"...eight of them," he reminds conversationally, with the ease of a man who has combatted, deflected and summarily dismissed juvenile propositions with great success in the past. He has, after all, raised a son and countless others of Cloud Recesses' less sophisticated children. He knows the farce of patience before a beggarly, infantile request.

"Fearful." It will not fade, after all, for all Lan Wangji gently coaxes his hands into the familiar, plaintive sequences of qi-imbued songs of clarity, of contentment. Wei Ying, a monster of ingratitude, will perhaps yet complain, even of this. "Hunted. Restricted and inconvenienced."

Eight hours paralysed by the limitations of another form are a difficult notion, no matter how prone Wei Ying now proves, lairing up to seize his sleep. He must think (they both most think) this is a matter of bearing with a blister, not shying away from a burn. But sorcery only deepens its hold, claws sharp and cunning, and their claim a carnage.

"You will not resist." Feast upon this, Lan Wangji's faith in his husband's strength. A sight, a vision. Beyond, a triad of toads takes this opportune time to croak their sympathy, their agreement, or their understandable cravings for a midday meal.