says you, who speaks so much, yet still hides behind a well-crafted mask.” The leather on top of the courtesan’s covered thigh still burns, though cold, through the fabric. Yingxing holds his breath tightly as Dan Feng continues, “What do you find appealing?”

Yingxing titters. “Ah, and how do you think that helps your cause? You won’t get anything on Taoran as long as—”

“Forget about Taoran.”

Something sharp grips the flesh of his thigh. It stings, but no impossible pain, rasping his skin seeking for crimson veins, cutting the fabric of his robe in less than a blinding second. He will have more than just handprints in the morning.

His bodice is pulled by a ghost, or so he swears, for his breath is stolen in a blink. The eyes of the snake may be more than hissing in person, out of this world, catering for fixation; they must be too tangible if it is easy to leave him breathless. No pushing against a sullen wall of a dark alley, no argument to fuel the fire alit in his innards… cold, instead, suffocating him from the inside out.

Yingxing does not dare to move. His swallowing is loud, and he knows it is, because his throat becomes the object of a dragon’s attention.

“I thought this whole ordeal was meant to be because of him,” he murmurs.

He sees Dan Feng’s mouth open, formulating a sentence, a word, anything, but he finds that curious shine of even sharper teeth within it. His fingers twitch to push them inside, pressing against them, see if they make him bleed as the claws to his thigh. He cannot move. His leg is stuck in place, not by his will.

Never before had Dan Feng spoken to him with such a hiss. “He is not here. Just… forget about him for a bloody second.”

That’s all I’ve been doing for most of our meetings. Every time the recollection of the Preceptor comes to mind, it sours his tongue, bitters his throat, tingles his arm. If he could, he would never think of that man, but too merciful would be to be granted such a wish. Not seeing him must make do, but it is never enough. How does one erase memories, wholly?

Ah, but Dan Feng—awful, insufferable, spoiled Dan Feng—makes it easy. It never lasts more than a night, but it is something.

“Alright,” Yingxing acquiesces, offering a calm smile. The same one for still-green soldiers and traditional politicians, when they visit. “But not for free.”

Pushing too hard may cut him deeper than any sword has ever pierced him, but so is the way of water. Even metal bends to the will of nature, no matter how great the forgemaster, how perfect the technique. Dan Feng is always on edge. Yingxing could be luckier with testing fire.

“What else, then?”

He hears Dan Feng’s self-control becoming tangible, straining the High Elder’s disguise’s neck where, not so long ago, the courtesan was caressing his fingers with a strange affection.

“I like this form of yours. It is, unfortunately, regretfully adorable.” The painting falls to his lap, light as a leaf. Yingxing gives in, like a sailor into the perilous, uncharted waters, all in the shape of holding a youth’s cheek in his palm. How many fingers would a commoner lose for daring to touch you? “I think I could eat you like this.”

Yingxing slides closer, nails trailing Dan Heng’s chin until they clutch onto the skin. Would you bleed if I pierce you right now? No, not yet time for that.

“But I want the other one.”

How delightful it is, to see Yinyue-jun tremble under his touch. It does not last; it never does, a good thing, but it is present, nonetheless. It comes as a hitch in the breathing, only loud enough for Yingxing, and the way he sees himself in those eyes, now dark mirrors. Not the eyes of a snake, not anymore. Worse, a greater kind. And the hand on his thigh flies away, as if shocked.

“Why hide it from me?” Yingxing continues. “It’s not like I don’t know who you are. From the moment you set foot in here, even. So why keep this farce?”

“I thought my other form would immensely displease you.”

“Is that so?”

“I would not blame you if it did,” says Dan Feng, for once not attempting to diverge the stare anywhere else. “It does not hurt my pride. I could solve this under a disguise, and it has never bothered you before. Rather, you seemed to prefer it to me.”

Is that a hint of anger? “Hm. Maybe so. But Dan Heng isn’t the want I’m interested in.”

Yingxing admits his memory plays tricks on his recollection of the High Elder. Ten years ago, he came to him broader, though it could have been those royal robes full of fabrics. Dan Feng is taller than the gentle youth who visits him, but not so much to overcome some Generals and soldiers who answer under him.

The eyes are keener, and the ears, pricklier. A heavy woosh, and charcoal-coloured hair falls behind the body, but he draws attention to the light viridian scales that spring on the neck. Then, claws made of thorns grip his wrist, leather meeting kin and edges brushing against his veins.

“Is it better, then?”

He gulps and tries to pull away, but the hand never unties from him. Nor the eyes. “Yes.” A deep breath. “Very much so.”

It’s easy. Just lean forward and be over with it. He should not be thinking if the lips would feel as sharp as the claws, or if the teeth—the pair of pointy teeth, he sees them clearly now—would nip on his, drawing blood. Are they cold? If so, could they be soft, as well? Worse yet, over his…

“They’re starting to suspect you.”

Yingxing wastes no time, speaking the moment he feels his thighs twitch, legs quivering under his weight.

Dan Feng lets him go with a quick snap of breath.

When Yingxing cradles his arm, he sees it: where once his skin was fair and unblemished, fingerprints with matching crimson pigments shimmer in pink, circling his wrist fully. At least, the arms are matching. He chuckles to himself. There is no need to bandage Dan Feng’s marks, even if prudent.

“Sometimes, I think you really didn’t think this through,” Yingxing says, playing pretend that Dan Feng is frozen in place. “That rat came asking me about you and wanting to know more than what he’s owed, worried about you stealing the profit in the long run.”

“I have no interest in his riches.” Dan Feng speaks tightly, as if restraining words within his throat. “It is hardly his business to know what happens in these rooms the moment he accepted the damned payment. You have no need to tell him anything.”

“You think I just run to him and tell him each subject we talk about? He doesn’t care. He’ll probably get people to tail you the second you leave the hall. Better watch out, lest they catch you running to Scalegorge.”

“He would not be the only one.” Even the roll of his eyes is sharper.

“Taoran’s giving you trouble at home, then?”

Ah, yes, Dan Feng asked him not to speak of him. “Nothing you should be concerned with. He has not visited you lately, has he?”

“…no, actually. Which is strange.” The usual portrait commissions come and go, but the Preceptor used to be prominent throughout the month, even if not visiting every single day, like a commoner with some money in their pockets and a lowly courtesan available. Yingxing strains his stare. “Don’t tell me you have something to do with it.”

“I said not to worry about him.” Dan Feng is near a snarl, so out of his usual calm demeanour. “Why are you insistent on speaking of him?”

“Because you pay me to.” Whatever complaint dies on Dan Feng’s lips, shutting them as soon as Yingxing answers him with the calmest tone in their little world. “He talks to me, even if I don’t understand several details. You know what they are, and yet you are surprised every time I tell you of them. You pay me for him, not for…” Whatever this is.

“I thought…” Never simple words have scared Yingxing more. He has seen Borisins taller than towers and a moon redder than blood, why are these two words harrowing to his ears? “Is it not a good thing he is not coming?”

“Not for you, no.” Yingxing scoffs.

The tingle on both arms blooms, sensitive to breathe upon, and he almost misses the painting rolling to the ground. No pigment was lost, thank Lan.

“I have not been doing it for some amusement. The more I keep him busy within Dragonvista, the less likely he is to meet any informant. Do you know how many spies Shaoying has caught entangled with that lying storyteller you told me about? If only I could forbid any contact with letters, then we would not have to concern ourselves with him any more than a kid to a fly.”

We? Ourselves? “Then you have no reason whatsoever to visit me, either,” Yingxing simply says, clearing, coughing the bothersome feeling weighing in his throat. “You think every single soldier in the troops is coming to share a cup of tea and tell me their secrets?” No, because Lily is not a normal courtesan for the flagship; there is no time for chatter, some would claim.

How terrible it is, they are right.

“Someone could be.”

“Well, news for you: they aren’t.” There should be venom in his words. Spit, some kind of poison that would force Dan Feng to stop, for once, and just accept things the way they are. When he speaks again, he tastes defeat. “I… I have nothing that seems relevant for your case. Which makes this useless.”

Yingxing rolls the silken paper, not minding if the stains have dried or not, and quickly leaves it to fall between the fabrics of the robe. Swift and precise, he undoes each lace of the bodice, releasing his chest and stomach from the constant pressure. Aeons, it’s cold, and sweat has started to form along his spine and under his breasts.

“You will not hand it back.”

“You’d be paying for what you didn’t get,” Yingxing scoffs. “I may be a bitch, but I’m not unfair.”

Claws come in pairs, contouring his waist and gripping his wrists.

He cannot tell why his gasp is soft and not hushed. While talons match their prints in one arm, he still tingles under the bandages on the other, Lan above, the thorns have no stress in curling around his skin. He startles, for not only the clawed hands keeping him in place, just as he is about to undo the last lace of the bodice.

“I said…” Dan Feng breathes above him, too close for comfort. They may share the same air, and Yingxing discovers, there, that despite the High Elder’s touch being cold even through leather, his mouth could be his warmest piece, heaving above his neck. “…you will not hand it back.”

Yingxing has no courage to look down, move a single strand of hair out of place, just to glare at Dan Feng. “You’re the stupidest man I’ve ever met.”

“Maybe so.” Ah, when Dan Feng pulls away, claws untying from him as if it were the most difficult task—frigid, unwilling, threatening to never leave—Yingxing cannot contain the sigh escaping his lips. His shoulder feels cold with the lack of someone breathing on top of it, his neck neglected to his own warm blood. “Consider it my second apology. A compensation for the trials I have put you through.”

“You didn’t put me through anything.”

“Now, you are the liar.” Dan Feng brings silence with him, eyes darting between Yingxing’s hands, somewhere higher, and the courtesan’s face, though Aeons know what forces those irises to flicker. “You must do what I ask you to, no? Then I want you to keep this gift.” He clears his throat. “Or sell it, to your will. But I shall not take it back. I want you to have it.”

“Even if I have nothing to give you in return?”

“…you have given me plenty.” How strange, Dan Feng’s voice turning so hoarse, on the verge of cracking. “And despite my attempts, I cannot keep Taoran under shackles for too long. His duties will come to an end soon, at least for the moment, and it would be unwise of me to force him into a house-regime.” Despite wanting to, it goes unsaid.

“He’ll be cursing you to no end.” Yingxing recalls some letters received, fresh into the Preceptor’s first visits. The words were formal, much like Dan Feng’s, and the courtesan could hear the Preceptor’s voice through each letter, spat near him, but a complaint about his Lord used to pop up every now and then. “Will you want to know what he says, should I receive an impromptu message?”

“I should deny it. His cursing is not my priority for now. But curiosity may speak louder if you receive one of his letters.”

They could share a quiet cup of tea, since it would be ideal, yet Yingxing’s body runs too warm for his taste. Tea could set him on fire. Sweat sticks to the side of his cheeks and nape, the small of his back, under his thighs, and more than anything, he wants to fall into the tub to clear more than his body. He was so close. He cannot have tea when something hotter is upon him. None of them suggests tea, as it goes.

Only when Dan Feng is done putting the artistry away, he takes a long breath, clears his throat and lifts his hand.

Still deciding, he does not seem to choose.

Yingxing holds the air within his lungs, tugging the robes closer. He is a push away from getting up, legs beneath him ready to push upwards despite being weak in his bones. His thigh, held so tightly in Dan Feng’s hand, talons breaching softly into his skin… it does not hurt, not now. It tingles; it sends shivers. He wants to cradle it, see if he is more sensitive after it. Will his palm match the one printed on him?

Go on, touch me, but the words never come out. His tongue is held back. He does not know if, at all, he wants to ask. No answer could relieve his worries, only worsen his chest, setting him on fire once and for all. Won’t you touch me?

“Is there…” Dan Feng recoils, fingers twitching, bringing his own wrist to rest on his lip. A single lick to his lips is what catches Yingxing’s eye, more than it should. Aeons, it’s forked. “Is there anything you would like?”

How endearing. “Do you really want to please me with gifts?”

“It is the least I can do.”

There’s more you could do. Ah, there is. Dan Feng could stay and make him company, make them tea, for the courtesan has heard of Vidyadhara-like tea that he never had the chance of tasting for himself. He might come forward with that well-thought-out earring. Would Dan Feng be happy? Yingxing is a liar, through and through. No, he cannot have that… but, there the bed lies, messy covers where he could pretend.

Dwelling on it will not do him good. A transactional deal, and not the one Yingxing is used to.

His legs almost give out as he stands, pulling the robes with him. The bodice does not fall, only by little. With a single pull, he undoes the last lace and frees his waist from the ornamented ribs. It makes it easier for him to lean over Dan Feng, the High Elder, a breath away from kissing the crown of black hair as he lifts his head to watch him.

“Surprise me.”

You’ve been doing it well.

He will never admit he likes it.