( At first, sharp and crystalline silence, deafening as Lan Wangi raises his fettered sword, barely revealing a wink of her steel, unsheathing. Then, he lets her settle down at his side. )

Spiritual weapon. ( A true spirit sleeps within, frigid, serene and ruthless. Sensitive to magic, but too rapidly prone to imparting its own presence. ) Probable to stir any sleeping spirits within.

( Better the blade he accepts from Wrath, held far too tightly at first, before Lan Wangji reconditions his posture to accommodate a smaller, more fragile weapon. He cuts in a few tame swings, raining down soft debris of webs, some bled dark. All the better to pilfer and roll in tight balls, and surrender these to his qiankun purse — no greater, outwardly, than a coin sack. A prison of all things, within. )

I shall not ask you not to inflict your heritage unto Emilia. You will cite her choice.

( But know that he nearly did. )