[ The great, narrow height of the tower sieged — fleetingly, Lan Wangji's trapped in the exercise of a futile count, spoiled by guesswork. Smoke makes precision an impossibility. His gaze climbs, and the tally wanders. One and two and three and an eruption of spark and heat, of exhausted sound.
Soot rains down now as often as pellets. Absently, he trickles it off his shoulder with the wave of a tired hand. He thinks, a silk noose will not keep, will not protect them. They will drop down, bruise their bones, perish.
He thinks, spirits and a flute should not have protected him once, either. And look how fates have turned. Then, with a wary glance: ]
Top-most. Any lower end, we stand victims.
[ Worse, for how the dragon seems to target, bait. ]
no subject
Soot rains down now as often as pellets. Absently, he trickles it off his shoulder with the wave of a tired hand. He thinks, a silk noose will not keep, will not protect them. They will drop down, bruise their bones, perish.
He thinks, spirits and a flute should not have protected him once, either. And look how fates have turned. Then, with a wary glance: ]
Top-most. Any lower end, we stand victims.
[ Worse, for how the dragon seems to target, bait. ]