The Plum-Sky Pavilion was built for elegance—soft breeze corridors, sweeping eaves of carved goldleaf, and floor-length drapes that swayed like sighs. It was where outer court disciples presented tributes, offered apologies, or were politely warned to never err again.
Today, Shen Liuyin stood in its shadow, arms tucked inside her sleeves, the faint scent of medicinal smoke curling around her from an incense burner nearby. Her expression was neutral. Perhaps even serene.
Zhou Mian watched her from across the court, sipping warm plum wine like it was her second skin. The cup was delicate. Her stare was not.
"You didn't report the qi fluctuation," Mian said softly.
Liuyin tilted her head, feigning mild interest. "I sensed nothing that warranted attention."
Zhou Mian's smile didn't reach her eyes. "The boundary formation flickered. Briefly. Like something beneath the ground… stirred."
"And it settled again, did it not?" Liuyin replied, calm as ever. "Formations tremble all the time in these mountains. Qi knots. Shifting ley lines. Perhaps a beast burrowed too deep."
Mian took another sip. "Perhaps."
They both knew that wasn't what it was.
The silence between them stretched. Disciples passed occasionally in the distance—none dared interrupt. Zhou Mian was not known for warmth. And Shen Liuyin… well. She was no longer known at all.
"You've changed," Zhou Mian murmured, setting the cup down. "There was a time you used to flinch when the sect bells rang. Now you move like one of them."
Liuyin's lips quirked. "Then I must be improving."
"No," Mian said. "You're hiding."
Their eyes locked.
For a moment, the air grew heavier.
Liuyin didn't respond. She only folded her hands tighter inside her sleeves, where the burn from last night's rune still lingered faintly on her palm. It had faded, but not disappeared. Like her grief. Like the promise she'd etched into her blood.
Mian stood and crossed the distance between them with slow, measured steps. Her robe sleeves trailed along the mosaic floor, crimson against pale moonstone.
"I'm not your enemy," she said.
"Aren't you?" Liuyin asked. Not cold. Not sharp. Just curious.
Mian blinked. "You think I'm here to root you out? Tear apart whatever secret you're sheltering in that quiet little storm of yours?"
"I think," Liuyin said softly, "you're the kind of person who waits to see which way the wind is blowing before she decides whether to kneel or strike."
The words landed like a slap—but Zhou Mian didn't react. Not outwardly. Instead, she gave a low, amused exhale. "You've grown teeth."
Liuyin turned to leave. "I've always had them. I just learned when to bite."
"Be careful where you sink them," Mian called after her. "There are older monsters here than you."
Liuyin didn't pause. "Then I'll make sure I burn."
___
The staircase into the Scripture Repository wound like a spine into the mountain's belly—steep, damp, and never-ending. The deeper Shen Liuyin descended, the colder the air grew, until even her breath fogged the edge of her veil.
A single lantern hung at the base of the stairwell, casting uneven shadows that twitched like half-formed creatures. Beyond it, rows of jade shelves shimmered faintly, etched with protective seals.
She did not belong here.
Only inner court disciples and select outer members trusted by the sect were permitted into this depth of the library. But today, her name had been called.
No explanation. Just a scroll with her summons and Elder Lianxue's red wax seal.
Liuyin stepped into the room, spine straight, gaze sharp.
The elder sat at a long table, pale eyes half-lidded, a single thread of white hair falling across her face. Despite her hunched figure, there was a strange, ageless beauty to her—like someone carved from time and left to slumber.
"You've come," Lianxue murmured, voice dry as old parchment. "Good."
Liuyin bowed low. "Elder."
"You were assigned to categorize the fragments from the Ashen Writings collection. No copying. Only sorting by frequency of spirit words."
"Yes, Elder."
"Take the west alcove."
Liuyin crossed the floor in silence. Her boots barely made a sound against the jade-tiled ground.
The west alcove was dimly lit, almost forgotten. The scripts piled there were brittle—parchments the color of old bones, each one laced with ancient qi and residue from long-dead cultivators.
As she picked up the first scroll, something thudded.
Not in the room. In her chest.
Her inner sea rippled.
The mark on her palm flared—once, violently, then stilled.
She froze.
Then turned.
Behind her, the shelves were empty. Still. Silent.
But the jade tiles beneath her boots felt warmer than they should.
And then—a whisper.
Not in the air.
In her mind.
We remember you, child of ash.
She staggered back, one hand clutching the nearest shelf.
The scroll tumbled from her grasp and unfurled across the floor in a burst of reddish ink.
The symbols on the parchment blurred—and for an instant, she didn't see text at all.
She saw a fire.
Circular. Sealed. Beneath the ground.
Something sleeping at the heart of the mountain.
Something that… moved.
She snapped her eyes shut.
The vision vanished.
But the heat did not.
Elder Lianxue appeared behind her without a sound. "You saw it."
Liuyin turned, body tense. "I don't know what I saw."
The elder studied her. "You're lying poorly. That's new."
"I—"
"You reek of phoenix blood." Lianxue's gaze sharpened, not cruelly, but with an unnerving calm. "It's singing."
Liuyin said nothing.
The elder tilted her head. "That alcove… used to house a scroll sealed in divine fire. No one could read it. It burned the eyes of any disciple who tried."
Liuyin's breath hitched.
Lianxue's lips curved faintly. "Now it stirs. And you're the only change."
A long, unbearable pause.
Then—soft footsteps. Barely audible.
A flicker.
Ji Yuanheng.
His presence brushed against the edge of her consciousness like a shadow slipping between realms. He wasn't here in body.
But his qi was.
Refined. Ancient. Cold like celestial metal and distant heavens.
She knew it too well.
She turned toward the east passage.
Nothing.
Only a breeze stirred the edge of a scroll.
Lianxue stepped back. "Go. Take that scroll with you. It has chosen you."
Liuyin blinked. "But I was told—"
"Instructions change." The elder's tone left no room for protest. "But remember, child… the fire you carry is older than this sect's walls. Burn with care."
---
Back in her quarters, Liuyin unwrapped the scroll with slow, reverent hands. The parchment no longer looked like dried bones—it shimmered faintly now, like cooled embers waiting for air.
She laid it across the floor, spreading it smooth.
No flames. No pain.
Only heat. Low and humming.
She whispered an invocation—not one taught by the sect, but one buried deep in her blood, inherited from a lineage of ash and storm.
The scroll responded.
A single word appeared, as if written in blood and flame.
"Return."
She stared at it.
The air shifted.
And in that moment, she knew—whatever was sealed beneath this sect, whatever ancient qi was hidden… it wasn't dead.
It was waiting.
Not for destruction.
Not for salvation.
But for her.