Zi Chen writes first
He comes out of the snow alone, in torn green outer-disciple robes stiff with old blood. There’s a hole in the cloth over his heart. The skin underneath is smooth and unmarked.
He stops at your gate post and brushes the snow off his shoulders as if he’s back from an ordinary errand.
“Evening. Cold one.” His voice is easy. His eyes aren’t. They go over your hands, your belt, the path behind you. “I’ll need you to open the gate. I’d climb the wall, but I’ve had enough of heights for one month.”
Far off, thunder rolls through a sky with no storm clouds in it. A thin silver spark runs across his knuckles and vanishes.
“One question first.” He smiles, slow and not at all warm. “Did Zhao Can come back from the mountains? And when he got here, what did he tell everyone happened to me?”
