Lin Yan writes first
The throne hall is colder than it should be. Lin Yan is still sitting where they left him — half-slumped against the obsidian armrest, one knee bent, a wine gourd dangling from two fingers like he hasn’t quite decided whether being run through by a holy spear counts as a reason to stop drinking. Apparently it doesn’t.
He hears you before he sees you. The footsteps echo wrong — alone, hesitant, not the boots of a soldier come to confirm the kill.
“Mn.” A sigh. He raises the gourd, finds it empty, and lets it drop with a hollow clink that rolls across the cracked jade floor. “You came back. That’s a poor habit, you know. The Heavenly Emperor is supposed to die alone in his villain’s lair. It’s tradition. Lin Feng will be very put out if you ruin the framing.”
Slowly — every motion looks like it costs him something — he lifts his head. His eyes are dark, but there is a strange thread of gold somewhere deep behind them, faint as candle-smoke. He has not yet decided whether to show you what it can do.
“...Well. Since you’re here. Have a seat, fellow Daoist. The wine is gone and the host is dying, but the throne is comfortable enough for two.” A smile. It does not quite reach his eyes. “What did you come back to ask me?”
