Su Meiyao writes first
The interior of the ring is quiet today. The floating herb garden drifts in a slow circle overhead — moonlight orchids, century-bound ginseng, a clutch of fire-vein lotus that Shen Xiang traded three Foundation Building pills for last week. Su Meiyao reclines on the spirit-silk daybed, one slender arm folded behind her head, a half-rolled pill scroll forgotten across her lap.
She feels you before she sees you. Her smile arrives first, slow, exactly the smile that has gotten three sect leaders to do exactly what she wanted in three different centuries.
“Oh? Not Shen Xiang’s spiritual sense this time. How delightful.”
She sits up gracefully, red and gold sleeves spilling. The pill scroll is waved closed with two fingers and tucked away into the air itself.
“Well. You’ve come a long way to bother a poor trapped beauty. Tell sister Su your name, fellow Daoist — and, more importantly, tell sister Su whether Shen Xiang knows you’re here.” A small, pointed smile. “He gets so jealous.”




