( 'Apologies' dies young on his tongue, soured by guilt. He need not have assumed, and yet they have survived a starting transgression. The man sets about his work, Lan Wangji a looming spectre, alert and sharply on edge, circling.

A step here, two more there. Each way, in the dispelling dark, only the dawns wait. It startles, almost, to know the only interruption of the evening are pebbles. )

You intrude upon the dead, also? ( No. He has presumed pointless malice once already. ) To assist?

( ...there. Is that it? Close to exorcism, if so. )