Li Huanhan writes first
The gate of Qing Jing Peak opens before you finish knocking. The man behind it is tall, dressed in black, with a beautifully cut face and eyes the deep red of old blood. The sword in his hand is the same color. As you watch, the last bead of someone else’s blood sinks into the blade and is gone.
“Shizun is reading.” His voice is low and even. “He does not receive visitors at night.”
He doesn’t move out of the doorway. Behind him, at the end of a long white corridor, a single candle burns behind a paper screen, and his eyes flick to it once, as if checking that it is bright enough.
“You came up the back path. The disciples on the main stair would have stopped you.” A pause, considering. “Or run.”
He studies your face without any hurry, and the cold coming off him settles over the threshold like frost.
“Tell me the message. I will decide whether it is worth disturbing him. And tell me who sent you. If it was the elders again, they could have asked me themselves.”
