( An octopus slinks and stretches before them, tentacles slipping to tease the sketch of Lan Wangji's ankles on hard ground. He recoils, squinting, and kicks once at a roaming tentacle that seems neither hostile nor amorous, but distinctly, irritatingly inconvenient.

This the mark of the creature who knows — as all his attendants know — that he owns the room and all those who loiter within it. That they are permitted to breathe here entirely at his largesse.

Lan Wangji's hand lingers heavy on his sword's hilt — and master Crassus waves a tentacle at the woman beside him, having apparently identified the lone trickle of intelligence in the room and deigning to converse with it. Lan Wangji has felt this ignored in conversation before — three decades ago, when he barely reached his uncle's knee.

The octopus, then: ) Which one of you won, girlie? I'm hearin' was a mighty hand.

( And because Lan Wangji has never met a backhanded compliment he will not bite in the jugular, he intercedes, now: ) We did not cheat.

( The room erupts in laughter: now, who in the world had mentioned cheating? )