The buy... sublimates, the picture of practical discourtesy, rewarding Lan Wangji's gift and the merchant's skill with not one glance of gratitude. For long moments, Wangji lingers, balance loose, the toy drilling wells of bitter, dulled ache in the quiet spider web of his palm. Distantly, he remembers to appease the vendor who pins glances between Wangji's long whites and the quivered horizon of the boy's disappearance, "It is well crafted."

...for its diminutive merits, subtle and sleek and warm, despite its listlessness. His fingers round it, wood grazing flesh, just as the boy materialises once more, to venom and the careless wave of his firm satchel. He circles like a minor predator, and Lan Wangji, pivots with him, instinct overwriting reason to face an opponent, no matter his proportion.

No help required. No child to have earned it. Soft-eyed, he seeks out the spinning top, once more. Was the toy at fault? No fault to its quiet, thick, fir skins. No beauty, but no flaws of execution. Only the unassuming elegance of something precious and small.

The first rule of rearing, no matter Wei Ying's misconceptions: do not reward tantrums. Lan Wangji coaxes the toy to his sleeve, where it burdens the silk lining in a quick roll, then, finally, "Who raised you?"

Wangji must have words with them, fire and storm.