( And what is that? But he knows, his spleen knows, his bone marrow, the gritty and grime of him. There is a look and a scent that men bear when they intend, worse than to kill — war's practicality — to put the hurt in those around them.

To torture, to slaughter, to make sport of bloodshed. An empty, flayed quality to their engagement. And Lan Wangji, who has never been accused of an excess of conversation, must wonder, now, when and where he learned his words.

How he can use them to stall. To glean. )

Namely?