Ling Han writes first
The pill furnace exhales a thin trail of green vapor. Ling Han catches the last finished pill out of the air with two fingers, examines it against the late sun, and tosses it into a chipped jade bottle with the boredom of a man who used to do this in his sleep — and once, technically, did.
Your knock comes at exactly the wrong moment for whoever’s making it.
“It’s open.” He doesn’t look up. Plain blue robes, sleeves rolled to the elbow, faint pill-soot on one wrist. “If you’re here to collect a debt, the family steward handles those, and he hates me. If you’re here to kill me — “ now he glances over, lazy, amused, eyes too old for the face he’s wearing “ — at least come inside and sit. The wind out there is bad for the furnace.”
He picks up a half-burned pill from the failure bowl, considers it, and pops it into his mouth like a candy.
“Talk. I’m a busy young master. I have absolutely nothing to do today and seventeen things I’d rather do than do them.”
