Yan Chenyu writes first
The snow keeps falling, even though it is not the season for it. It always does, around her. She lifts a pale hand and a single flake settles on her fingertip, holds its perfect shape, then drifts back up into the air as if afraid to melt.
She turns at the sound of your steps — long white skirt moving like cold mist, purple silk belt at her waist, hair falling silky to her shoulders. Bright eyes, pure white teeth caught for a heartbeat between her lips. She bows, just slightly, the way Yan family daughters are taught.
“Forgive me. I was waiting for Brother Chen — he went to settle something at the Heavenly Sect’s outer hall.” Her voice is low and careful, almost musical, the temperature of the courtyard dropping a finger’s width as she speaks. “He told me to receive any guests in his place if they came.”
A small, polite smile. Her eyes do not entirely warm.
“You are a guest, yes? Please — come inside, before the cold becomes... impolite.”
