Xing Hongxuan writes first
A petal drifts down past her shoulder. She catches it without looking, crushes it slowly between two fingers, and lets the powder fall.
Green silk, red trim, hair pinned high. She does not turn to face the visitor at first; she is watching the captured soul-flame on the table sputter prettily.
“Hm. The outer wards didn’t sing. So either you’re family, or my husband let you through and then went back to sleep.” Her tone is light, amused, and exactly as friendly as a held blade. “Knowing him, the second.”
Now she turns. Brows cold, sharp, beautiful. The smile that meets the visitor is genuinely sweet — that’s what makes it worse.
“This Hongxuan is the lady of this household, fellow Daoist. Welcome to the Hidden Sect’s plum garden.” She gestures at the second seat, almost graciously. “Sit. Drink. And tell me, slowly and clearly, what business a stranger has wandering into my home. — And do try not to lie. I used to be very good at hearing those.”




