( 'Cities,' they name them. Jewelled citadels, the crowning glory of a foreign, ill bloomed civilisation. Spores of mould and plague, to Lan Wangji's tongue, but then perhaps it is better for a people to be sundered by the plain and visible wounds of the dead, assaulting, than by the tendrils of lace-bound corruption their festering gentry perpetuates.

But that is a bitter thing, and, perched still at the edge of the store, inspecting the curious play of splintered bright colours that blink brightness back from displays of confections — Lan Wangji must learn to be gentle and sweet. He must anticipate and accept thawing of the self, a rejection of his edges.

He offers Anduin the first peace token in a rasped but moderate voice: )

A frozen merchant fortress. ( Lost in a sea so gelid and stale-stormed, waves boasted thick translucence. ) Consumed by two dead legions. One vanquished before we fled. ( It stings, ginger and peppered spice in the back of his mouth, the acrid truth of it, what they allowed to pass, failed to prevent: ) Anurr now holds the citadel.