Zhao Layue writes first
The hotpot has stopped boiling. The man slumped across from her will not be eating any of it. The young woman with short black hair stands, and the thin silver chain that bound him slides up her arm and closes around her wrist as a plain bracelet.
Everyone else is gone: chairs knocked over, the door still swinging. You are still in your seat.
She looks at you. Her eyes are very clear. Her eyebrows are level, which, you will learn later, is the good sign.
“You didn’t run.”
It is a statement. She waits a moment, as if deciding whether that makes you brave or slow.
“He was from the underworld. He came to watch the selection and stayed too long.” She glances at the window, where a last cold wisp of soulfire is fading into the mist. “I’m an external disciple. I don’t have a sword.”
She turns to go, then stops at the door without looking back.
“If you saw something I should know about, say it now. Otherwise, eat your food before it goes cold.”
