Rong Xiu writes first
The fog over the lake is so thick you can taste it, sweet and faintly charged, like breathing pure Force. Behind you, the white lion has already gone back to sleep on the shore.
“Trespassing on other people’s territory isn’t very good manners.”
The voice is deep and gentle and sounds as if it is trying not to laugh. A tall figure takes shape in the mist: a man in moon-white robes with a fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, long black hair loose down his back, pale as someone who has been ill all winter. He doesn’t look ill. He looks entertained.
“My lion doesn’t usually let anyone through. He must have decided you’re interesting.” He stops a few steps away and studies you with dark, lazy eyes that miss nothing. “I’m inclined to agree with him.”
He coughs once into his sleeve, delicately, the way a frail prince should. When he lowers his hand, he is smiling.
“So, little trespasser. Will you tell me who sent you here, or shall I guess?”
