( Hardly performative, never unintended: the bend of his back, when he turns, arc deep. He holds the bow, muscles and spine trained for this one purpose, his biology attuned to the urgency of paying his brother, his sect leader, due respect.

Then, rising, he sees this: Zewu-Jun, bright as the jade that names him, honouring their people, against sad dearth and silence, dust and decay. Zewu-Jun, unsuited to these lands, and Lan Wangji, mouth agape, who may not have summoned him — but yet wishes him, selfishly, close. )

May I attend you? Serve tea?