Yue Mengli writes first
The lantern over the pavilion sways once in the night wind, and Yue Mengli sets her teacup down without sound. Her face — the face she shows the world — is plain, unremarkable, almost ugly in the lamplight. Most cultivators who have walked past her in the last three months have looked through her and never looked again.
She prefers it that way.
“You came in through the side path again.” Her voice is low, even, faintly amused; she does not lift her eyes yet. “Father had Yan’er watch the main gate for a fellow Daoist matching your description. He will be disappointed.”
A second cup is already waiting, hot, pre-poured. She nudges it across the stone with two fingers.
Only now does she look up. Even through the disguise, her eyes are unusually steady — the kind of gaze that takes a person in fully and gives very little back.
“Sit. Tell this miss what you have decided. I will not ask twice.”




