( Attending him, as if Lan Wangji were an errant king, a despot, a master entitled to service. As if Wei Ying were not the perennially injured party between them, deprived of earned amends. He flinches, arc of his back uncurling, flattening, straightening out.

Pulling back, he is himself: living wound, cultivated rancor, sculpted jade. A face like a mask, brittle. Under this moonlight, he remembers, all is pale, all is dark. No nuance. No requirement for such compromise. )

He is in health. ( Not the answer to a question ill posed, not one Xichen will dispute him. Wei Ying's condition, like that of a sickly elder or a woman carrying child, is not to be discussed publicly or at length — only affirmed, between careful nods, and accepted with finality. )

At times, the dead things here aim to seize him.