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Gusu Lan’s second heir is born during a thunderstorm. Lightning strikes down into one of the pavilions, setting fire to a not unsignificant part of Cloud Recesses and resulting in the untimely death of thirteen disciples. Cloud Recesses has never known such destruction.

Lan Wangji, at the time of his birth still only known as Lan Zhan, comes to this earth in the worst night his sect has ever experienced. Some would see this as a bad omen.

It is.

And it doesn’t end there.

Precisely one month after the birth, there is a celebration in Lan Wangji’s honour. Neither of his parents attend it, one in a forced, the other in a self-appointed seclusion. Grandmaster Lan Qiren almost does not attend it either, due to a particularly bad migraine.

Perhaps he should have stayed in bed.

Gusu Lan has invited all the most important sect leaders, and every one of them has arrived with their most trusted disciples and their second-most precious gifts.

(It is only the second heir, after all.)

Sect Leader Jiang Fengmian has brought a weiqi set made from a thousand-year old tree native only to Yunmeng. Sect Leader Nie comes bearing his own bow and arrow, famous for defeating hundreds of enemies and now to scare a whole new generation into submission. Sect Leader Wen Ruohan has chosen to bring a dozen rolls of red silk in preparation for a wedding that is presumably decades away yet.

Sect Leader Jin Guangshan has brought prostitutes.

Lan Qiren’s migraine intensifies.

They all gather in the banquet hall, decorated today with the flowers they’ve received from well-wishers over the past few weeks. The guests drink to wish for Lan Wangji’s good health, for his long life, for his vast knowledge and his equally vast strength. The Lans don’t drink at all, which is why they are sober for what happens next.

Two minutes before midnight, one of the Lan elders frowns and asks Lan Qiren, “Grandmaster, do you hear music?”

One minute before midnight, a cold gust of wind blows through the hall, making most of the guests shiver and Jin Guangshan shift closer to one of his whores.

When the clocks strike twelve, the doors to the banquet hall fly open, and all the lights go out at once. For just one second, everything is pitch black.

Then there are two glowing red points in the darkness. Before anyone can realise that they’re eyes, a voice is already rolling through the room like thunder. “I believe you’ve forgotten my invite.”

“Who is this?” Lan Qiren demands. “Show yourself!”

“As you wish.” The lights flicker back on. Everyone can clearly see a figure shrouded in shadows now. A cultivator, surely. A man, probably.

Nothing else about the intruder seems immediately obvious. Lan Qiren tries to focus on the man’s face, only to find that he cannot.

“We’ve only invited the main sect leaders,” says the same Lan elder who earlier remarked on the music. It is only now that Lan Qiren sees the flute dangling from the intruder’s belt. “Any perceived slight here is illogical.”

“Ah,” the man says. “In that case, I’m happy to inform you that I am a main sect leader. You probably heard of me. I think you know me as – the Yiling Patriarch?”

Silence.

Then, a commotion breaks out. “Lies!” shouts one cultivator. “How dare you!”, another. Wild accusations get thrown around, at the intruder, at Gusu Lan, at each other. It’s not until Lan Qiren raises a hand that the room falls silent again.

“The Yiling Patriarch is a legend,” he says calmly. “Tales commoners tell their children to keep them from leaving their bed at night. Who are you to claim a name like that for yourself?”

For one second, he thinks he sees the man smile.

“Watch,” he says.

And Lan Qiren and the rest of the gathered cultivators watch as thirteen more people enter the room. Lan Qiren’s breath catches in his throat; all around him, there are shocked whispers.

Stood in a long line in front of them are thirteen members of Gusu Lan. All of them died a month ago.

Their leader raises his hand, and his puppets – all of whom, just last month, were upstanding cultivators – lift their swords. It is evident that they are preparing for a slaughter.

“Wait,” Lan Qiren says. No one present here today will go down without a fight, but he has heard the same stories as everyone else. He knows how the legend goes: the Yiling Patriarch and his army of corpses kill everyone in their path. They can’t be wounded, they can’t be defeated, and every slain enemy is just a new soldier.

Lan Qiren has already seen thirteen sect members die recently. He refuses to see any more.

He says, though every word tastes like ash in his mouth, “Gusu Lan apologises for the offense. You may name your prize for appropriate compensation.”

“Compensation,” the Yiling Patriarch echoes. “I like the sound of that. What will you give me? Gold? Jewels? Weapons?”

“Name your prize,” Lan Qiren repeats.

The Yiling Patriarch smiles again. He says, “Your nephew will do.”

*

20 years later

The closer Lan Wangji’s 21^st birthday approaches, the more gazes his uncle and brother share when they think he is not looking. Every once in a while, Uncle will open his mouth, as though he is about to say something, only to snap his lips shut again and leave the room. Lan Xichen, on the other hand, has taken to hugging Lan Wangji tight whenever he can. It is bewildering and out of character and also more bodily contact than Lan Wangji has experienced since his mother died, or possibly ever.

Lan Wangji allows this strange behaviour go on for longer than he would permit with anybody else; they are, after all, his immediate family, he reasons. Presumably it is their right to take some advantage of that.

In the end, though, he finds that his patience has reached its limit. He continues to ponder the matter for another handful of days, during the course of which Uncle attempts two more non-conversations and his brother hugs him three additional times, and after that, he decides he must act now.

Among the two perpetrators, Lan Wangji judges Lan Xichen to be the weaker link. Thus, he waits until the day’s lectures are over and his brother is ready to retire to his room, and makes his move.

“Brother,” he says, following Lan Xichen into the Hanshi before the door can slide shut.

“Wangji.” Lan Xichen smiles at him. “Sit. What can I do for you?”

Lan Wangji remains standing. One hand clenched between his back, the other holding his sword tight enough to leave a bruise later, he says, “This one wishes to make a request, Sect Leader.”

Lan Xichen’s smile falters. “Oh?” he says faintly. “I assume your request is a fairly big one, to make you so formal with your big brother.” His tone is playful, trying to make a joke of it.

Lan Wangji has never had much appreciation for jokes.

“I seek to know the truth you have been hiding from me,” he says, and adds, “you and Uncle,” in order to be fair.

They grew up side by side. Until now, Lan Wangji thought himself to be familiar with all his brother’s expressions: the polite smiles he gives outsiders, the real smiles he reserves for family and close friends, the frowns etched with worry about his sect and Uncle’s chest pains and about whether Lan Wangji is making enough friends, the raised eyebrows for when something has startled him.

Lan Wangji believes this is the very first time he has seen Lan Xichen look truly defeated.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen repeats, “sit.”

Lan Wangji sits, and accepts a cup of tea, and finally, he listens to the story of how his sect was pressured into promising his honour to a monster.

To his credit, Lan Xichen’s voice barely falters all throughout, even though he is pale and his hands are shaking slightly. He is clearly trying for Lan Wangji’s sake, and his attempts don’t go unnoticed.

When he is finished, Lan Wangji only has one question. “When?”

“Your 21^st birthday,” Lan Xichen says. “Wangji, I’m-“

“I will retire for the night,” Lan Wangji says, knowing his interruption to be immeasurably rude but unable to bear any apology right now. It is not his brother’s fault; probably, it is not Uncle’s fault, either. And yet he knows deep in his heart that listening to Lan Xichen’s apologies right now would only be met with bitterness on his part. That is unfair of him, and so instead, he leaves, quietly thinking that he will allow himself one night of self-pity and nothing more. Tomorrow, he will wake up and move on, and he will – what?

He has another three weeks before he turns 21. If he is to sacrifice his honour – his virtue – to a man who raises corpses from their graves, he has no interest in spending his remaining time in Cloud Recesses practicing sword forms that he will never get to use in battle, or study sheet music that he will never get to play.
Lan Wangji goes to bed uncertain what the next day will bring, but certain beyond belief that it is going to be something entirely new.

*

He quickly realises that he does not have much experience in trying new things, and thus has no idea where to even begin. He starts by dressing in blue, not in white, and by picking a hair ornament that is slightly more lavish than usual. He examines himself in the mirror once he is done dressing, and finds that he looks exactly the same as he did yesterday, only better dressed.

Lan Wangji considers this matter for a moment. He cannot change his face, and changing his clothes evidently did not have as much effect as he hoped it would. Should he accept defeat already?

No.

And just like that, Lan Wangji has taken off his forehead ribbon.

He does not actually wish to break with his sect, which is why he wraps it around his wrist now, but the whole act still feels more rebellious than anything he has ever done. When he studies his reflection again, he is overcome with excitement and embarrassment at equal amounts.

For lack of a better plan, he goes to Caiyi Town next.

When he was very young, he used to go here sometimes with his brother and uncle. Later, he sometimes would be send on errands, a duty of junior disciples in their first years that even the Lan heirs are not exempt from. But he is twenty now, and he has not been here for a long time.

Caiyi Town is just as he remembers it: bursting with people. Street vendors at every corner, trying to sell passers-by bracelets and soap and painted fans; servants running errands; housewives doing this week’s shopping and bargaining for the best deal; teenage boys and teenage girls sneaking away with each other for a quick, forbidden meeting; stray cats fighting for leftovers.

Overwhelmed, Lan Wangji enters the main market square and just – stops, for a minute, taking everything in, the noise, the smells, people jostling against him. Just as he has grown somewhat accustomed to all these sensations, an increasingly louder conversation at a stall a few feet away catches his attention:

A man, his back to Lan Wangji, dressed all in black, appears to be in the middle of demanding the stall owner give him a jug of wine for free. The stall owner, presumably used to disruptive customers, tells the man calmly to either pay or walk away. This, in itself, would not have been enough to capture Lan Wangji’s interest.

But then the would-be customer leans closer over the stall, causing some of the propped-up jugs to topple down, and says, “What’s the point in being the Yiling Patriarch if I can’t even get wine!”

Lan Wangji freezes.

The stall owner does not have such compunctions. He crosses his arms and says, “Yiling Patriarch, Yiling Matriarch, Yiling Bootlicker for all I care – no money, no wine.”

“How dare you! I’m-“

“Is there a problem?” Lan Wangji asks as he approaches. Both the stall owner and the customer turn around to face him. The stall owner looks old and grim. The customer-

Lan Wangji forces himself not to think about what the customer looks like.

“This man won’t serve me wine,” the man says, sulking in a way that Gusu Lan does not even permit children, let alone adults. “Even though I’m-“

“I can pay,” Lan Wangji says, cutting through his words before he has to listen to such a ridiculous claim again. He hands over double the required amount; it is not bribery, he reasons, if he does not actually voice any demands.

He expects this to be the end of it: the impostor has gotten his wine, the stall owner has gotten his money, and Lan Wangji can now move on with the rest of his day still stretched out before him.

He does not manage to walk more than two steps before he feels someone wrapping their arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. “Hold on! What did you do that for? I could’ve paid.”

“And yet, you did not.” Lan Wangji forcibly extricates himself from the man’s grip. The man does not attempt to touch him again, but he doesn’t precisely keep his distance, either: he continues following Lan Wangji, walking closer than appropriate. When Lan Wangji looks at his face again, he can see that two red spots have appeared high on the man’s sharp cheekbones. Embarrassment or indignation? It’s hard to tell.

He quickens his step, to no avail. The man keeps up with ease, and then, just as Lan Wangji attempts to round a corner, steps right in front of him, forcing him to come to a stop. Standing face to face like this, Lan Wangji takes in several details about the man at once: that he is an inch or so taller than Lan Wangji, that he has a small mole on his chin, that when he smiles, it makes Lan Wangji feel like he’s been punched in the stomach for some reason.

“Let me make it up to you,” the man says. “I don’t like to be indebted to people. What’s your name?”

“Lan Wangji,” Lan Wangji says reflexively, because good manners have been ingrained in him too deeply to withstand answering now.

“Lan,” the man repeats slowly, tapping his lower lip with one slender finger. “That’s your family name? I don’t suppose there’s any relation to Gusu Lan?”

“There is,” Lan Wangji says.

The man frowns, then smiles again. “I don’t see any ribbon, though! Did you go rogue? You can confess – I won’t tell!”

Lan Wangji’s hands itch with the urge to touch his wrist, to make sure that his ribbon is still there. “I did not.”

“Oh.” The man looks disappointed. “Well, if there are any other sordid secrets, you can tell me those, too.” A wicked look enters his eyes, and suddenly Lan Wangji knows that he is about to say something shameless. “Tell your Wei-gege,” the man says, confirming Lan Wangji’s suspicions. Whatever he sees on Lan Wangji’s face in reaction makes him burst out laughing. “I’m joking! You’re welcome to call me whatever you want. Wei Wuxian, Wei Ying, Yiling Patriarch-“

“Stop it.”

“What? Stop what?”

“Do not,” Lan Wangji says, “call yourself that.”

“But-“

“The Yiling Patriarch,” Lan Wangji explains impatiently, “has slaughtered innumerable cultivators using resentful energy. He represents the worst of the cultivation world. Borrowing his name even in jest is inexcusable.”

It is the most he has spoken in a very long time, and Wei Wuxian has listened to all of it with an open mouth. Now, something strange crosses his face, although it’s gone as quickly as it came. Already he is smiling again, easy as ever. “Of course!” he says. “You’re so right. Let’s not speak of him again, shall we? It’s a beautiful day, we can make better use of it. What are your plans?”

“My – plans?”

“I’ve decided to accompany you for today,” Wei Wuxian informs him grandly. “I may have forgotten my wallet and can’t pay you back, but I’ll just be your bodyguard instead. Someone like you gets people throwing themselves at him all the time, I bet. Don’t worry, I’ll fight them off!”

Lan Wangji wonders offhandedly whether he should be offended and, if so, by which part: the assumption that ‘someone like him’ apparently looks wanton enough to get casual propositions, or the fast conclusion that he cannot handle himself. In the end, he decides it’s no use worrying over: Wei Wuxian strikes him as someone who will think whatever he wants, regardless of any grounds in reality.

“I have no plans,” he confesses, sure that this, at least, is going to make Wei Wuxian leave at last.

This proves to be a false presumption.

“No plans!” Wei Wuxian exclaims with entirely undue outrage. “Well, that can’t be allowed, obviously. I was on my way to a night hunt earlier – just stocking up on supplies real quick. But I’m all stocked up now and ready to go! What do you say- want to come with?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says immediately and without thinking.

He does not have time to talk himself out of what will surely prove to be a spectacularly bad idea, because Wei Wuxian is already beaming at him. “Great! Lan Wangji, Lan Wangji, let me promise you this right now: you are going to be thankful for your lack of plans. Today is going to be a blast.”

*

“Uncle,” Lan Xichen asks once he has been permitted entry to Lan Qiren’s office, “have you seen Wangji today?”

Lan Qiren stops writing a letter to Jiang Fengmian long enough to frown at his eldest nephew. “I barely see you,” he says, “and you’re the Sect Leader. What makes you think your brother would bother visiting me if even the sect leader only drops by when it pleases him?”

Lan Xichen’s smile is as gentle as it is rueful. “You know very well I come by as often as I can,” he says, taking a seat upon Lan Qiren’s nod.

“I do know,” Lan Qiren admits begrudgingly. “I’m well aware of your duties, Xichen. But Wangji? His duties should be to his elders.”

“Only for three more weeks,” Lan Xichen says quietly.

Lan Qiren just about manages to conceal his flinch. “We must tell him soon.”

“I did tell him. I’ve told him yesterday.”

“You-“

“I told him yesterday evening,” Lan Xichen continues, “and now it’s past noon, and he has yet to be seen in Cloud Recesses. I came by the Jingshi earlier and found it empty. What do you suggest we do? Send out a search party?” His eyes are anxious. Lan Qiren understands the sentiment, but he is also reminded abruptly of his brother who, twenty-five years ago, had that same anxious look in his eyes when he told Lan Qiren what he’d done, what he still must do.

“No,” Lan Qiren says. “You’re not to look for him. He is of age, he is one of the most skilled cultivators of his generation, and, most importantly, he is his own person. Let him make his mistakes for himself.”

“Uncharacteristic advice for you, Uncle,” Lan Xichen says as he leaves.

Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t. Lan Xichen will follow it, or he won’t; it is out of Lan Qiren’s hands now. He only hopes that Wangji knows what he is doing.

*

Lan Wangji does not know what he is doing. Possibly unsurprisingly, the night hunt went less smoothly than promised. This may be due to the fact that the rumoured spirit turned out to be a group of demons instead, or that they grew stronger with each victim, or that it turned out halfway through that Wei Wuxian is not a cultivator.

“I am a cultivator,” Wei Wuxian protests. His objection would be more convincing if he were not currently getting carried by Lan Wangji – getting a piggyback, as he called it. His chin digs sharply into Lan Wangji’s shoulder and his arms are wrapped warmly around Lan Wangji’s neck. With every step, their bodies seem to grow closer. “Just because I don’t carry a sword doesn’t mean I don’t cultivate!” Wei Wuxian continues when Lan Wangji does not react.

“That,” Lan Wangji says, “is precisely what it means.”

“There are other methods of cultivation,” Wei Wuxian insists. His indignation has caused his arms to tighten, though probably it happened unconsciously. If he exerts any more effort, he is going to cut off Lan Wangji’s air supply. “You know there are other methods of cultivation because you banished that last demon with your guqin.”

“While channelling my core,” Lan Wangji says. “Which way?”

They have arrived at a crossroads. Wei Wuxian points to the left path, so that is where Lan Wangji goes. “Cores aren’t everything,” Wei Wuxian mutters into his neck. “You had an unfair advantage this time because you didn’t get your stomach slashed open right away-“

“-because I had my sword to defend myself-“

“-but if I hadn’t been so busy not dying, I would’ve killed them all in the blink of an eye. Next time, you’ll see.”

“Next time,” Lan Wangji says, more to himself than anything else. Next time, he thinks. Next time implies that they will see each other again after today.

The same thought must have occurred to Wei Wuxian, because he says, suddenly sounding meek, “Unless you don’t want to? You can just- if you want, you can just drop me off right here, that’s fine. My stomach is all healed up now, anyway.”

“Because I healed it.”

“Well, yes.”

“Because without a core and without help, you would have died.”

“I mean-“

“So perhaps,” Lan Wangji says, “you should stay away from night hunting.”

“Okay,” Wei Wuxian says loudly, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding here. Let me down – down, down, down- thank you. Come sit with me by this- did we already walk past this clearing earlier?”

“We did not.”

“Well! Something to worry about later. For now, I want you to- wait, give me your hands. Okay.” They have sat on some large boulders by a forest clearing, and Wei Wuxian has taken Lan Wangji’s unresisting hands in his own. His skin is warm to the touch; it makes Lan Wangji shiver. “Lan Wangji,” Wei Wuxian says, very seriously, “in the interest of honesty, there is something I need to tell you.”

Lan Wangji has only a split second to wonder whether Wei Wuxian is politely, yet firmly rejecting him, and whether this would be more or less humiliating than if Lan Wangji had actually made any advances first, when there is a noise coming from just the edges of the clearing.

He rips his hands away and reaches for his sword, but Wei Wuxian is faster. By the time he has unsheathed Bichen, Wei Wuxian has already moved in front of him, holding his flute like a blade.

The rustling continues, until finally, a man emerges from the tree line. His gaze flits uncomfortably between the two of them, and he says, “Wei-gongzi?” in a tone that does not at all speak of certainty.

“Wen Ning,” Wei Wuxian says, returning his flute to his belt and visibly relaxing. “You scared me! You scared Lan Wangji!”

“I’m sorry,” Wen Ning says before Lan Wangji can object. “It’s just- Jiejie said to come get you, so.”

Wei Wuxian clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “I’ve only been gone for a day! What’s so important?”

“There’s been a letter, I think.”

“A letter! We get letters all the time.”

“A letter with poisoned ink,” Wen Ning says.

“Well,” Wei Wuxian says without missing a beat, “we get those all the time, too.”

Wen Ning flits another nervous glance at Lan Wangji and doesn’t say anything more. The proper thing would be to move away and let them have their conversation in private. But Lan Wangji has already taken off his forehead ribbon. If ever there was a day to be improper, it is today. Therefore, he stays.

It turns out he needn’t have worried.

Wei Wuxian flits a nervous glance at Lan Wangji as well and licks his lips, and Lan Wangji knows what he’s going to say, suddenly, knows the what but not the how.

This is how:

“Ah, Lan Wangji- I’ve got to run.”

“I understand,” says Lan Wangji.

“I have this thing,” Wei Wuxian says, unnecessarily cagey, considering Lan Wangji has heard his entire conversation with Wen Ning.

“I understand,” says Lan Wangji.

“But it’s been, you know. Great.”

Lan Wangji nods and does not say anything, but permits Wei Wuxian to pat him on the shoulder before disappearing into the forest with Wen Ning, who offers Lan Wangji a little wave that is almost, but not quite, as awkward as the shoulder pat.

Lan Wangji remains behind and eventually, after realising that Wei Wuxian had apparently been leading them around without a plan and he is now hours away from anything close to resembling civilisation, he climbs on his sword and goes home.  

*

Back in Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji spends the next few days avoiding his family. This works remarkably well, seeing at it is an easy feat to avoid the Lans. Lans, as a general rule, prefer being avoided. If Uncle ever stopped speaking to him, Lan Wangji thinks he would hardly notice it.

Every now and then his thoughts return to Wei Wuxian. At a similar rate, his thoughts go to the Yiling Patriarch as well. Lan Wangji would not mind his fate so much if he knew where he was going, if he knew the person he was going to. But all anyone knows about the Yiling Patriarch is that he resides in the Burial Mounds, that all the sects pay tribute to him for fear of retribution if they don’t, and that one time, he killed an entire army with one low whistle.

Wei Wuxian had been wrong in borrowing the Yiling Patriarch’s name, but not just for reasons of morality. It is also a matter of belief. Anyone who has heard the stories will have trouble associating such a monstrous creature with someone of Wei Wuxian’s easy-going nature, his kind voice, his handsome and ever-smiling face. If Lan Wangji were to meet him again, he would advise him to pick a different reputation to steal or, even better, to trust in his own.

Because Wei Wuxian is out of reach now, with no hopes of contacting him and no real reason why he should, Lan Wangji decides to focus his thoughts on the man he is promised to. If no one knows anything, and they have all been too afraid to ask, then it’s Lan Wangji who must ask the questions that keep him up at night and still tease him come morning.

He has already exhausted the library records, to no avail. All he can find are legends of an immortal being who appeared a few decades ago, scared the entire cultivation world into submission, and only leaves his mountain every now and then to cause trouble or slaughter some people. No details, hardly any eyewitnesses, and no facts.

He supposes he could ask Uncle. After all, it was Lan Qiren who was there that night, when the Yiling Patriarch came to pay his first and only visit to Cloud Recesses.

Lan Wangji tries to imagine it: entering Uncle’s office, pouring tea for them both, and voicing his questions. Uncle stroking his beard, drinking his tea, explaining everything.

The only thing less likely is Uncle adding some reassuring words afterwards.

Not Uncle, then. And not Lan Xichen either, for Lan Xichen knows nothing and Lan Wangji has little interest in finding out what he does know, fearing it will only serve to stoke his temper over being kept in the dark for so long. Besides, his brother is due to leave on a diplomatic journey tomorrow. He surely has better things to do.

If he cannot ask Lan Qiren or Lan Xichen, and the library has nothing to offer him, either, it is obvious that whatever answers he is hoping for do not lie in Cloud Recesses. Therefore, it stands to reason that he either give up or look elsewhere.

Lan Wangji may be many things, but he is not a person who gives up.

Three days after his return, he leaves again – once more without notifying anybody, although this time, he packs a small bag that will serve him well should his trip have to be prolonged. He sets out in the early morning hours. His destination: Yiling.

*

By word, the journey from Gusu to Yiling should take no more than a day and a night. It takes Lan Wangji almost an entire week.

In part this is due to night hunts, which are every cultivator’s duty and which Lan Wangji gladly fulfils. Even he has to admit, though, that banishing spirits is not the main reason for his extended journey. The simple truth of the matter is that Lan Wangji has taken what some may call the scenic route.
Cloud Recesses is his home, and he will never not like the sharp mountain edges and the dark lakes that are found only in Gusu. But he also likes the wild, green forests and the oppressive heat of Yunmeng, and he likes the efficient architecture found only in Qinghe and the whole Unclean Realm, and he likes standing by the shore at the edges of the Lanling border and letting the waves lap softly over his bare feet.

There is beauty in almost every place Lan Wangji has ever been to, and he’s liked all of them, has imagined what it would be like to leave Cloud Recesses for good and start somewhere new, has wondered about which place he would pick, given the choice.

Now, it is certain that he is going to leave Cloud Recesses. But he won’t have a choice where to live instead.

Because there is something deeply depressing about that thought, Lan Wangji takes his time travelling. He stops frequently and for increasingly longer bouts of time. Sometimes he stops near settlings, small villages or large towns, trying out the local cuisine and listening to the chatter around him. More and more often, however, he prefers the loud silence that only nature can offer. And so he sleeps in the wild, and walks for hours just because he can, and revels in the knowledge that whatever he will find in Yiling, he’s not going to have to find it today or even tomorrow.

But as all good things come to an end, Lan Wangji, too, reaches his destination at last.

He turns 21 in ten days.

He is in Yiling now, in its capital city that bears the same name, and he is ten days early and possibly twenty years too late, and he has enough money in his pouch to last for a year but no plan at all, no idea where to go now that he is here, or who to ask, or what to do, and he-

“Lan Wangji?”

Like an apparition or an affectionate gesture by Uncle, Wei Wuxian seems to have appeared on the streets of Yiling out of thin air, ready to disappear again if Lan Wangji blinks. “Lan Wangji?” he repeats, slowly, like he thinks Lan Wangji is going to disappear, too.

“Wei Wuxian,” Lan Wangji says, and watches Wei Wuxian grimace.

“You sound so formal! Call me something else! Call me Wei-gege.”

“I will not,” Lan Wangji says firmly and, because Wei Wuxian seems honestly disappointed by this, amends, “I can call you Wei Ying.”

“Yes! That’s so much better. Should I call you Lan-gege instead? I’m kidding! Kidding, obviously. So,” Wei Wuxian says, sobering, “what brings you here? You’re wearing your ribbon today, I see.”

Lan Wangji’s left hand flies up to touch his forehead ribbon against his own volition; Wei Wuxian’s dark eyes follow the movement. “I’m here because I need to find something.”

“Oh! Well, I’ll help you look. Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere as of yet,” Lan Wangji admits. “I was about to search for an inn.”

“I can help you look for that, too,” Wei Wuxian says, serious one second, smiling the next, “or, if you want, you can stay with me. I have a friend who has a town house here.”

“Wen Ning?” Lan Wangji hears himself asking.

“Close! His sister, actually. She won’t mind.” Wei Wuxian holds out his arm like they’ve already agreed that Lan Wangji will accompany him, like Lan Wangji needs assistance, like Wei Wuxian is happy to offer it. And yet, when Lan Wangji attempts to link their arms, Wei Wuxian darts in to grab his hand instead, grinning at him.

“Got you!”

They walk through the streets for a while. The town is almost as big as Qinghe, but there are significantly fewer statues of grim men and women holding large weapons. Instead, there are a lot of market stalls, dozens of restaurants and bars in every street, and a surprising amount of brothels. There are not, as Lan Wangji notes, many green spaces, and when he mentions this to Wei Wuxian, he is treated to a look of surprise.

“Does it bother you?”

Lan Wangji takes a moment to think about it. “It does not. I merely- I enjoy parks.” He enjoys nature more, but if he can’t have that, if he is to be stuck in this place for his remaining life, he wishes he could at least have some flowers to look at. Yiling doesn’t offer that, and from what he’s heard, the Burial Mounds will have even less of it.

It is pointless voicing these concerns to Wei Wuxian, of course, who doesn’t have anything to do with Lan Wangji’s fate and wouldn’t be able to do anything about it besides, but when he glances to his left, Wei Wuxian looks thoughtful rather than annoyed.

“Parks,” he says. “Parks didn’t really occur to me.”

They round a corner – “almost there!” – and run into a group of villagers, all of whom interrupt their conversation to bow to Wei Wuxian, who looks alarmed. “Move on,” he says, “nothing to see here! Lan Wangji, look over there!”

Lan Wangji follows his outstretched hand, to where a street vendor is selling fried pastries. “Would you like some?” he asks, already getting out his wallet.

By now, the villagers have passed, and Wei Wuxian laughs nervously. “Why not? I’ll treat you.”

“I have money,” Lan Wangji says as he hands some of it to the stall owner, who gives them each a small stack of pastries in return, more than they could ever hope to eat. Lan Wangji had not meant to buy quite so much, but then, it is only the second time in his life that he has bought something at a street market. He does not know the common prices.

Wei Wuxian laughs at whatever emotion shows at his face. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll eat as many as we can, and give the rest to some kids. Wouldn’t you have liked to get some surprise pastries as a kid?”

“Possibly,” Lan Wangji says. He waits for Wei Wuxian to take his first bite before carefully taking his own. The pastries are filled with a sweet paste, some of which dribbles down onto the cobblestones beneath their feet. He gladly follows Wei Wuxian to a nearby bench – eating dessert is not against the Gusu Lan rules in itself, but eating while walking definitely is.

“Yiling is pretty far from Gusu,” Wei Wuxian says in between bites. “What is it that you need to find? Is it a night hunt? There are plenty of those to be had here. Or – is it because you were told that we have the prettiest women? There are plenty of those here, too.”  

“No.” Lan Wangji hesitates. “I am on my way to the Burial Mounds.”

Wei Wuxian chokes on his pastry. “What? Why?”

Lan Wangji does not reply, not because he doesn’t wish to, but because he does not know how. It is a habit his Uncle used to scold and his teachers never realised about him, since he always knew the answers to every question asked in a lecture and very rarely the answer to a question asked about his wellbeing during a family dinner.

They continue to eat in silence for a while. Normally Lan Wangji would prefer this, but he still feels a strange sort of relief wash over him like a wave when Wei Wuxian speaks up again. “Don’t you know who rules the Burial Mounds?”

“I do.”

“And you’re going there in spite of it?”

“I am going there,” Lan Wangji says, “because of it.” Because of him, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“To pay your respects or to ask for a favour?”

Lan Wangji blinks. “Excuse me?”

“There are three reasons people go to the Burial Mounds,” Wei Wuxian explains. “But you don’t strike me as an assassin, so it must be one of the other two. Which is it?”

“To pay my respects,” Lan Wangji says, because in a way, that is true. “I have no need for a favour. Nor for assassination.” He pauses, considering, but in the end, he knows he has to ask. “Have you seen him?”

There is no question of whom he is talking about.

“Yes.”

“And is he-“ Lan Wangji breaks off, for lack of an adjective to attach to the question. Kind? Gentle? A good man, despite all the stories?

Wei Wuxian smiles, but it doesn’t look very amused. “He’s exactly as cruel as people say he is, and more. If you ask me, you should stay far away.”

Lan Wangji nods. He can’t say this is unexpected. “Thank you for your advice,” he says, and adds, quietly, “Wei Ying.”

His eyes wide, Wei Wuxian asks, “Will you take it?”

“No,” Lan Wangji says, stands, and then holds out a hand to help Wei Wuxian up. “I’m grateful for your assessment, but I have my own path to walk.”

“Even if that path leads you up a trail of corpses?” Wei Wuxian asks sardonically.

Lan Wangji says, “Even then.”

*

In Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan has yet to notice Lan Wangji’s disappearance.

*

The town house Wei Wuxian leads him to is spacious, tastefully furnished, and empty. It does not matter, because Wei Wuxian has possession of both a key and a good relationship with the servants, who make up a guest room for him and Lan Wangji even though their mistress is not at home.

Lan Wangji wonders where Wei Wuxian was staying before tonight, if he’s been in Yiling prior to this day, or what he’s doing in Yiling, if he was not.

He might ask, but then they are shown into separate rooms, and Lan Wangji is so exhausted all of a sudden that he only barely manages to go through his nightly routine and drop down onto the bed, let alone do anything else. Sleep captures him immediately, and doesn’t release him until the next morning, precisely at 5 am as always.

He meditates for an hour, then gets ready for the day, and then it is still early enough that he is left feeling awkward and unsure about how to proceed next. At Cloud Recesses, everyone follows the same daily schedule, and at an inn, he pays for the privilege of doing as he pleases at any time of his choosing. But he is at a stranger’s house now, and Wei Wuxian must still be asleep, and Lan Wangji cannot tell what is expected of him now. Leave? Wait in his room for Wei Wuxian to wake up and then leave anyway? Perhaps he should-

There is a deafening sort of banging noise in the room next to his, followed by a crash, followed by a shout that sounds like Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji has stormed out into the hallway and opened the door to the other room before he has had a chance to think about it, acting on an instinct triggered purely by Wei Wuxian’s distressed voice. He runs inside while the dust (dust?) is still settling, and then Wei Wuxian yells, “Get down!”

Lan Wangji ducks a second before an axe gets thrown into the wall, at a spot where his head would have been only moments ago. He reaches for his sword, only to realise that he has left it in the other room in his panic to reach Wei Wuxian.

By the window, a masked attacker has just attempted to slice open Wei Wuxian’s throat. Lan Wangji, left without a weapon and unable to just watch, moves in front of Wei Wuxian just as the attacker raises his knife again. Without thinking, Lan Wangji grabs the blade and forces it down, a second before he is shoved aside and the sounds of a flute fill the room. Dark shadows rise all around him, form ropes to capture the attacker’s ankles and wrists. Wherever they touch skin, blood drips down to the wooden floor. One of the shadows darts to Lan Wangji, who braces himself to be sliced open. Instead, it tickles his cheek and tugs on his forehead ribbon before returning to the attacker and ripping out his left eye. The man screams and screams and screams, and Lan Wangji, feeling strangely calm, ignores him as he tries to spot Wei Wuxian in between the shadows and the mist and the blood. He sees nothing, just a pair of glowing red eyes. Soon, he hears nothing, either, as the screams fade away and there is only the sound of a flute and then, silence.

He wakes to someone poking his cheek and a female voice saying, “He will wake up when he wakes up and not a second before, so you can stop bothering him.”

“Wen Qing,” Wei Wuxian whines, just as Lan Wangji opens his eyes. Immediately, Wei Wuxian’s whole face lights up like he’s glowing from within, and he says, “You’re awake! Wen Qing, look, it worked. I’ve healed him.”

“You haven’t killed him,” the woman named Wen Qing corrects, leaning over Lan Wangji and holding up a hand. “How many fingers?”

“Four,” Lan Wangji says, and the hand disappears.

He watches Wen Qing put away what looks like an assortment of medical equipment, while Wei Wuxian keeps reaching out as though he wants to touch Lan Wangji and dropping his hands again. He is behaving more nervously than Lan Wangji has seen him before, and he aches to tell him that it’s okay, he can touch if he wishes to.

He has only just mustered up the courage to say Wei Wuxian’s name- “Wei Ying?” – when Wen Qing returns to his bedside and puts a bowl full of steaming soup down on the nightstand.

“The cook made this. You should thank her. She locked the door so Wei Wuxian couldn’t enter the kitchen and help.”

“I’m a great cook,” Wei Wuxian protests. “She should’ve been so lucky.”

“Eat,” Wen Qing commands, ignoring him. “Eat, sleep, and then you’re good to go, as far as I’m concerned.”

Wei Wuxian beams. “Of course! He’s so clever, he heals so fast.” The praise sounds uncomfortably like one would praise a dog for rolling over, but Lan Wangji relishes it anyway.

“He didn’t need to heal. Besides losing consciousness, there wasn’t anything wrong with him.”

“Really? Huh. I suppose he’s so intimidating that nothing touched him.”

“Yes,” Wen Qing says, every word dripping with sarcasm, “that must be why. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sleep for fifteen hours now. With what you put me through on a regular basis, I’m frankly surprised my hair hasn’t gone grey.”

“I’m surprised, too,” Wei Wuxian says sunnily. He smiles at her until the door falls shut behind her, and then he turns back to Lan Wangji and smiles at him, too. “You scared me, fainting like that! Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Okay,” Lan Wangji promises, just to see Wei Wuxian’s smile widen.

The soup is still sitting on the bedside table. Wei Wuxian takes the bowl and the spoon, seeming ready to feed Lan Wangji himself. There are few things that could be more humiliating, so Lan Wangji takes first the spoon and then, more carefully, the soup, taking care not to spill anything. He eats in small, measured bites, and it’s not until he is halfway through that he realises his hand, curled around the spoon, does not hurt at all.

Setting the dishes down, he inspects first his right and then his left hand. He is certain that it was the right hand that he grabbed the blade with, but perhaps he was mistaken – although, no, his left hand is uninjured, too.

Did Wen Qing lie about him not having needed to heal? But what purpose would that have served? Maybe, Lan Wangji thinks, he only imagined holding the attacker’s blade. But no, that can’t be right, either, because he distinctly remembers the sharp pain and the way his blood had flown freely from the injury.

“Lan Wangji? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, resuming eating and vowing that he will continue to think on this matter another time. There is no need to burden Wei Wuxian with his paranoia.

He finishes the soup and falls asleep almost immediately after, and when he wakes up for the second time today, the sun is setting and Wei Wuxian is still sitting by his bed, using his chest as foundation to build a house of cards on. Lan Wangji stirs and the cards topple down, and Wei Wuxian pouts for one second and laughs the next, and the second after that, he has taken Lan Wangji’s hands and says, “Do you want to go outside and see the fireworks?”

*

Lan Wangji’s 21^st birthday is in seven days. Two days ago, he and Wei Wuxian attended one of Yiling’s annual festivals, looked at the fireworks and then participated in something Wei Wuxian called people-watching. Yesterday, they spent an entire day walking around the city, with Wei Wuxian insisting on showing him “all the best sights”, which meant walking past various museums and statues in favour of entering one dingy bar after another. Lan Wangji has longed to try new things, but he’s firmly drawn the line at alcohol, and so stuck to tea and water while Wei Wuxian tried a new drink in every place they went to, and made Lan Wangji carry him home at the end of it.

This morning, Lan Wangji woke up in Wen Qing’s guest bedroom, got dressed, and left.

He wrote a note, though.

He also left behind his forehead ribbon.

It’s not a very long journey from Yiling to the Burial Mounds. It would be even shorter by sword, but as soon as he arrives at the foot of the mountain, he can feel resentment energy swirl around his inner barriers, trying to weaken his core. Lan Wangji strengthens his barriers, but knows enough about this type of magic to realise that any spiritual energy he uses in this place will be thrown back at him tenfold, paralysing him for days and sealing off his powers for longer still.

He wonders how a cultivator can live here for any extended amount of time. It seems unfathomable right now.

The longer he walks up the mountain, the thicker the resentment energy gets but, interestingly, the more prosperous the nature is, too. Where at the beginning of the path, there had been only withered trees and dried up springs, there are now flowers everywhere in full bloom, regardless of season, and mountain creeks with water that’s cleaner than in Gusu. Whatever resentment energy affects cultivators here has apparently not affected the environment.

Lan Wangji walks past flowers and graveyards and eventually, he walks past settlements, too, all of them well-built, all of them seemingly abandoned. At last, he walks through a large stone gate. He stops, unsure for a moment on where to go on, as there is no immediate path clear to him. Then he sees a skeleton poised on a boulder, arranged in such a way that its left hand is outstretched as a morbid trail marker. Lan Wangji lights an incense stick for it before moving on.

And finally, he is standing in front of the Yiling Patriarch’s castle.

There are people here, disciples practicing sword forms until they spot him and interrupt their work to stare and whisper. Lan Wangji pays them no mind. He has come here for a purpose.

No one stops him from entering the castle, just as no one stops him from entering the empty reception hall and kneeling.

Hours pass.

At some point, he hears voices in the distance: people walking past the hall, people sticking their head in the door and watching him, people talking quietly. No one addresses him, so Lan Wangji does not have to reply and thus is content in simply waiting until they go away. They do. He is alone again, and he keeps kneeling.

He has no way of telling time, but he is sure that it is past midnight when finally, there are steps behind him. Someone walks all the way up to the throne and takes a seat. Lan Wangji keeps his gaze fixed on the marble floor, not moving, not rising.

“Young Master,” says a voice that is shadows and mist and whispers in the dark. “State the cause for your visit.”

Everything he is screams at him to look up, to look at the man who, in less than a week’s time, will own his life. Instead, Lan Wangji doesn’t lift his gaze as he says, “I wish to offer my services.”

“Services! What need do I have for that? We have servants, we have teachers, we have farmers. We certainly have enough cultivators. You’re dismissed – unless,” says the Yiling Patriarch, and Lan Wangji can hear the smile in his voice, “unless you’re ready to become a whore, of course. There is a startling lack of brothels here in these parts.”

Lan Wangji says nothing, does nothing, just stays where he is.

Presumably growing tired of the silence, the Yiling Patriarch says, “What is it? Don’t tell me you’re saving yourself for someone.”

“I am,” Lan Wangji says.

Somewhere beyond the confines of the castle, a crash of thunder sounds, as loudly as it did the night Lan Wangji was born. “Who?” the Yiling Patriarch demands, that single word as sharp as a blade, as lightning, as the cut of Wei Ying’s cheekbones.

Lan Wangji refuses to be mocked like this. In nearly twenty-one years of life, the only person he has not minded teasing him was Wei Wuxian. “Thank you,” he says icily, “for your time. I will take my leave now.”

“What?”

Lan Wangji stands and turns to leave. If the Yiling Patriarch wants him, he can claim him in six days. Until then, he is free to do as he pleases, and he intends to do just that.

Except, just as he has reached the door, he feels a presence in his back and then, a second later, a hand on his shoulder and breath on his ear. “Lan Wangji,” the Yiling Patriarch whispers, and Lan Wangji should not be surprised that his name is known to this man, but he is, and hates himself for it. “Lan Wangji, Lan Wangji. Stay.”

Without turning around, Lan Wangji takes the hand that is still gripping his shoulder, and forces it down. “Do not,” he says, “touch me.” With that, he goes. This time, no one attempts to stop him.

*

“Grandmaster,” the disciple says as she enters Lan Qiren’s office. “A messenger has arrived. He says he is from the Burial Mounds.”

“Uncle,” Lan Xichen says at the same time, startling when he sees the junior disciple, but recovering swiftly. “I just returned from my journey, only to find the Jingshi empty. I believe Wangji has left again. Do you think-“

He falls silent when Lan Qiren holds up a hand. Not many would dare shush a sect leader, but Lan Qiren has raised Lan Xichen like a son. Who else has earned this right if not him?

He points at the junior disciple first. “Order of arrival trumps seniority and rank. Speak.”

“There is a messenger,” the disciple repeats. “He claims he serves the Yiling Patriarch. Grandmaster, do you think that was a figure of speech?”

“Thank you,” Lan Qiren says, ignoring the question. “Send him in. Xichen, your turn,” he says once the disciple has left.

Lan Xichen clears his throat, his fists clenched by his side. When he speaks, every word comes out carefully measured. “Wherever Wangji is, it is not in Cloud Recesses. Whatever he has been doing, it has not been night hunting. No one has seen him, no one can answer a question about him, and it seems that had I not returned, his departure would have gone unnoticed altogether. I understand that he is an adult, but he also still serves this sect. I believe the time has come to look for him. Since you have failed to do so in all the time I was gone, this task falls to me. Good day, Uncle.”

He bows, turns to leave, and almost walks into a man dressed in black robes, who bows to them both. “Sect Leader,” the newcomer says, “Grandmaster.” His gaze flits nervously between Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen, and he seems to shrink somewhat under their combined glances. “I have a message for you?”

“Is that a question?” Lan Xichen asks politely. He is holding on to his anger and, in turn, fails to see what Lan Qiren has spotted at once: the man who has just entered the office is not human.

The messenger colours darkly.

“It’s not? It’s not. I- here you go.”

He places an envelope on Lan Qiren’s desk, knocking down several small items in the process. Both nephew and uncle wince simultaneously.

“Bye,” the man says, and disappears through the door.

Lan Qiren strokes his beard, not quite daring to touch the envelope yet. Do you think it was a figure of speech? the disciple had asked. He does not, for who would actually pretend to be a messenger of the Yiling Patriarch for no reason? But then, the man – man, but not human – had not seemed like someone like the Patriarch would employ.

Lan Xichen, it seems, is not burdened by such musings. He rips open the envelope, takes out a note, reads it, frowns, and hands it to Lan Qiren, who reads it, frowns, and hands it back. Putting it on the desk, Lan Xichen then upends the envelope. Something falls out; like all secrets, once it’s out in the open, there is no coming back.

For a few seconds, neither of them speak. Then Lan Xichen says, “Do you think this is a joke?”

“I think,” Lan Qiren says, “that the last time we believed the Yiling Patriarch to be joking, he revived thirteen corpses and made a blood pact.”

“So-“

“I also,” he continues, “think that there is no longer a need to search for Wangji. It seems we have just located him.”

“Have we?” Lan Xichen asks. “If anything, we’ve just managed to lose him again.”

The note, written in black ink, simply said this:

Please return this to its rightful owner.

It came with Lan Wangji’s forehead ribbon.

*

After he has left the Burial Mounds, Lan Wangji returns to Wen Qing’s town house, only to find it empty. Wen Qing seems to have left again, and when the servant hesitatingly shows him inside, it turns out that Wei Wuxian has left as well.

This is fine, Lan Wangji tells himself. He suspected that his abrupt departure may ensure not seeing Wei Wuxian again. A man like Wei Wuxian must have better things to do than to spend all his time with a complete stranger. There is no point in being disappointed over the harsh truths of reality.

Inexplicably, though, he is. Lan Wangji leaves the house and subsequently the town with a heavy feeling weighing down on his chest. Perhaps not disappointment – just resignation, and the strange notion of having just managed to let something important slip through his fingers.

He finds an inn instead, and the next morning, he goes back to the town house once more, finding it empty still.

With five days until his birthday, there are not many things left that he can do, not if he wants to be back in time. There is a quiet voice at the back of his head that suggests he doesn’t have to be back at all, that nobody forces him to honour this bond that has been forged without his consent, but he ignores it. He can have honour if he can have nothing else. This is a belief he stands by, and it is also what he tells Nie Mingjue when he runs into him just outside the city gates.

Nie Mingjue dismounts his horse upon seeing Lan Wangji. The dozen cultivators behind him, all dressed in the colours of Qinghe Nie, all atop the giant war horses that the Nie sect favours, come to stand in two even lines behind him, not moving, just watching. Nie Mingjue approaches in large, yet even steps, not stopping until they are close enough to touch.

“Wangji,” he says, before pulling Lan Wangji into a rough hug. “There you are.”

Lan Wangji hesitatingly returns the embrace with a strong sense of déjà vu. In retrospect, his entire childhood seems to have consisted of going weeks and months without touching anybody at all, a streak that would inevitably be broken whenever the future sect leader of Qinghe Nie would visit Lan Xichen and, subsequently, Lan Wangji. Nie Mingjue has always tended to bestow affection on Lan Xichen’s little brother, and Lan Wangji, confused but faintly pleased, let it happen and even looked forward to it at times.

He lets it happen now, too, at least for a few seconds. Eventually, though, he pulls away and bows, because he is no longer a child, because Nie Mingjue is Chifeng-zun now, because they all have a part to play.

“Chifeng-zun,” he says ass he rises from his bow. “What brings you here?”

“Xichen sent me,” Nie Mingjue says, and Lan Wangji supposes he should have expected this. “He came to visit me last week, told me everything and then told me to find you.” His lips thin, and his tone is sour when he adds, “From what I’ve heard, I’m only the second choice”

“Second choice?”

“Two weeks ago,” Nie Mingjue says, “your brother talked to Meng Yao.”

Ah, Lan Wangji thinks. This, too, he should have expected. Out loud, he corrects Nie Mingjue to, “Jin Guangyao,” just to see what will happen.

What happens is that Nie Mingjue’s lips thin even more. “It’s not like it matters,” he says shortly. “He had two weeks, and we have yet to hear about the Yiling Patriarch being assassinated. Remember this, Wangji – the cloak and dagger routine is sometimes less successful than an honest sword through someone’s gut.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze falls to Baxia automatically. The famous blade has killed hundreds of cultivators; whether it has been more successful in bringing about people’s untimely demise than Meng Yao’s scheming, who is to say?

Nie Mingjue throws an arm around Lan Wangji’s shoulders, guiding him in the direction of his horse. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“It depends.” Nie Mingjue winks at him. “Xichen said to get you to safety before we invade the Burial Mounds. I told him, no, I know Wangji. I know he’s going to want to be there when we kill the Patriarch. And now that I look at you – all grown up! I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to be the one to deliver the finishing blow.” Nie Mingjue laughs jovially and hugs him again, patting his back affectionately.

This time, Lan Wangji does not move, and Nie Mingjue, who is tactile and impulsive, but not an idiot, notices soon enough. He takes a step back, frowning.

“Wangji?”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth and closes it again, glancing at the Nie disciples that are still waiting for Nie Mingjue’s command. Nie Mingjue follows his gaze and holds up a hand. “Stand back,” he says, and leads Lan Wangji out of earshot, just like he used to when Lan Wangji was a kid. The gesture makes Lan Wangji’s heart swell with affection, and it gives him courage to say what needs to be said.

“Chifeng-zun,” he says and, when Nie Mingjue frowns, amends, “Mingjue-ge. I thank you for your efforts, but they are not needed today.”

“Xichen tells me that in less than a week, you’re going to be beholden to the Yiling Patriarch. Was he lying?”

“He wasn’t.”

“Have you met him, then? Are the legends wrong about him?”

“They aren’t.”

“And yet you refuse my help?”

Lan Wangji holds Nie Mingjue’s gaze and says, “And yet I refuse your help.”

Nie Mingjue studies him for a couple of seconds before at last, he sighs. “Fine,” he says, like Lan Wangji knew he would. Throughout all his childhood years, Lan Xichen was the one who checked to see whether he was okay, whether he needed help, whether he wanted to talk. Nie Mingjue was the one who handed Lan Wangji a practice sword and told him that if he could score at least one hit, he would show him how to sucker-punch somebody afterwards.

Now, Nie Mingjue does not give him a practice sword, but instead another firm shoulder clap. “Good luck,” he says. “Xichen wrote to me yesterday, by the way – something about your forehead ribbon? Personally, I think this new look suits you better. Appeals to the lads and ladies, too, I bet.” He winks again, and Lan Wangji, his face feeling warm, averts his eyes until Nie Mingjue has mounted his horse and rode off.

Lan Wangji waits another minute or so, just for good measure, before returning to Yiling Town just as the city gates are closed for the night. He does not know what he will do tomorrow, but for today, he is going to find another inn and write to his brother. Despite everything, it is nice of Lan Xichen to worry. He deserves to know that Lan Wangji is alright.

*

There is a garden in Yiling now, at the very centre of the town. The garden had not been there yesterday.

Lan Wangji, whose fate is, apparently, to spend his three remaining days of freedom on wandering around aimlessly, approaches it with an apprehension that none of the people around him share. In his experience, gardens do not just show up out of nowhere and if they do, it’s a trap. But he does not sense any evil forces here at play, no demonic energy, nothing but a fresh breeze and the strong smell of flowers, flowers everywhere.

Several people push past him through the iron-wrought gates: young couples who want an afternoon away from their parents, parents who want an afternoon away from their kids, a large group of children who set off to explore the swing sets. Lan Wangji is slow to follow, too distracted by checking and double-checking whether there is cause for concern here.

He has almost convinced himself that all is well when he overhears a conversation by two elderly women, both of whom use canes to walk and have bags full of bread, presumably meant for duck-feeding purposes.

“All this time, and he’s only now remembered that parks exist?”

“Remembered,” the second woman agrees, “and thought them into existence at once. My niece told me this morning there are seven of them now, scattered all around the city.”

“Well,” the first woman says after a small pause, “that’s youth for you. Back in my day, flowers and chocolate were the way to go. Times change, I suppose.”

“They haven’t changed that much. Just look around.” The second woman uses her cane to point at the dozens of flowerbeds all around them, at the rose bushes, at the cherry blossom trees that are in full bloom even though it is not the season for that.

“If that is his way of gifting flowers,” the first woman says, “the city will tremble under his attempts to gift chocolate.”

Their laughter rings in Lan Wangji’s ears long after they are gone. Eavesdropping is forbidden but, he reasons, it cannot be called eavesdropping if all he did was sit on a park bench while they walked past.

It is clear that they were talking about the Yiling Patriarch. Joking about courtship, even. But Lan Wangji is too unfamiliar with Yiling and its people to figure out whether the Yiling Patriarch is involved enough in the town to warrant such specific teasing about his private life, or whether the women were making far-off guesses.

One thing is obvious in any case: there are gardens today when there were no gardens yesterday. There must be a reason for that.

Lan Wangji remembers his brief encounter with the Yiling Patriarch, the way his touch had burned Lan Wangji’s skin, the way his words had burned Lan Wangji’s heart and left him hollow and angry all at once. He can’t seem to align that man in his mind with someone who would instal seven parks just to court somebody.

Perhaps, he thinks before he can stop himself, the reason he can’t align these two images is because the Yiling Patriarch is only cruel to those he has no love for.

Lan Wangji wonders if, in three days’ time, he will meet the person for whom the gardens were built. He thinks he would like to see them, just briefly, before the Yiling Patriarch claims his life.

*

The sound of a heated discussion is what startles Lan Wangji awake. He rises and automatically reaches for the forehead ribbon on his bedside table which is, of course, empty. It’s an instinct that he may never rid himself off; he is not sure he wants to.

After putting on his outer robe and choosing to ignore the other six layers for speediness’ sake, he hurries out of his room just as someone says, with a sort of forced calm that is nothing like the angry voices that woke him up, “You may want to be careful about what information you deny me. From what I can see, it’s your inn that is in my territory.”

“Please-“

“No begging,” the man continues, “just yes or no. I will ask again one more time: is Lan Wangji one of your guests, or isn’t he?”

“Not every guest gives their name,” the inn keeper says desperately, at the same time that Lan Wangji steps into the lobby and says, “Wei Ying”.

Both Wei Wuxian and the inn keeper look up. Lan Wangji bows, unsure what he has just walked into, only knowing that Wei Wuxian is here, he’s been searching for Lan Wangji, and he’s here.

“I thought you left town,” Wei Wuxian says. He sounds choked, and a little like he’s going to burst into tears, and Lan Wangji, who is not particularly adept at comforting people, let alone people who cry, can think of nothing to do but to reach out to, perhaps, touch Wei Wuxian’s shoulder – except Wei Wuxian catches his hand and places it on his cheek instead, smiling into the touch. “Your note was so cryptic! I enjoyed our paths crossing, and wish you well – and then with your ribbon, too! I thought, Lan Wangji left town, probably, but also possibly he died.”

Wei Wuxian seems so honestly upset by this that Lan Wangji says, stupidly, “I did not die.”

“I can see that,” Wei Wuxian says. He is still holding Lan Wangji’s hand to his face, but now his smile fades, and he says, “No dying on my watch, though! You’re not allowed. I forbid it.”

“You cannot forbid death.”

“We’ll see about that,” Wei Wuxian says easily, smiling again, and he finally lets to go of Lan Wangji’s hand in order to absently stroke the flute in his belt.

Behind them, the innkeeper has been frozen to the spot, but he seems to recover now, backing up in slow steps until he is safely behind the reception desk. Wei Wuxian barely spares him a glance, most of his attention focused on Lan Wangji, who feels Wei Wuxian’s dark eyes on him like a physical weight that threatens to crush his body, break open his ribcage, stop his heart in a single beat. Lan Wangji aches for it, yearns for it, would offer his heart on a silver platter if Wei Wuxian wanted it.

This line of thinking is not something he would have allowed himself a week ago. But now, his birthday in less than 24 hours, what does it matter?

“Did I wake you?” Wei Wuxian asks, only now taking in Lan Wangji’s dishevelled state. “I did, didn’t I? This is terrible news. We have to get you back to bed at once. You need your beauty sleep! Although-“ – Wei Wuxian laughs nervously – “-I don’t suppose you really need beauty sleep, anyway. You’re so pretty already! Maybe you should sleep a little less, actually, so the rest of us can keep up. Is this your room?” He knocks on a random door before Lan Wangji can stop him.

“My room,” Lan Wangji says, “is over there.” He points at a door further down the hallway, and Wei Wuxian laughs again, still a nervous edge to it, as he steers them towards it, placing a hand on Lan Wangji’s lower back.

Back in the room, Lan Wangji hesitates. He has never shared a room with someone before, not since he was very small. Propriety demands that he send Wei Wuxian away, but the truth is that he does not want to, and Wei Wuxian has already sat down on the bed and seems intent on staying, so really, it is out of his hands now.

He only worries that there is some protocol that he is missing – some guidelines on how to act now, something, anything, that would make this easier.

He does not dare look anywhere but at his clothes as he starts to remove the outer robe he had thrown on earlier. He folds it, places it on a nearby chair, and turns back to the bed, where Wei Wuxian is still sitting patiently, his own eyes averted as well.

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to speak, only to find that he cannot. His breath catches in his throat, and he doesn’t know – he is not sure if-

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian says, and he must have gotten up and walked over without Lan Wangji realising, “hey, what are you doing, are you panicking, don’t panic, just breathe.” He takes Lan Wangji’s hand, and somehow, that helps. His breathing calms, and so does his heart, and soon enough, he feels like he is capable of speech again.

“I am,” he says slowly, “nervous.”

“Nervous? What’s there to be nervous about?”

Lan Wangji’s gaze darts to the bed instinctively. Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen as he realises the implication, and immediately, he shakes his head. “That’s not- we can’t- you should really save yourself for someone special!”

Disappointment washes over Lan Wangji, but there’s relief there, too. He has no love for the Yiling Patriarch, but betraying him like this is a line that he is still hesitant to cross.

“Sex is something very special,” Wei Wuxian continues, blissfully unaware of Lan Wangji’s thoughts. “Something wonderful! And a little scary! But mostly wonderful. You can’t just sleep with the first guy you meet! What would you do if I was a serial killer who plans to murder you and wear your skin until it rots and then even beyond that?”

“I,” Lan Wangji says and falls silent again, unsure how to react to this.

“Exactly,” Wei Wuxian says, irrationally so, and then he takes Lan Wangji’s hand and draws him to the bed. “Let’s just go to sleep. And- if you leave again in the morning, wake me up first. No more notes, okay?”

“Okay,” Lan Wangji says, and goes to sleep, and in the morning, he doesn’t get the chance to leave, because when he wakes up, it turns out that Wei Wuxian has left first.

Without a note.

*

In the end, Lan Wangji does not get the chance to pick an activity to occupy his last day with before he turns 21. He has breakfast at the inn, and then, as he starts walking in the vague direction of one of the seven gardens, he stops almost as soon as he started.

On one of the streetlights, which are lit automatically each evening via talismans that people say the Yiling Patriarch designed himself, a bird just fell down and, instead of taking flight, kept falling. Lan Wangji flies over there without thinking, catching it in his hands before it can hit the ground. Upon closer inspection, he can see that one, it is very small still, and two, one of its wings is injured. The wing is bent at an awkward angle, and beneath the grey feathers, there is blood.

Lan Wangji checks the streetlight and nearby trees for other birds and, finding none, scoops up the bird before him, holding it close to his chest. Its heart beats frantically against his hands as he walks back to the inn. The inn keeper stares, and stares harder when Lan Wangji asks for clean water, a wooden box, or something similar to it, and the bones of a small animal.

“Its wing is broken,” Lan Wangji explains impatiently. “I believe I can build it a cast.”

“Sure,” the inn keeper says, not moving. “That’s, yeah, sure.”

“I have seen this done before many times,” Lan Wangji adds, irritated. “Doves are native to Gusu, as well. Sometimes, they get injured.”

“Sure,” the inn keeper repeats. He points at the bird in Lan Wangji’s arms and says, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, gongzi, but that’s not a dove. It’s a hawk.”

Back in his room, he spends the better part of an hour coaxing the hawk baby into drinking water, and letting it bite at his fingers. Perhaps worryingly, it seems more interested in the blood than in the water, but Lan Wangji assumes that this is still better than dehydration.

Eventually, there is a knock on his door. Instead of procuring bones, the inn keeper has, apparently, sent the local butcher, who asks two times whether Lan Wangji doesn’t want to sell his bird and/or cook it over the fire to get some juicy meat. Lan Wangji, who has spent his whole life as a vegetarian and who is also incapable of interacting with small animals without knowing deep in his soul that he is going to hold them in his heart forever, does not manage to conceal his horror, and the butcher, surprisingly sympathetic, turns out to be as adept at treating animals for injuries as he is at slicing their throats.

“Congratulations,” the butcher says once a cast has successfully been constructed and attached to the bird’s wing, “it’s a girl. Still a hatchling, but not for much longer. I can send one of my daughters over later to bring you some meat. Free of charge,” he adds, seeing Lan Wangji reach for his purse. “I like hawks. They remind me of home.” He does not elaborate, and goes despite Lan Wangji’s continued attempts to pay him and the bird’s continued attempts to bite his hands. Alone again, the bird resumes its efforts to bite Lan Wangji’s hands instead, only stopping a while later when a girl shows up at the door, carrying the promised meat and a list of instructions.

Lan Wangji feeds the bird cut-up pieces of what used to be a mouse, telling himself that this is okay because sometimes that’s how nature works and, also, he has seen Wei Ying eat meat and Wei Ying is not inherently evil, so neither is the baby hawk.

And then, after what feels like a very long time and at the same time like no time at all, the clock strikes midnight.
Lan Wangji had almost forgotten about what today signifies, too occupied with trying to teach his newly acquired bird that ripping up the bedsheets with its beak is neither a polite nor acceptable thing to do, but as soon as he hears the strokes of the clock echo through Yiling, through the inn, through his room, through his heart, he remembers.

Perhaps fittingly, somewhere, far away, there is also the flash of lightning. A thunderstorm is on its way. At this rate, it’s going to reach Yiling Town in a matter of minutes.

Lan Wangji, officially 21 at last, rises without meaning to. He adjusts his robes, pulls on his boots, and leaves his room, the inn, and eventually Yiling. Maybe he also leaves behind his heart, because if he doesn’t, surely he wouldn’t be so calm about it now.

The strange pull that has taken possession of him when the old day gave way to the new leads him, predictably, to the Burial Mounds. It is the second time he walks up the mountain, but when last time, it was entirely by choice, he can’t say the same thing now. He tries to stop, just once, to examine a red-petalled flower that is growing by the path. The curse – and it is a curse – won’t let him.

It does, strangely enough, allow him to halt before the skeleton trail marker, its eyes hollow, its mouth eternally smiling. Just like last time, Lan Wangji lights incense for it, before the curse reaffirms its hold over him and pulls him forwards.

A week ago, the castle and the grounds around it were bustling with activity, but then again, a week ago, he arrived in sunshine. It is the deepest of night now, and has just started to rain, besides. Standing at the very top of the mountain, Lan Wangji can see the thunderstorm in the distance. It has already reached Yiling Town; soon enough, it will have arrived at the mountain, too.

Lan Wangji’s robes are already drenched and clinging to his skin, and as he is driven inside the castle, he leaves a wet trail behind him on the stone floor. The castle is silent, everyone either asleep or hiding from the oncoming storm, and just like last time, no one stops him from entering the reception hall and falling to his knees.

And, just like last time, no one comes for him.

Lan Wangji kneels on the hard floor and thinks about how it is possible that a man who forced an entire sect to give up their second heir, a man who altered someone else’s fate like that without the blink of an eye, a man who was willing to go above and beyond just to claim someone’s life for his own, how a man like this could do all of these things and then not even show up on the set date and claim what he’s owed.

He wonders how it is possible that he is being sacrificed to a man who doesn’t even want him.

He wonders if someone else has realised that a stroke of lightning just set the castle ablaze.

When he experimentally tries to get up, he finds what he already suspected: now that he has arrived at his destination, the curse is going to make him stay here until the Yiling Patriarch comes to get him. Even if that means kneeling here all night.

Even if that means kneeling here in spite of the flames that are slowly, steadily claiming the reception hall.

Lan Wangji kneels, his hands clenched against his thighs, and watches as the fire grows – wonders, suddenly, if this isn’t part of the plan. If the Yiling Patriarch meant for this to happen.

And because he is watching, refusing to lower his gaze from his impending doom, he sees the exact moment two glowing red eyes appear amidst the flames. At the same time, he feels the curse’s pull again, stronger than ever now that the caster is near.

The Yiling Patriarch walks towards him, straight through the fire and miraculously remaining untouched by it. He comes to a stop in front of Lan Wangji, tilts his chin up with a black flute that looks familiar.

“You came back,” he says.

Lan Wangji, for the very first time, looks up at the Yiling Patriarch. He sees: red eyes.

He sees: shadows and smoke.

He sees: Wei Ying.

It seems so obvious now that he cannot believe he did not realise it before. All this time, the Yiling Patriarch and Wei Wuxian have been one and the same. Lan Wangji was a fool not to notice.

Wei Wuxian, seeing his shock, smiles ruefully and says, “Surprise.”

There are any number of things to reply to that. Lan Wangji, incapable of not being pragmatic, settles on, “We are about to be burned alive.”

And Wei Wuxian lifts his hand and says, “I told you. No dying on my watch,” while all around them, the fire dies out.

*

Later, after the storm has settled and a new dawn has broken, after they’ve surveyed the damage to the castle (minimal) and caught another one of Meng Yao’s assassins (minimal damage done by the assassin, maximum damage done to the assassin), after Lan Wangji has insisted on returning to the inn, briefly, to check up on the baby hawk and bring it back with him to the Burial Mounds – later, after all of that, they talk.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says wonderingly, while Lan Wangji tries and fails to pretend that hearing his personal name spoken by Wei Wuxian does not give him a tingly feeling of joy. “Yes, now that you mention it – that name totally sounds familiar.”

“I did not receive my formal name until much later,” Lan Wangji acknowledges. “At the time, they would only have been able to tell you my personal name.”

“I’m sorry,” Wen Qing says, ignoring both of them, “you forgot that you bought a person?”

“I have a lot of stuff going on,” Wei Wuxian says defensively. “I can’t remember every little contract!” Then, seeing something in Lan Wangji’s face, he is quick to add, “Not that this was little! It was a very big, very important thing.”

“That you forgot,” Wen Qing says, merciless.

“That you forgot,” Lan Wangji says, upset.

“That I temporarily forgot,” Wei Wuxian says. “But that I then remembered! As soon as midnight stroke, I felt the curse working its magic, and I remembered everything. And how lucky it is that this happened! Lan Zhan – can I call you that? Great – Lan Zhan and I are fated, clearly.”

Wen Qing frowns. “Because you bound your souls together for the curse to work.”

“Well. Yes.”

Wen Qing frowns harder. “How old was he when you did this?”

“That’s not important,” Wei Wuxian says quickly. He quiets all further attempts of criticism by gently, but firmly shoving Wen Qing out of the room and closing the door behind her, turning back to beam at Lan Wangji. “Anyway, now we can-“

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji interrupts, and Wei Wuxian’s smile fades.

“Lan Zhan?”

“I- they told me that the contract did not specify details. Those are for you to decide, they said.” They said means, mostly, Lan Xichen said. At the time he said it with big, sorrowful eyes, taking Lan Wangji’s hands in his own to soften the blow of confessing that Lan Wangji’s life and future are not his own. Sex, was Lan Wangji’s first, shameful thought back then, for it was the only reason he could think of why such a contract would have been necessary. Death, he’d thought later, after researching the Yiling Patriarch and reading up on the many, many tales of his bloodthirst and ruthlessness. Humiliation, he thought once he visited the Burial Mounds and found the Yiling Patriarch cruel, mocking.

This – humiliation – was the thing he’d settled on in his mind. But now that he knows the Yiling Patriarch’s true identity, now that he knows it is Wei Wuxian…it seems very possible that Wei Wuxian, who tends to act without thinking, had made the contract impulsively and has no interest in it any longer. This should please Lan Wangji, who has found in these last few weeks that he values freedom over almost anything else.

And yet, he feels no joy at the thought.

Wei Wuxian is watching him intently. He reaches out to Lan Wangji, only to immediately flinch back when the bird, perched on Lan Wangji’s shoulder and mostly chewing on his hair, attempts to bite him. Lan Wangji pats its head, gently ruffling the grey feathers, and, even in the middle of an emotional crisis, he is still pleased to note that the bird does not refuse the touch.

“Do you want to leave?” Wei Wuxian asks in a rush. “Because you can, if you want.”

He's right. Lan Wangji felt the curse recede in the early hours of the morning, once Wei Wuxian extinguished the fire and held out his hand to help Lan Wangji up. That one, simple touch was enough to satisfy whatever blood magic had been at play. He does not know enough about contracts like that to be sure that it’s fully over, but he supposes if Wei Wuxian truly does not care, if he does not intent to lock Lan Wangji in a tower or slit his throat, then he could return to Cloud Recesses without problem.

“Do you wish me to leave?” Lan Wangji counters, and watches Wei Wuxian grow pale.

“I want what you want,” he says. He attempts once again to get closer, and gets his hand injured for his trouble. Blood drips down to the floor, as crimson as his eyes were just hours ago, and Lan Wangji clucks his tongue disapprovingly at the baby bird.

Wei Wuxian, though, shakes his head. “Don’t scold her! You should be glad, you know. That you have someone to look out for you. To protect you from dangers.”

“You’re no danger.”

“Aren’t I?” Wei Wuxian asks wistfully, playing, as always, with his flute. Finally, Lan Wangji understands the significance of it.

Still, he says, “To others, perhaps. But not to me.” He is sure of that, now, even as he’s sure of nothing else. He knows Wei Wuxian would not hurt him.

“Never to you,” Wei Wuxian agrees, and falls silent in the wake of that promise. Ever since this night, he has kept throwing Lan Wangji glances, like he’s checking for something. It is unclear to Lan Wangji whether he has found what he was looking for.

They are caught at a standstill, with Wei Wuxian seemingly content to just continue standing here for all eternity, a safe distance away from Lan Wangji and his bloodthirsty hawk, waiting for Lan Wangji to make the first move to whatever game he thinks they’re playing.

Lan Wangji has never had patience for games.

He lifts his arm and waits until the bird has clawed its painful way up his hand, then carefully sets it down on a nearby desk. His hands now free, he kneels and, ignoring Wei Wuxian’s alarmed face, says, “You asked me once for my reason in coming to see the Yiling Patriarch. Last time, I told you I sought to pay my respects. That is not true today.”

“You can assassinate me,” Wei Wuxian says immediately. “No problem. Whatever you want. I’ve made enough of a claim on you already.”

Lan Wangji looks up and says, “I have no interest in assassination. I would like a favour.”

“Anything. Whatever you want,” Wei Wuxian repeats.

Lan Wangji almost smiles. He holds out his hand; Wei Wuxian, smiling back helplessly, takes it. This simple touch is enough to alight something deep within Lan Wangji, something long dormant, something that promises to burn brighter and infinitely longer than yesterday’s fire. His heart in flames, he says, “I wish to make a new contract.”

*

Much, much later, another messenger is sent to Gusu Lan. Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen open the note together, and Lan Qiren, whose eyesight is, disturbingly, increasingly fading with age, lets his nephew read it to him in the soft candlelight.

Lan Xichen reads, “We tied the- oh.” He colours. “It’s a wedding announcement.”

“A what?” Lan Qiren repeats. His hearing abilities must be fading too, because he could swear that Lan Xichen just said something about-

“A wedding announcement,” Lan Xichen repeats. He is still reading, but has stopped doing so out loud. After a minute or so of simply staring at the page, he sets down the letter. “They got married,” he says faintly. “Wangji and- that man.”

“Give me the letter,” Lan Qiren demands, holding out his hand and not dropping it until the letter is placed inside it. He skims it with a sort of grim determination, and then, holding the page close to a nearby candle, he spots something else: a scribbled note at the very bottom of the page, an afterthought to the official announcement. It’s not Wangji’s writing, so it must be the Yiling Patriarch’s. It reads, Lan Zhan says you can keep the ribbon.

“Uncle,” Lan Xichen says slowly, dazedly. “What do we do?”

And Lan Qiren, thinking of his brother, thinking of his own many failures at parenting, thinking, always, of Wangji, says, “Nothing. Let them be happy.”

They are.