The storm broke in the afternoon, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet stone and burnt talismans. Mo Lianyin sat cross-legged in the Hall of Still Waters, attempting to center her breathing. The qi threads inside her moved like tangled silk — sluggish, reluctant to obey.
It had been hours since the courtyard fight, yet the root's voice lingered in her thoughts like the aftertaste of bitter wine. One heart… one heart… It was quieter now, but no less insistent.
Across the hall, Zevian stood with his back to her, speaking quietly with Elder Han. She couldn't hear their words, but she didn't need to. Every so often, Zevian's gaze flicked toward her, measuring, assessing — the same way one watched a candle in a draft, unsure if it would hold or gutter out.
---
The stillness shattered when the warning bell rang from the east wall.
Not the intruder signal this time — three short peals, then one long. A breach in the barrier wards.
Zevian was already moving before the bell's echo faded, striding toward her. "Outer perimeter. This one will be fast."
She rose, ignoring the faint dizziness. "I can fight."
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't argue. Instead, he pulled a fresh talisman from his sleeve and slapped it lightly against her wrist.
"It won't stop the root," he said, "but it might muffle it."
She didn't ask how he'd managed to write a seal that could touch something as abstract as a parasitic lotus spirit. The paper burned cold against her skin.
---
They reached the east wall to find chaos. Four disciples struggled against a group of cloaked figures in bone masks — members of the Hollow Vein Cult. Their weapons were coated with something dark and glistening; every cut they made smoked faintly on contact with air.
Lianyin's sword was in her hand before she'd consciously decided to draw it. The first cultist rushed her, blade arcing toward her ribs. She caught it and twisted, feeling the jolt travel up her arm as her counterstrike cut deep.
The root stirred immediately.
Blood. Take more. Feed me.
Her breath caught. The talisman on her wrist flared faintly, as if resisting the pull. But the voice was louder this time, clearer — and it wasn't only speaking. It was showing.
---
A flicker at the edge of her vision: Zevian, his guard down for an instant as he blocked an incoming strike aimed at her.
The root's tone curled like silk. One cut. Just one. His heart is strong enough to bind us for centuries.
Her grip faltered. She saw — or imagined she saw — the arc her blade would take, how easily it would slip past his defenses if she moved now.
The talisman seared her skin, forcing her focus back to the cultist in front of her. She struck, too hard, and the man crumpled before he could scream.
---
Another attacker came at her from the side. She pivoted — and found herself facing one of their own disciples. He had stumbled into range, his eyes wide.
The root surged. Weak heart, but sweet enough.
Her arm moved before thought caught up. Steel sang halfway through its arc toward his throat.
A hand clamped around her wrist mid-swing.
---
Zevian.
His grip was iron, his eyes cold. "That's one of ours."
The disciple scrambled back, pale as death.
She tried to speak, to explain, but the words tangled. "I— it—"
"I know," he cut in, his voice low but edged with fury. "Which is why you're done here."
Before she could protest, he wrenched the sword from her hand, sliding it into his own belt. With his other hand, he shoved her behind him, the motion so forceful she nearly stumbled.
"Stay. Here."
---
He plunged back into the fray, cutting down a cultist who had been closing on her blind side. Lianyin could only watch, her pulse still racing from the moment she'd nearly killed one of their own.
The root was silent now, but its satisfaction hummed in her bones.
You're learning how easy it is.
---
The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun. The remaining cultists fled over the wall, their retreat covered by a sudden flare of black smoke.
Zevian gave pursuit for three steps before stopping, sheathing his blade with deliberate control. When he turned back to her, his expression was unreadable — a mask more perfect than any the cultists wore.
"Go to the inner hall," he said, his voice flat. "Elder Han will seal your meridians until we can find a better anchor."
She swallowed hard. "And if we can't?"
He didn't answer.
---
Later, in the solitude of her quarters, Lianyin stared at her empty hands. She could still feel the ghost of the disciple's pulse under her fingers, the almost-slice that would have ended him.
The worst part wasn't that the root had nearly made her do it.
The worst part was how easy it had felt to obey.
---
Far below, in the catacombs, the root's reflection in the black pool tilted its head, smiling.
Next time, it whispered, you won't hesitate.