The horseman — Unhalad. And though Bichen did not claim that kill for her tally, she tasted the rush of rust and metallic energy that shrouded him, broke through the vanguard of his defences. They partook of the slaughter that Archeval ended in a quick, loose arc of storm-hailed blows.

He feels, bursting in his chest, the swell of paternal pride, of vanity — of a wretched, faithless flattery. Every scrape and line and bloodied gape speaks of this boy's love for his father. I tried to make sure —

It should not be for children to sacrifice themselves thusly. For Lan Wangji to benefit at the cost of fingers he raises, reverent and warm, to brush the back of them against his forehead ribbon. Sizhui. Son. "Do you not ruin yourself for me."

He is hearty, whole, mended. Alive, and courtesy of status and preparation and the blood that warms his veins, experienced.