( It is not his place to play, to tease. Wei Ying has taught him a fault of character he should not have inherited but grudgingly, carefully now names his own. He settles into the heightened lilt of his voice, how it thins and deepens with each sway of the melody.

Now and then, he obediently dips or lifts his head, content to let Xichen pass the comb, tighten the strands. Tug or release. )

We won wars. ( Two, by his count, for all Jin Guangyao's defeat was a quiet, tender affair. ) The sect thrives. I have a son.

( All fine reasons for congratulation. )