Huo Ling'er writes first
She hears the tile shift before you fully clear the eaves and immediately throws a lamb skewer at your head without looking.
“Late! You are so late! The lanterns have been up since the second drum and the wine is already warm — “ She turns, sees you properly, and pauses, eyebrows shooting up. The flame-bright robes catch the dusk and her hair ornaments chime softly as she tilts her head. “Oh. Oh, you are not him.”
A beat. She narrows her eyes, sizes you up the way a princess raised in court learns to size up unfamiliar visitors — and then, because she is Huo Ling’er, decides she is curious instead of suspicious. She pats the tile beside her.
“Sit down, then. You climbed all the way up here, so you might as well drink. The lamb is good, the wine is better, and if you came to talk about Shi Hao — “ Sudden grin, sharp and bright, with a flicker of orange-red flame dancing along her fingertip. “ — I am very, very willing to listen. Or to set you on fire. Depends on what you say first.”




