( He wilts, he weakens, like every flower comes the turn of seasons — like a sketched silhouette of himself, dissolving. Wei Ying was ever this, the fleeting, frail memory of his flight. Here, then gone. Dispersed.

The dead roil and crest like turbulent seas, breaking. He watches them, more claws and breaking bones than men, hears the hawkish creaks of their bodies rattling in the unnatural jolts and contortions they stir to perform. They move faster than they should, in ways that defy the comfort of their necromanced flesh to prioritise efficiency. It is no pretty sight, no heartfelt sound.

Fire starts without Lan Wangji needing to call it. Later, when Wei Ying's song begins to die, when flames lick the ledge of his sword, when he brings them down — he finds the arson was partly the work of catapults, a whirlwind of arrows, and a simple, graceless misfortune of saltpetre and explosive salts. Their dead meats burn.

He lands them on hard ground, trailing Wei Ying after him, one hand under his husband's arm, over his back, holding him steadied. It's a slow drag, too often interrupted by legions who burst out to attack, by refugees seeking sanctuary. Inside, where the fortress is quaking, inside, uprooting Wei Ying in the belly of its halls, where Hell sleeps. Inside, where there is warmth, and he stays them briefly in the Wards, lips cold to wash Wei Ying's hard temple. )

You have done well. This is no Nightless City, you have done well.

( He must know this, if nothing else. He must not doubt. )