He wakes before the sun's crawl, before the skies tear, before the cold weeps down. Stirs in silence grey, heartbeat stuttered, bones shrivelled in the entombment of flesh that won't answer until the hour strikes right. Each day, five of the morning — now, the moon drenches half his western quarters in coy, cloyed pallor, and brittle claws scratch his dreams destroyed.

Bichen comes to hand, before his manners remember themselves. Before the world rights, before the natural nausea of scant rest and hard motion dispels itself. Sword aside, he eases to his feet, means to strike at the windows, but remembers the eerie man's one counsel, Do not open your doors to them, come dark.

And she is mother still, shrouding, black of the world and the black of his unanswered questions, and he hastens through the rooms, in search of Wei Ying, who haunts the corridors, his son, who sleeps —

Only to crowd the man first, Lee Chang a ghastly vision, under the rapping beat of their hearts, of footsteps on roof tile above them. He mouths first, but knows they lack the brazier to be seen, for all he raises Bichen beside his cheek to round the words against her glare, "This is no haunting."

Comes trickle, honeyed, but not sweet, and his mind roils, and the wind groans, cleaving winter. They come assaulted.