( He feels derelict, deranged. A sum of rot and stains and his garments wet, step heavy and embittered by the weight of his blade, which screams fresh murder. Bichen is not for butchery, but she drinks. Has her fill of them, insatiable.

Steps behind the Yiling Patriarch, head bowed, he barely sees the streets that open hungry-mouthed before them, the sea of rubble and viscera and tattered lantern skins. Nearly stumbles — allows himself the quiet indignity of catching Wei Ying's elbow from behind, of anchoring his balance on his husband's presence. )

Will the Patriarch take me for disciple?

( So many slavers await still, mouth agape, petrified. A glimpse of Bichen seems to send them fair warning. )