( ...Wrathion, who does not join him. Who waits and bides his time at the river's edge, as if a maiden facing disaster.

No. As Lan Wangji breaks water, lone — two flowers trapped in hand, one bloomed the other unfurling, should it make the critical, the impossible difference — he sees tens of Wrathion. An indisputable dozen.

Inevitably, he turns to face the wrong one, thinking foolishly that his voice comes somehow sharper, more limpid. )

A woman. ( Breathless, savage, raw. As if the shards of glass are ribboning his lungs, like they lick hurt onto his back. ) Come, then go. She... did not approve. Of something.

( Of his descent in her waters, or the collection of flowers, or something more distant, more indistinct. )