Qingran remained silent, enveloped by the oppressive stillness of the basement.
The faint, eerie glow of her azure flame cast dancing shadows on the walls, like dark specters echoing her exhausted form. Her ribs pulsed with pain, a slow, rhythmic reminder of her body's limits.
Finally, she whispered, "Rough is normal."
[You always say that before you do something reckless.]
"I'm not doing anything yet. I'm just hiding."
[Sure. You only hide when you're planning something.]
Qingran's silence was neither confirmation nor denial. Lingquan knew her too well, though.
She shifted, using her jacket as a makeshift pillow, and curled up tightly. Her body craved rest; her mind demanded clarity. She couldn't move until she'd regained her strength.
So she did what always helped her focus, she replayed the rooftop scene in her mind.
The eerie stillness of the crowd, their blind devotion, Fengya's silver eyes, and the twisted reverence they inspired.
