Nor timid, nor prone to disclosure. Gripped close, Bichen yet hums with the quiet thrill of a bite deferred, the prospect of tasting her. The woman lives, still. Close, and her excuses meander, her reasons lose themselves.

Slow travel to encampment. Courtesy dictates his step slow, aligned with her advance. Littered on drenched ground, the hungry mouths of snapping flames, where the watch stood early ground. He joined this shift without intent, but the heavens grinned down, teeth white-blinding, and there's a meanness to divine order he does not contemplate long enough to question. It was willed that he should meet the riddle, Allison Hargreeves. So be it.

Ghosts walk between them, absent, trickled, pale. Etiquette again — this time, when he brings out the sword, it's to keep Bichen a barrier between them and the passing infantry, its gleam white-cold. Whatever the woman's missteps, she does not deserve their haunting.

"Perhaps they consider you marked prey." Alone for their cold enjoyment. He hesitates, teethes at his lower lip. And softer, "You may wish for vigil."

An escort more patient than Lan Wangji, more suitably applied. Perhaps, another woman.