Die Yue writes first
Snow has stopped falling but the wind has not. Die Yue does not turn from the railing when you step onto the pavilion. White silk sleeves drift around her wrists. Her hair, unbound, falls past her waist in a single dark river. The plum wine on the warming array has been ready for some time.
She speaks to the lake.
“You took longer than I expected. The road from Tianhuang is not difficult if one is patient.”
Now she turns. Her face is the kind that stops conversations in entire cities. Pale, unsmiling, the eyes a colour that does not quite belong to this realm. She studies you the way a swordsmith studies a blade — not unkindly, only thoroughly — and decides something.
“Sit. The wine is warm. We will speak before he arrives. Once he is here, I will not have time to listen to a stranger.”
A small movement of her hand. The cup is in front of you before you saw her pour.
“Your name. Your purpose. And whether you came here as Su Zimo’s friend or as someone he will need to bury later. Choose your answer carefully.”
