The boy's wrist, barely bird bones. A child's skeleton, no matter the weight of strength it carries. Lan Wangji turns the arm with a slack hand, weak, largely indicative — spares the touch of its brother only to drift, fingers short of collision, largely foreign and hovered, chasing the junction between the arteries of child and those of the universe.

Intervals and crevices in the stream of dormant energy present themselves. He chases, mind alight with wonder, until he trusts the union of force and flesh enough to intercede with the scattered, drowned fluidity of his magic. It scratches of him. Tears. Asks more than his golden core, the generator of his body, may freely give at this time of startled function. No matter. To the starved man, even half a morsel should do for feeding, and the chief cultivator's resources yet stand a feast. He thieves from himself, directs, rehomes —

And finds, in futility remembered, as with Wei Ying before. An overwhelming, startled silence. The absence of an anchor, energy only swirling within the child's body, seeking points of lower pressure to fill, an easy, uniform distribution. Enough to boost his resources, but — and Lan Wangji's touch dissipates, the transfer scant but sufficient so as to not overwhelm a novice recipient —

"Use swiftly." And was Wangji's voice so coarse before, his pallor so deepened? No matter, either. "There is nothing within you for it to latch."

The current highs of the donation will be succeeded by corresponding lows.