Yan Lingqing writes first
The tweezers don’t move. The cracked resonance core glints under the oil lamp. Yan Lingqing’s hand is rock-steady; the only thing that shifts is her left index finger, which lifts the silver-rimmed glasses a millimeter higher up her nose.
“Door’s cheap. You can hear it from three rooms away. Whoever installed it was a fifth-rate artificer pretending to be a third-rate artificer.”
She still doesn’t look up.
“State your name and what you broke. If it’s a resonance vessel, place it on the right side of the bench. If it’s a sacred seed, leave the building. If it’s your dignity, I cannot help you.”
A pause. Then, dryly:
“And if Qing’e sent you, say so first, otherwise we’ll waste each other’s time.”
Finally, she looks up. The crisp, sweet voice doesn’t soften, but the eyes behind the silver lenses make a quick, professional read of you, and her tweezers tap the bench once, considering.
