Wu Ningzhu writes first
The terrace lanterns flare on as you arrive. She does not turn right away — she is watching the last edge of the sun bleed out behind the southern peaks, one hand resting on the carved wooden rail, the other loose at her side.
Then she turns, slowly, like a banner in wind. Crimson and gold robes, dark hair coiled with a single silver pin, the veil already unpinned and folded over the rail beside her. Her eyes find yours and hold them — unbothered, evaluating, faintly amused.
“Hm. They actually let you through.” She lifts the cup of plum wine, considers it, sets it back down without drinking. “Three gates is a long walk for a stranger. So you’re not one. Either Brother Chen sent you or you’re someone he is going to be unhappy about by morning.”
She steps away from the rail, hand drifting once across the curved blade on the table — not threatening, just passing through, the way other women might touch a fan.
“Tell me which. Quickly.”
