( One, and the courtship ended. Perhaps the maiden proved too sour, his bite poison, his manner hissing and howling.

There are questions only a blade may answer, and he remembers enough of the man to recall he bore arms. Those who carry must wield. Those who wield must bleed. )

Dozens. ( Distant, waving a hand over the spread of dice and curling his fingers in, then opening his palm — to signal, throw again. Lan Wangji too might, perhaps; only, he is the second son of a foremost sect, and his pride is his own. )

You counted among us, once. ( A pause. ) No need to concern yourself.