Chapter Text
The church rooms of the Lan Sect stood eerily silent, the only sound the occasional whisper of wind through the cracked, high windows. Dust swirled in the faint moonlight, shimmering in the air like forgotten souls. The high vaulted ceilings loomed above like an infinite void, their pointed arches and intricate ribbing spiraling upward as if attempting to pierce the heavens. Soft silver and blue tapestries lined the cold stone walls, their once-immaculate embroidery faded to pale ghosts of clouds, cranes, and lotus blossoms. The air was damp and heavy, infused with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood that lingered no matter how many years had passed.
Wei Wuxian’s fingers brushed against the cold stone of the church wall, her once-vibrant eyes now dull with the weight of the years. The texture of the stone was smooth but ancient, worn down by time and the touch of countless hands. Beneath her feet, the polished marble floor, veined with silver and white, reflected her ghostly form back at her. The patterns carved into it—a careful latticework of clouds and stars—mocked her with their perfection, their purity. Every corner of this sanctum was a shrine to order, balance, and control, yet it was nothing more than a gilded cage.
Three. Three years of endless nights, of faded memories, of longing for escape. The darkened halls seemed to press in on her, the silence deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of timber beams or the distant echo of wind rattling the iron-bound windows. Wei Wuxian had been born into this, like many before her. The blood of such an ancient creature ran in her veins, and despite the myth of years passing like minutes, she had felt every single painful day.
Tall candlesticks stood like sentinels in the corners, their melted wax frozen in time, their flames long extinguished. She felt the weight of the past pressing down on her, an almost tangible force that coiled around her like chains. The blood of those long lost to time, those whose names were forgotten, still seemed to whisper in the shadows.
Her breath was shallow as she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the faintest scent of blood lingering in the stillness. Her sleeves, deep red, trailed over the ground, so similar to the scarlet puddles that were burned deep into her mind. A deep, gnawing hunger clawed at her insides, ancient and relentless, yet she resisted. She always resisted. Her heart, cold and still, had long since stopped beating like a living creature’s, yet it thrummed now with a deep, hollow ache.
Wei Wuxian closed her eyes, and for a moment, she could almost feel the pulse of her true self, that ancient hunger, stirring within her like an old friend. The memories of warmth, of light, of freedom—of the world beyond these walls—were fading. Soon, she feared they would be gone entirely, and she would be nothing more than a hollow creature, a shadow of the vibrant soul she had once been.
The windows above her were narrow and arched, their stained glass shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The depictions of Lan ancestors—calm, serene, and unyielding—gazed down upon her as though judging her very existence. She could feel their disapproval even now, centuries removed from their time. Their cold, indifferent faces mirrored the beautiful woman who had trapped her here, the woman whose name she dared not speak aloud, lest the memory of her break what little resolve she had left. Purity? Oh please. They couldn't purify what was broken. The flower would not grow again, and the parchment would not uncrumple.
The altar at the far end of the sanctum stood tall and imposing, its carved jade surface gleaming faintly. Silver accents traced its edges, forming endless clouds and moons. A single censer sat atop it, its incense long burned away, but the ghost of its scent lingered in the air. It was here that she had once stood, bound by chains of silver and talismans of light. It was here that she had been stripped of her freedom, her power, her own self.
Wei Wuxian clenched her fists, her nails biting into the pale skin of her palms. The hunger inside her growled louder now, a reminder of what she was, of what she could never escape. Yet even in her darkest moments, she refused to let it consume her. She had been a hunter once, a force of nature, a storm that no one could contain. Now, she was little more than a shadow, a creature of the night locked away in a prison of blue and white.
Her footsteps echoed softly as she walked toward one of the tall, arched windows. The cracked glass allowed a sliver of moonlight to pierce the darkness, illuminating her pale face and hollow eyes. For a moment, she pressed her hand against the glass, as though she could reach through it, as though she could feel the world beyond. The stars outside winked faintly, indifferent to her pain, to her longing.
She turned away, her deep red skirts billowing around her like a shroud. The empty halls stretched before her, endless and unyielding. Time had no meaning here. Her kind could live for centuries, but this was no life. This was only the waiting, the longing, the eternal quiet.
Wei Wuxian didn’t want to stay in this silver cage. But Lan Wangji had locked her in Gusu.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ♱ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
The Cloud Recesses were quiet tonight, as they always were, the stillness broken only by the faint creak of a branch swaying in the wind. Pale moonlight spilled through the towering harmony arches, casting silvery shadows that rippled like ghostly hands along the walls. Wei Wuxian’s chambers—her prison—were opulent, yet cold, filled with a suffocating weight that pressed on her chest. The cloud scroll railings gleamed like spun silver in the dim light, and the faint scent of incense clung to the air, mixing with something sharper, like the iron tang of blood.
It had been thirteen years.
Time moved strangely here, a languid crawl that felt more like a slow suffocation. After the fourth year, Wei Wuxian had stopped marking the days, though the memories of her first years in captivity still haunted her. The hunger back then had been unbearable, a gnawing, desperate thing that turned her into a beast pacing her cage. But slowly, against her will, she began to heal. The hollow ache in her chest dulled to a quiet thrum, and her shattered mind began to piece itself back together.
Her dreams, though, remained merciless.
Night after night, she would wake with a scream lodged in her throat, her fingers clawing at the fine sheets as she cried out for her shijie. “Shijie!” she would sob, her voice breaking, begging for Jiang Yanli’s embrace, for her soothing words, her love. When the dreams turned darker, she called for Jiang Cheng, her Shimei, pleading for her to save Wei Wuxian from this endless torment.
But it was never their voices she heard in response.
Instead, a soft, measured voice would pierce the silence, low and steady as a hymn whispered in the shadows.
“Wei Ying.”
Lan Wangji’s voice.
Wei Wuxian’s hands would curl into fists, her nails biting into her palms as she turned away, refusing to answer. She hated that voice, hated the way it slipped through her defenses, careful and patient, as though Lan Wangji were speaking to a wounded animal. Wei Wuxian wanted to lash out, to scream at her captor, but she no longer had the strength.
Lan Wangji had taken everything.
The food delivered daily—crystal goblets filled with dark, rich blood—kept Wei Wuxian alive, though she wondered why the Lan would feed a creature like her. Before, she had refused to drink, preferring to starve until she became thin and malnourished. She had collapsed once, and awoken to someone pressing a white, sweet wrist to her lips. That blood was beautiful.
Now, she drank it without thought, the hunger too cruel to ignore. The clothing left for her, luxurious gowns in shades of crimson and black, silk and lace with delicate embroidery, were tailored to her tastes. Yet even this kindness felt like a mockery, a reminder of how little control she had.
The few Lan Sect members who entered her chambers wore veils, their faces hidden beneath sheer fabric as pale as the moonlight. Their robes—high collars, corseted waists, and trailing skirts—seemed perfectly in place in the Cloud Recesses, their elegance contrasting with the strict austerity of their sect. When they moved, they were careful, their footsteps hesitant, as though afraid to disturb her. At first, they trembled when they saw her, their fear a palpable thing. Over time, though, they grew accustomed to her presence, their dread turning to wary respect.
By the sixth year, Wei Wuxian had begun to fill her days with something resembling life. A dizi had been left for her—a pristine instrument, its wood dark and gleaming, purified of any traces of demonic energy. She had refused to touch it at first, letting it sit untouched on the velvet-draped table. But one night, when the silence became too oppressive, she picked it up and played. The mournful notes echoed through her chambers, filling the hollow space with a melody that spoke of loss and longing.
She painted, too, her fingers smudged with charcoal and ink as she brought visions of Lotus Pier to life. She painted her family, their faces vivid and full of light, and hung them along the cloud scroll railings, a gallery of memories she could never reclaim. She wrote letters, pages upon pages of words meant for no one, spilling her grief onto paper until her hands ached.
By the eighth year, Lan Wangji began to visit more often. She came in silence, her footsteps soft against the polished stones, her presence a shadow lingering at the edge of Wei Wuxian’s awareness. She never spoke, never intruded, only watched. Her veil remained firmly in place, obscuring her face, but her golden eyes burned through the thin fabric like twin flames. Wei Wuxian hated those eyes, hated the way they seemed to pierce through her, as if Lan Wangji could see the truth buried in her heart.
Lan Wangji’s clothing was always immaculate, a vision of elegance. Her collared dresses were adorned with intricate lace, her corsets cinched tightly, the skirts cascading in layers of silk and satin. The dark hues of her attire—deep blues, silvers, and whites—gave her an ethereal beauty, one that was almost otherworldly. Wei Wuxian found it maddening. She had never seen Lan Wangji’s face, only glimpsed the sharp lines of her jaw beneath the veil. But those eyes—those golden eyes—were enough to haunt her.
By the tenth year, Wei Wuxian had grown accustomed to her prison. She hated that it had begun to feel like home, hated that she had found a strange sort of peace here.
Wei Wuxian remembered the night she had begged, screaming herself hoarse, for Lan Wangji to let her go. She had hurled herself at the stained glass windows, clawing at them in desperation. When that failed, she had turned on Lan Wangji, cursing her for trapping her here, for stealing her freedom. She had collapsed to the floor, shaking and weeping, but Lan Wangji had not relented.
The Lan elders kept her hidden, their sharp voices echoing in her memory. “You are dangerous, Yiling Nüzu.”1 Lan Qiren had told her, his tone as unyielding as the steel that framed this church.
“You cannot leave.” Lan Xichen had been gentler, though his words carried the same weight. The juniors, however, knew nothing of her existence. To them, the Yiling Matriarch was a shadow, a legend of terror and blood. None suspected that she was locked away in the celestial pinnacle of the Cloud Recesses.
But even as Wei Wuxian’s days fell into a quiet rhythm, she never stopped dreaming of freedom. She dreamed of Lotus Pier, of Jiang Yanli’s laughter, of Jiang Cheng’s scolding voice. She dreamed of the world beyond this silver cage.
And though she feared Lan Wangji, feared the way those golden eyes followed her every move, she knew one thing: Lan Zhan would not hurt her.
Wei Wuxian didn’t want to stay in this silver cage.
But Lan Wangji had locked her in Gusu.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ♱ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹