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It begins with the manual.
The horizon sings the colors of sundown: gold, violet, and silver meshing into one. Qingxiao sits at her table, watching the rings of Xuanfang Hold twist and turn below, her fingers aimlessly caressing the soft, worn material of bound parchment. She watches a petal float in front of her face, swaying this way and that, and does not startle when red nails pluck it out of the air.
“It is rare to see you like this, My Paragon.”
Qingxiao closes her eyes briefly as a tail pats the underside of her jaw, and she shifts to follow Hsin’s movements as She rounds the stool to stand away from the cliffside. “I fail to understand.”
“Not…” Hsin flutters a hand in the wind as if She can grasp the word evading Her. “Cultivating,” She settles on.
“Cultivation takes many forms,” Qingxiao explains, momentarily distracted by the way Hsin’s ears automatically swivel to follow her voice, even though Hsin’s body remains turned away from her. “Enjoying a moment of quiet is just as imperative as meditation.”
Hsin hums at that, somehow sounding both incredibly interested and terribly bored by the topic of conversation. Unsure of Hsin’s intentions, yet bracing for it all the same, Qingxiao merely watches as Her Sentinel finally turns to face her. Crimson eyes focus almost immediately to the sword manual still resting under her palm.
“Hm?” Hsin gestures to see it.
The stone of the low table is cold from the dimming light of evening. Qingxiao gently picks up the manual to brandish the cover. Hsin leans in entirely too close to examine it.
“My bladecraft is honed from multiple sources,” Qingxiao explains. “Fortune led me to discover this manual when I was young, and it served as my guiding light until my master assisted me in perfecting them into forms entirely my own. It—”
Qingxiao stops abruptly. Hsin reverts in the silence, Her tail resuming its swaying and ears returning to a neutral state. Yet Qingxiao caught it: the brief flash of…discontentment, perhaps? Hsin’s eyes snap from the cover to hers, Her smile suspiciously benign. “Yes? Continue.”
Why did You look…
Was she imagining things? Perhaps this was another of Hsin’s little pranks. Qingxiao shakes her head slightly to clear her warring thoughts. Hsin has an uncanny ability to befuddle her mind, but worse, Qingxiao can’t bring herself to dislike it.
Enough. Qingxiao pushes the feeling down. Perhaps she needs to clash with her Inner Demon again; its voice is becoming a little too frequent.
“It is special to me,” Qingxiao continues finally. Hsin visibly softens at her tone, though there is a residual something still lingering. “I often practiced with little more than stray reeds, sticks, or sections of young bamboo…”
She’s smiling, Qingxiao realizes. The memories exude warmth and nostalgia. Qingxiao clears her throat, suddenly embarrassed. She hadn’t intended to bare herself so completely to Hsin’s simple question.
“Have you met them?” Hsin asks suddenly. Qingxiao watches as Her fingertips trace the inked characters on the cover, slightly faded from age. Though Qingxiao knows the title by heart: Swordcraft of the Golden-Eyed One.
“The one with golden eyes?” Qingxiao clarifies, and Hsin remains silent. As if She didn’t want to hear the answer despite asking for it. “Once. I beheld her at the end of the Fortress and Gorges war, an end she manifested into being.” Hsin flinches, Her ears drooping ever so slightly. Qingxiao fails to notice. “She descended with Sentinel Jué. She turned the tide. I have never…” Qingxiao pauses. “I wish to meet her properly.”
“Hm,” Hsin says.
“I plan to wander Huanglong,” Qingxiao continues, oblivious to Hsin’s shift in attitude, “should my lifetime permit. Perhaps I will run into her. To see her swordcraft in its purest form.”
“Hm,” Hsin says again.
“Have You met her? Forgive my presumptions, but if she is familiar with Sentinel Jué, is she also familiar with You?” Qingxiao finally turns, and is surprised to come face-to-face with Hsin’s shoulder, where Her face normally would be. Hsin is staring at absolutely nothing, turned away, Her tail unmoving. Qingxiao straightens, concerned. “Hsin?”
Hsin holds Her hand out, letting a wilting leaf float gently onto Her palm. “I am familiar, yes,” Hsin says eventually, voice quiet. She does not elaborate.
Qingxiao does not see Hsin for weeks afterwards.
The first time she realizes Her absence, it is raining. Droplets cascade from the sloping edges of the pagoda’s roof, dripping shallow puddles onto the grass. Qingxiao opens her eyes from cultivating to feel a tickle under her chin.
“Hsin,” she sighs, brushing the tail away. “Must You—”
She stops. Her hand finds it unfamiliar. The fur is too coarse. The tail is too small. She looks down and finds a fox, a normal fox, sitting on her lap, staring up at her. It yips upon being discovered and scampers off, paws scratching against the floor.
Qingxiao stares at the faint, wet imprints of paw pads now marking the otherwise pristine wooden floorboards. The rain shaaaaa’s around her, a rhythmic showering. Though the air is humid, Qingxiao feels a strange absence of warmth.
Seventeen days. The number comes to mind immediately and unconsciously, as if a mechanism within kept the time outside of her knowledge. Seventeen days since Hsin was seen last.
It should not matter. Hsin does as She wishes. The fact She is gone should not distract Qingxiao from her duties as Paragon.
It sounds as if I am trying to convince myself.
A torrent of thoughts. Her master would suggest she return to cultivation. Instead, Qingxiao rises and aimlessly walks about. The rain soaks her garments immediately, hair going from damp to drenched. Her eyes scan the mountaintop’s perimeter. She stops by her table. The teacup she left out is filled with rainwater. The teapot has rolled off to nestle within the tall grasses, the top flung elsewhere as if done on purpose, a mark of mischief.
Qingxiao picks up both and stores them carefully away.
The second time she realizes, a knot of discomfort begins to form within her chest.
She plays her guqin, the notes ringing out against the gray, sunlit threads of early morning. A couple birds tweet and chirp occasionally in attempted harmony. A flash of white appears in her periphery. Qingxiao swivels her head around.
A fox. A normal one again. It’s white as snow, likely hailing from the colder regions of Xuanfang, and stares at her in arrogance.
White as Hsin’s hair. The thought comes unbidden.
“Where is She?” Qingxiao asks it, voice trailing into quiet with every word, as if speaking it out loud is some sort of grave offense.
The fox tilts its head. Then it trots up to her feet, sniffing. Qingxiao watches it. It leaps suddenly, paws catching around her left ankle, and twists its body to clamp its teeth around the heel of her shoe. Qingxiao furrows her brows, bemused, and the fox lets go to roll onto its back, its barks similar to laughs.
Soon, it too scampers away, though not before knocking aside a broom and pail Qingxiao propped up earlier.
The third time, Qingxiao has lost count of the length of Hsin’s absence, and her restlessness propels forth a foe she prefers not to get caught off-guard by.
Qingxiao’s untamed mindscape is chaotic and unrelenting. Charred grasses burst into flakes of ash underfoot as Qingxiao strides purposely through an ever-shifting mirage of scenery: waterfalls cascading into nothing; jagged cliffs rising and falling against one another; seeds blooming into trees that wither away within seconds. Finally, she sees them. A lone figure, familiar in form, draped in deadly violet, stands atop a stone platform in the middle of a shallow pool of water.
“You.”
Her Inner Demon sighs as Qingxiao draws closer, eight whirling blades formed from her Sword Intent spinning to life. “Such hostility in your tone.”
“You speak as if you are not the poison within,” Qingxiao replies, hand formation now in front of her face. “Let us commence.”
The demon does not even blink. It tilts its head, swiftly avoiding a flying blade, and does nothing but stare. The unnatural reaction forces Qingxiao to pause, though she remains poised for combat.
“I’m surprised you went straight for violence,” her demon drawls. “Normally you at least attempt to talk my ear off.”
Qingxiao hesitates. It is true. Her master would disapprove, but Qingxiao experiments with the idea of finding some other way to reach Transcendence, some other way to deal with her Inner Demon that doesn’t involve cutting a part of herself out completely. Unfortunately, despite her efforts, reconciliation led nowhere but torturous memories, endless repetition until she was forced to end her alter ego with the tip of her blade.
A useless endeavor. Or is it? For now…
Qingxiao vanishes her blades with a wave of her hand. “Now you are the one speaking to me.”
The demon shimmers and reappears at Qingxiao’s side. Qingxiao leaps away immediately, swords flashing into existence again. Yet the demon only rolls its eyes.
“What do you want?” Qingxiao asks evenly, now suspicious.
“You do not even know why you’re here,” the demon points out, slowly, as if a realization. It smirks. “Were you not cultivating beforehand?” Qingxiao searches her memory. “Your mindscape is one you enter into willingly. Yet you are here. Why?”
A particular sensation begins crawling up her spine. It is the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, of someone knowing something you do not, of descending a staircase and missing the final step.
The demon sighs, swatting away the vision of Qingxiao in its eyeline as if she were a fly. “Fine. Recite.”
Qingxiao narrows her eyes. Usually this verbal battle takes place during the physical one, barbs and jabs parried and countered like the blades between them. Mockery, each word an arrow flying true, for who can harm you better than yourself?
Still, Qingxiao acquiesces, bracing herself for whatever discomforting truth her demon shoots back with. “I must sever myself from the world.”
The demon opens its mouth. Its tongue and teeth do not move, but Qingxiao’s voice echoes out regardless. “I descend that mountaintop more than I sit atop it. The villagers burn incense in my name. Is that truly removing myself from others?”
Qingxiao’s lips pinch. “My blade must bring eternal peace.”
Again, the demon responds. “I failed to push back Ovathrax, relying instead on the Golden-Eyed One. Years spent practicing her bladework, yet I was weak under the Threnodian’s gaze. Have I truly progressed in any way?”
The words bring back a particular memory, one laced with a swaying tail and bright, playful eyes. Qingxiao’s mindscape stutters, and the scenery around them flashes, dropping them both onto a rooftop of a collapsed home.
Qingxiao steps backwards. Her demon is directly in front of her now, violet eyes waiting, almost as if in glee. Recite, it demands, silently.
She does. “I must clear my mind of worldly attachments.”
Its mouth, her mouth, dipped purple, curves with the predatory gleam of a thirsty maw. “My gaze strays to the Moon Fox—”
Qingxiao strikes, and in a blink her movements are perfectly matched and mirrored. Violet eyes flick down to the azure blade buried deep in its chest. Qingxiao does not need to look to know there is a blade piercing her as well.
“Oho~” Her demon laughs, cocking its head. “I see.”
Qingxiao does not wish to continue the conversation. Her mindscape begins to blur. “A draw.”
“As always,” her demon agrees, and her vision goes black.
...
...
...
The scent of incense reaches her first. It’s familiar, but Qingxiao doesn’t recognize it as the same incense the villagers burn in front of her portrait. This one is stronger, sharper, and kissed with warmth.
Qingxiao’s eyes fly open with a gasp, her arm jerking out. A muscle memory of her battle. She forces her fist to unclench, her fingers still believing they wield a sword, and raises her eyes to meet crimson ones, colored additionally with surprise and concern.
“Well, well~” Hsin says playfully, gently pushing Qingxiao’s arm down. Her tail flicks against the underside of Qingxiao’s jaw, attempting to call her back to proper awareness. “Your time spent up here has dulled your manners. Is this how you greet a guest?”
“Hsin,” Qingxiao says, more of a breathless realization than an acknowledgement of her presence. She takes a moment to examine her surroundings. The gentle breeze, the scent of petals falling in an erratic dance, the light of the afternoon sun.
Wait. Hsin?
Hsin.
Qingxiao’s head snaps forward. Her Sentinel kneels in front of her, waiting patiently, drawing aimless patterns atop Qingxiao’s crossed legs. Qingxiao forcefully brushes Her tail aside, faintly feeling the shimmer of a recent foe brushing against her irises, violet glinting against blue. “You–! Where have you been?!” she demands.
Hsin’s lips part ever so slightly. Qingxiao continues, leaning forward with every word. “You have been gone,” Qingxiao nearly shouts. “Not a word. Nobody has seen You. The Sanctum remained quiet. What sort of Sentinel—”
Qingxiao snaps her mouth shut as Hsin’s ears wilt, the swath of her emotions vanishing from her face much like a curtain being closed. She turns her face away, wrestling herself back into control. “Forgive me,” Qingxiao says, tone carefully even without a hint of strain. “I let my temper grasp my reins. It will not happen again.”
In the lingering silence, Qingxiao plays with the translucent ribbons on her forearm. Years spent mastering her anger, yet it came undone so easily. Foolish. She quiets her reprimands with a subtle shake of her head. Controlling one’s emotions is not a single battle, but an endless war. One is liable to slip; what matters is picking oneself back up again.
She faces Hsin, ready to deliver another apology, only to be beaten in speed.
“Ages have passed since you reprimanded Me with such vigor,” comes Hsin’s voice, soft and amused. “Hm…the last was when we first met, I believe.”
Hsin’s nails keep snagging on the material of Qingxiao’s stockings. Qingxiao covers Hsin’s roaming hand with her own, a quiet action meant to convey she is no longer as upset. Many believe otherwise, but Qingxiao always finds her Sentinel easy to read. Hsin hides Herself behind a thousand faces, yet a fraction of truth is to be found in every single one, if one looks carefully enough. And right now, Qingxiao dislikes sadness adorning the Moon Fox’s expression in any manner.
Hsin flips Her palm to fiddle with the red cord adorning Qingxiao’s wrist. A note of sorrow hugs Her voice. “I had to take care of something. My apologies,” Hsin whispers.
“It is fine.”
Hsin’s eyes flick up, guilty. “I did not realize My absence would affect you so deeply.”
Qingxiao answers before thinking. “It should not have.”
To be Xuanfang’s Paragon naturally means one is concerned about their Sentinel’s disappearance. It is permitted, a necessity borne from greater concern of Xuanfang as a whole. But Qingxiao was not concerned about the Sentinel’s absence as Xuanfang’s Paragon. She was concerned for a different, selfish reason.
That same selfish reason is why she does not blink when a familiar expression crosses Hsin’s face, and why she does nothing but adjust when a small kiss is pressed to her shoulder.
Slowly, slow enough Qingxiao realizes Hsin is giving her time to pull away, She settles in her lap. Her calves are warm, and Qingxiao stares at the coloring of Her eyelashes when Hsin turns Her head.
“I sent you foxes,” Hsin says, a sentence so odd it is clear She is trying to ease Qingxiao’s leftover tension. Hsin curls a lock of cerulean hair around Her fingers. Their newfound proximity makes Qingxiao hesitate, unsure of how to position herself. She settles on remaining the same.
“...foxes.”
“Some of them became a bit too bold in My absence,” Hsin mutters under Her breath. “One was sleeping within your lap as I approached. The audacity of you, to allow another close.”
Hsin’s tail is sweeping the floorboards, irritation clear in the arch of Her fur. Qingxiao allows herself a small smile. “How can You be jealous of Your own?”
“I bared My fangs, and it slunk away. But nevermind that traitor—the other messengers I sent; did you appreciate them?”
Qingxiao slides her eyes up to glance at Her placidly. “Troublemakers, all. Scattered my things about.”
“Well, they are related to Me,” Hsin teases, ears finally back in a neutral state. “You must forgive our mischievous nature.”
“Perhaps I prefer them over their master. They’re a lot more respectful of the quietude needed for cultivation—"
Qingxiao’s words falter, forced into surprised silence when Hsin bares Her fangs and acts. When She pulls away, Qingxiao dares to press a hand against the side of her neck, where the warmth of Hsin’s mouth still lingers.
“A warning.” Hsin huffs. “I can be very jealous. Do not jest of appreciating My messengers more than Me.”
Something within Qingxiao smirks in quiet pleasure. Satisfaction. Hsin’s departure had not diminished the affection She shows, the affection Qingxiao does not quite understand the origin of. She feels a shimmer across her eyes again and blinks it away.
“Little Qingxiao.” Hsin’s voice demands her attention so easily. “You seemed…different,” Hsin says carefully, “when I first arrived. There was clear strain in your body, yet you remained unmoving. Have your cultivation methods changed?”
“I was attempting to reach an understanding with myself,” Qingxiao explains vaguely. She recalls the last conversation she had with Hsin about her Inner Demon. Hsin’s expression as Qingxiao explained the importance of a sword-bearer was…unpleasant. Qingxiao does not wish to see it again. “I failed.”
“I see.”
Hsin’s tail sways thoughtfully as She looks at nothing in particular beyond Qingxiao’s line of sight. Qingxiao regards Her.
It is interesting how opposite they are. Qingxiao seeks to forsake unnecessities, to become as unbothered as still water. Hsin seeks to partake in every joy the world has to offer and react as such. Still, their differences complement, despite being as stark as the clothes they wear.
Sensation and movement snag her attention. Red fingertips trail up along her arms, scattering warmth in their wake, before Hsin starts to absentmindedly press Her thumbs into the embroidered fabric of her collar. Qingxiao swallows under Her touch, but outwardly makes no change in expression. This close, Qingxiao cannot help herself, and rakes her gaze down Hsin’s form.
Hsin’s pride in Herself isn’t unfounded. She’s a Sentinel, yes, but thanks to the humanness of Her form, She’s beautiful in a way mortals can comprehend by their standards. And Qingxiao knows Hsin is aware of this. She’s proud of Her tail, perfectly maintained; She admires the points of Her ears in moonlit still water, sometimes; Her hair is snow-white with the ends dipped in midnight, smoother than the most expensive of silks; the curves of Her body are perfectly symmetrical, an impossibility for humans; the glint of Her eyes are alluring and terrifying all at once.
Said eyes snap to Qingxiao’s, wearing mischief, and Qingxiao braces herself.
“You’re staring.” Hsin’s voice goes up by a note, as if daring Qingxiao to claim otherwise.
“I have no other recourse,” Qingxiao says. She gestures to the space between them, which is diminishing by the second and already paltry. The end of Hsin’s tail moves to tickle at her spine.
“My little Qingxiao, are you partial to My appearance?”
Qingxiao closes and opens her eyes. Clearly, she should have let the subject be. Hsin rarely lets something go once She sinks Her teeth into it. “I do not understand the question.”
“I know you possess an uncanny ability to see through My disguises,” Hsin says, clicking Her tongue after the fact. “Yet—”
“Respectfully, Your disguises do not do much.” For as intelligent as She is, Qingxiao cannot fathom how She thinks removing Her tail and ears and making Her hair darker is at all convincing. And only the Divine can wear such distracting eyes…
“Rude!” Hsin’s tail smacks at her spine. Qingxiao’s mouth threatens to curve upward. “I have made an observation: when you gaze at Me in disguise, you appear disinterested. It is leagues different from your usual expressions; does My true form call to you more?”
Qingxiao’s face threatens to warm. She manages to resist and remains impassive as she responds, “No. I am merely used to Your original form, so it only makes sense I react in a more comfortable manner.”
Hsin’s ears twitch in delight. “So you find My beauty relaxing?”
“It is merely familiarity.”
“I notice you don’t deny I am beautiful.”
Qingxiao inclines her head. She hesitates before saying, “…You are aesthetically pleasing, yes. Though I hardly think You need me to say such a thing.”
“No, I quite like hearing it from you.” Hsin’s fangs brush against Her lower lip as She smiles; it is wide, honest. “You may continue.”
“I do not waste words on empty flattery.”
“You could stand to compliment Me a little more.”
“To what gain, exactly?”
“To please your Sentinel.”
“My Sentinel pleases Herself at my expense,” Qingxiao says simply.
Hsin laughs, and Qingxiao’s mouth curls up a little at the sound. Obviously fascinated by this, Hsin presses Herself closer. Close enough Her breathing is a rhythmic whisper against Qingxiao’s mouth. This time, Qingxiao knows Hsin can feel the way her neck heats underneath Her palms. Two-toned eyes blink against crimson ones, the former so purposeful in their steadiness Hsin smiles knowingly.
“Now you are in a better mood to jest, I ask a favor.” Qingxiao has no time to respond before Hsin says, “Join Me in My Sanctum.”
Qingxiao sighs, already moving to pull away. “Hsin—”
“Not to live,” Hsin amends quickly, tugging her back. How easily Qingxiao lets it happen. “I understand you wish to remain up here. But I have not seen you for a long period. Visit Me. For a while.”
She should say no. Refuse as always, ignore Hsin’s half-pout, half-disapproving frown, and return to cultivation. Ignore the annoyed swat of Her tail, the pokes to her face, the distracting sing-songed words in her ear. Unfortunately, Qingxiao feels something loosen within her at Hsin’s request. The weeks of Hsin’s absence wore a part of her down she didn’t know existed. Or rather, one she didn’t want to acknowledge.
“...if You wish,” Qingxiao acquiesces, and Hsin visibly perks up.
They descend the mountain, striding north to the Eastern Xuan Peaks. The cold nips at their noses, more a greeting than anything truly harsh. Snow-laden trees creak and groan under the new weight. Hsin makes a point to wrap Her tail around Qingxiao’s waist. Qingxiao’s pace matches Hers with delicate ease, yet their lack of speed is obvious when one of Hsin’s own messengers trots by. A patrolling Autopuppet, clanking and whirring, tromps divots in the snow, surpassing them as well.
The natural sway of her arms brush against Hsin’s tail as they move. It is not…entirely unpleasant. Her fur is soft, impossibly so, in a manner only achievable by the Divine, and the reminder strikes Qingxiao with the force of a lightning bolt, so she clasps her hands together at her front. Now, only the wind can be blamed for Hsin’s tail tickling the backs of her arms.
“Hsin,” Qingxiao begins, and ears swivel her way in response, “This arrangement is hardly efficient.”
“It is cold.”
“I am fine.”
“I meant for Me,” Hsin lies smoothly, pressing Herself closer. “Your body heat is comfortable.”
Qingxiao sighs.
The rest of their jaunt to the Hold passes in a blur. The crunch of snow beneath their feet gives way to the rustle of tall grasses, then to the dull thud of paved stone, and finally the whirr of mechanisms as they enter the Sanctum. Night falls by that time, and though it was not her original plan, Qingxiao agrees to stay the night after Hsin’s incessant invitations. Hsin all but pushes Qingxiao into a private room before vanishing to do…something. Qingxiao is certain she’ll deal with the repercussions of Hsin’s next prank soon enough.
Now alone, Qingxiao takes note of the furniture. It’s simple, which she finds mildly surprising. Wooden flooring, a low table, two cushions, an even lower bed, sparse decor in the form of small metallic trees, a stand for a guqin—
Hm?
Qingxiao rises immediately to study it. It is of comfortable height. She runs her palm against the material. Smooth. Well-made. She turns slowly, noting the room’s details again in a new light. The simple design. The way it’s structured.
This is not just a private room. This is a private room for her.
The realization settles like a petal drifting onto a still pond, sending chaotic ripples every which way. Her fingers itch to call forth her guqin to calm herself. The violet color behind her eyes tells her to relish in the feeling instead. Qingxiao ignores both in favor of focusing on the Sentinel gliding into her room.
A bundle is cradled in one arm. Hsin snaps Her fingers, and a clothes tree pops out of the floor, where She hangs a cloud-colored robe over the pegs. It looks distinctly familiar.
“That is mine,” Qingxiao says. It is the clothing she wore when she was not yet Paragon, but merely Sword Transcendent to the people of Xuanfang. She cannot fathom how Hsin got a hold of it. “Where did you…?”
“I wish to see you in it,” Hsin says, blatantly side-stepping the question. “That old portrait of yours does not do your beauty justice.”
“I recall You heaping praises upon the artist multiple times. And I am fairly certain You have already—” Qingxiao cuts herself off as Hsin moves to stand in front of her, red-tipped fingers already working to undo her collar. “Hsin,” Qingxiao begins, entirely unsure of how to follow up the rest of the sentence. It is more question than warning, though the tone carries both.
“Qingxiao,” Hsin responds playfully in turn, and the golden accessory around her neck slides free to nestle within Hsin’s palm. Cool air brushes against the column of her throat as the top of her outfit begins to unfasten.
With her front otherwise occupied, Qingxiao reaches up to remove her earrings, if only to give herself something to focus on aside from Hsin Herself. When that is finished, and the earrings set aside, she begins undoing her hair.
Hsin’s eyelashes lower as Her attention sharpens. Evidently losing interest in Her former intention, Hsin abandons undressing her in favor of reaching over and sliding the removed hairpin free from Qingxiao’s hands. She does the same with the other, and then the entirety of Qingxiao’s hair falls down her back as Hsin pulls the comb free.
Hsin casually tosses the accessories over Her shoulder, the trio clattering as they slide across the low table a short distance away. Qingxiao would frown if her lips were not currently being taken by another’s, the latter of which immediately retreats once Qingxiao blinks in surprise.
When Hsin begins carding Her fingers through her hair, lips roaming across the now bare expanse of her neck, Qingxiao briefly closes her eyes in what she tells herself is exasperation. “What are you doing?”
Hsin exhales against a spot right below her ear, a huff of laughter that is accompanied by the brush of sharp teeth. Qingxiao flinches. “What do you think, My little Paragon?”
Qingxiao’s eyelids lower in disapproval. “I am asking.”
“Your entire being relaxes, are you aware?” Hsin asks suddenly. She slides Her fingers effortlessly through cerulean waves. “When I do this.”
“I fail to see the relevance.”
“I am pointing out the necessity of My action.”
“You act on impulse.”
“How rude! You equal My intellect to that of a common boor?” Hsin sniffs. “I act on calculated impulse, My little Paragon.”
When Hsin begins nuzzling into her neck, Qingxiao angles her head away and reaches up to grasp Hsin by the arms. It is gentle, a petal adorning a railing, more of a presence than a command. Hsin pulls back, ears upright with curiosity.
Qingxiao’s stare is deadpan. “You have work unfinished.”
“Ah, yes,” Hsin muses, eyeing the nearby robe curiously as if it wasn’t Her idea to begin with.
It takes twice as long as it would if she did it herself, and Hsin’s eyes roam over her form with entirely unsubtle interest when all is off, but eventually Qingxiao manages to clothe herself in her old robe. It’s lighter than she recalls. Or perhaps the responsibilities of Paragon are all the more heavy.
She sits atop the cushions bordering the low table to arrange her hair accessories in a more orderly manner. Hsin, as always, sits close.
Qingxiao is irked, suddenly. She’s night-kissed, vulnerable, wrapped in looseness, while Hsin is as She always is, hair elegantly up and draped in Divine finery. The difference in their states nags something incessant.
“Oho, now My Qingxiao is frowning~” Hsin grins in a way that makes the back of Qingxiao’s neck prickle.
Her intuition proves correct. Cool hands slide across her cheeks, cradling her head, and then Hsin kisses her. Hsin kisses with the same attitude She has with everything else: unrelenting, joyous, and, as She nips at Qingxiao’s mouth, earning a huff of protest, with mischief.
By the time Qingxiao needs to breathe, Hsin pulls away to press their foreheads together. Her voice is a whisper, a loving caress. “I missed you.”
“You are the one that left.” It is said without malice.
Hsin huffs. “You are supposed to reciprocate the sentiment, little Qingxiao.”
“I have been, quite clearly.”
Her insolent response earns an annoyed nip along her collarbones. Qingxiao smiles gently in amusement, which is somehow enticing enough for Hsin to kiss her again.
This time, it is Qingxiao who untangles their mouths before her breathing fails her. “You are…insistent. More so than usual.”
Hsin’s ears droop to one side. “Mm. I dislike upsetting you.”
“You do not need to apologize for Your absence in this manner,” Qingxiao says, suddenly alarmed. Guilt gnaws at her, and Qingxiao frowns at the actions of her past self. To lose her temper is one thing, but to burden Hsin with the aftereffects is another. Hsin cares for Her people so deeply, so strongly, it is a disrespect as Her Paragon to make Hsin worry about such a trifle as Qingxiao’s selfish yearning for Her presence.
“I am not,” Hsin promises, sweeping aside Qingxiao’s bangs to press a light kiss against her furrowed brows. “But I am regretful. Allow Me to make up for lost time.”
“Your heart bleeds for Your people. That is all I can ask of You, Hsin.”
“That is all you will ever ask of Me?” Hsin asks, daring with Her eyes for Qingxiao to say more. “You can ask much, you know. More so than most.”
Qingxiao pauses. “I need nothing more.”
“Need, perhaps not. But do you truly want nothing else from Me?”
“No.” The question is a trap, she realizes belatedly, when Hsin smirks. She tries again. “...yes. I want nothing else.”
Hsin’s eyes narrow. Her body moves back, and Qingxiao mistakenly allows herself to breathe a little easier at the distance. Until Hsin’s hand moves.
It stalks forward. Stalks, because Hsin moves with the silence of a predator, noiseless even in the deafening silence of the space, tail dangerously still, ears pointed entirely forward. Pointed at Qingxiao who, despite the slight widening of her eyes so fractional it is hardly able to be noticed, does not move.
Hsin reaches up, where the edge of Qingxiao’s robe is sliding off her shoulder, and pulls it back into place. Fingertips skim down the length of her arm, pausing at her wrist, the hand of which faintly twitches its fingers when Hsin brings it up to Her mouth and presses Her lips to the thin skin there.
Qingxiao looks away, a last ditch effort at staving off the inevitable. She wears centuries of practiced stillness, a calm expression masking tremors underneath she pretends doesn’t exist. Her ability to fool even herself is ingrained so deeply even Hsin has to work to see the truth beyond it.
But calming her emotions for her Forte and calming her emotions for Hsin are entirely different undertakings. And Qingxiao only has centuries of practice in one.
Hsin smiles, fangs skimming the edge of her skin, and She glances up, victorious, for the pulse beneath beats a rapid tune. “You lie.”
Qingxiao twists away. Her neck feels searingly hot. Hsin stops Qingxiao with Her tail before she can go any further. Qingxiao briefly attempts to gently push it away, but Hsin merely cages her in from behind, holding her by her shoulders.
“You have not even heard My answer,” Hsin sighs, Her fingers tapping in a wavelike motion.
“I have not said anything.” Qingxiao forces herself to focus on the faintly glowing symbols orbiting Hsin’s tail, and not the warm, playful, honey-drenched voice hovering near her ear.
“So concerned with requesting things from Me, you never stop to wonder if I want it equally.”
“Hsin—”
“Ask,” Hsin urges.
The room suddenly feels stiflingly hot. Qingxiao feels it, and in her mind’s eye sees it: a bead of sweat trails down from her temple, along her face, down the side of her neck, and further still where it dampens a small patch of her clothing.
“Hsin,” Qingxiao tries again. She pushes Hsin’s tail to the side, which is apparently an encouragement for it to wrap around her arm. “We are not lovers.”
Her hair is suddenly swept away to pour down her shoulders, and a kiss to the back of her neck scatters Qingxiao’s thoughts. There is an audible pout in Hsin’s voice as She says, “What an unkind reminder, My little Paragon.”
Hands rest along the sides of her arms, urging her to turn back around. Qingxiao resists. She regrets this decision immediately when Hsin rises, crossing in front to all but fall onto her lap, hooking Her hands around her neck.
“Hsin.” Qingxiao cannot think of anything else to say. Against her permission, her hands have already moved to embrace Hsin, a protective boundary lest She falls backwards.
“Lovers, no,” Hsin agrees, taking advantage of Her position to idly play with Qingxiao’s hair again. “We encompass more than that simple title, I believe.”
Hsin begins running Her thumbs along Qingxiao’s ears next, as if fascinated by how they feel. Qingxiao glances up at Hsin’s own, which are focused entirely on her in a manner usually reserved for enemies or dangerous situations. Complete and utter directional attention.
Hsin’s shoulderblades are cool against her palms. Her hands must be entirely too warm. The pads of her fingers trace along the gilding near Hsin’s spine, an action she stops herself from doing too late because Hsin shivers nearly imperceptibly.
Hsin’s patience, if She had any to begin with, vanishes immediately. She traces the exposed lines of Qingxiao’s collarbones as She tilts Her head down to bite at the curve of her neck.
She is losing. She is losing this battle, whatever this is, because every second her vision flashes purple, and her body shakes with the tension of remaining still. Her jaw tightens as Hsin continues, a heavy exhale leaving her when Hsin’s mouth brushes against her ear.
“Little Qingxiao,” She whispers, tail flicking erratically, “You are still holding back.”
Gently, Hsin grabs hold of Qingxiao’s forearm, guiding it upwards so her fingers glide against the velvet-smooth fur of Her ears. Qingxiao relents, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. During it all, a slow smile curves Hsin’s mouth, expectant, and She hums in pleasure.
Qingxiao’s will breaks. The words form. “What do You want, Hsin?”
“A dangerous question.” Hsin runs Her fingers underneath Qingxiao’s chin. “Can you truly receive My answer?” Qingxiao quirks a brow, unamused, and Hsin says it. “You.”
The room is silent. But only for a moment.
“Hsin,” Qingxiao breathes, and it is then she realizes she cannot get enough of saying Her name, “You are insatiable.” She tangles her hands into Hsin’s hair and pulls Her down against her, earning a delighted, soft laugh.
Her back complains about the hardwood flooring, and she hears the whirr of mechanisms underneath. All are irrelevant. What matters is the Sentinel above her, whose tail is beginning to curl around the bare leg that has slipped free from the confines of Qingxiao’s robe, and who smirks down at her with bared teeth.
Now having given herself permission, Qingxiao gets to work on Hsin’s hair. It is unfair for only one of them to be disheveled. The metal from Hsin’s hair accessories poke at her in greeting. Qingxiao doesn’t fling them away, though she debates doing so. Instead, she plucks them out one by one, gently depositing them on the floor, and Hsin’s hair falls to flow down Her shoulders and—
Oh. Oh.
Hsin is Divine.
Silky white drapes over them both, a curtain shielding Qingxiao’s vision from the rest of the room, now only able to focus on Hsin’s features. Hsin’s eyes gleam, and for a moment Qingxiao mistakenly believes Her eyes are golden instead of crimson.
…beautiful. Unfairly so. Hsin appears almost soft, fonder with Her hair down, and something between her ribs stutters helplessly. Qingxiao closes her eyes to recenter her mind. A futile endeavor. Fabric rustles, and she feels lips press against the hollow of her throat.
“Do not—” Qingxiao has to restart her sentence when the faintest pain blooms against her skin, and again when a kiss apologizes for it. “Do not place them so visibly. Hsin.”
“Hm~”
The hum is coated with something Qingxiao knows better not to ask for clarification on. She does so anyway. “That sound implies You are not listening.”
“On the contrary. I am starting to find it entertaining when you admonish Me.”
Qingxiao mutters something entirely too disrespectful to be said to a Sentinel. She feels Hsin pout against her neck. The tie around her waist begins to loosen, shivers erupting across her body as her skin starts to be exposed to the cool air of the room.
“Hsin!” Qingxiao lightly pushes Her head away, Hsin’s ears swiveling in contentment as her fingertips brush against their soft fluff. “Not here. Bed.”
The tail around her leg squeezes briefly before relinquishing its hold. “My, how greedy.”
Can You say such a thing?
Despite her words, Hsin makes absolutely no effort to rise. Qingxiao slices the air with a wave of her hand, secretly satisfied by Hsin’s surprised yelp as her sword intent forms underneath them both, swiftly moving to deposit them onto the nearby mattress. Hsin settles between Qingxiao’s legs, getting comfortable before immediately resuming her earlier ministrations.
Qingxiao tilts her head up. “Hsin,” Qingxiao scolds half-heartedly when fangs tease a spot under her jaw, “are You never satisfied?”
“Obviously not,” Hsin answers with a smile in Her voice, and Qingxiao is momentarily distracted by the scent of Her hair as it falls to caress her cheek. “I have told you foxes are quite possessive. A mark here and there is but a single leaf of the tree.”
“At Your pace, You are creating an orchard.”
Hsin laughs, a heavenly sound. “Appreciate these gifts of Mine, My Qingxiao,” She says, now nibbling along her shoulders. “You will have evidence of My affections to refer to for My next absence.”
“Unless You are planning to leave in the next few days, they will fade by then.” Both of them talk in jest, yet Qingxiao cannot help the way her heart seizes in alarm at the idea.
Hsin, of course, senses her inner turmoil. “Then I must merely give you more throughout the interim.”
At some point, when Qingxiao’s breathing is no longer as even as she would like, and the brief flashes of pain are beginning to blur more into the pleasurable side of things, Hsin’s hands shift. Her right fiddles with the tie around her waist, smoothly pulling the robe open as if it personally offends Her. Qingxiao shivers for multiple reasons: the first being the exposure of her skin to the air, the second being the obvious, and the third being Hsin’s next action.
Hsin’s clothing vanishes in a scattering of golden light, and Qingxiao immediately focuses on Her face. Hsin’s teeth are bared in a predatory smile, which only widens as She shifts to bracket Her legs around Qingxiao’s hips, the soft pressure of Her thighs against her waist increasingly distracting.
Hsin leans over to kiss her again. It muddles her thoughts enough she doesn’t feel Hsin’s fingers wrapping around her wrist until Hsin leans back with a stutter in Her breathing and a breathless, sweet noise that flushes Qingxiao from neck upwards, and she glances down to find her hand, her hand, hovering near the apex of Hsin’s thighs.
Violet surges forth at the sight, and Qingxiao’s fingers twitch before she can stop herself, resulting in another noise from Hsin that is half-laugh, half-moan.
“You are impatient,” Qingxiao scolds quietly, and Hsin shivers a little at the tone of her voice.
“And you are entirely too selfless for your own good, My little Qingxiao,” Hsin says, Her breath hitching. “If I do not give you permission, you will do nothing to Me all evening, even though your gaze desires otherwise.”
Qingxiao sighs. It is, as usual, carrying vexation, yet additionally carries something entirely new that causes Hsin’s pupils to dilate. With her free hand, Qingxiao gently pulls Hsin’s fingers on her wrist free, and watches Her tail snap in anticipation.
“Do not worry about my wants, Lady Hsin…” Qingxiao says quietly, and violet hums its assent as she presses upwards, “…for they will be quite satisfied.”
...
...
...
Qingxiao procures a standing divider to redress behind, much to Hsin’s disappointment.
“Is that really necessary?” Hsin complains. “You amuse Me; I have seen everything already. Though I suppose I can admire the curves of your silhouette.”
Qingxiao ignores Her comments, smoothing the new wrinkles on her garments and briefly sitting down to slide her stockings back up her legs. As she stands in front of the full-length mirror to redo her hair, a splotch of red catches her eye.
She makes an annoyed noise, one too sharp for a cultivator supposedly at peace. “Hsin.”
“Hm?” comes the melodic response.
Qingxiao decides to leave Hsin to deal with her silence, taking a fraction too long to finish pinning her hair up than is needed. When she rounds the divider, Hsin has not moved an inch, still lounging extravagantly on the bed. She pouts when Qingxiao does not outwardly react to Her body, and attempts to pick a more favorable position for Her figure. Qingxiao does nothing but blink, and Hsin tsks.
Qingxiao tilts up her jaw, where there is the faintest blooming of red where the underside meets her throat. Hsin smiles, slow and pleased, and Her tail starts smoothing the sheets as it expresses satisfaction.
“I had requested You not mark me anywhere visible,” Qingxiao says disapprovingly.
Hsin shrugs with Her entire face. “An impossible ask. Anywhere on your body is visible under certain circumstances. Besides, I showed remarkable self-control. Most of My affections are hidden by your clothing, are they not?” Hsin adds, in a quiet tone still too purposely loud to be inaudible, “Regrettably.”
“Most,” Qingxiao acknowledges. Her face colors ever so slightly against her best efforts, much to her chagrin. Hsin’s tail sways at the sight. “Save for one.”
“I fail to understand your complaint.” Hsin yawns, arching Her back as She stretches with Her arms above Her head. Qingxiao respectfully snaps her eyes away. “If I had it My way, I’d ban you from clothing and enjoy the sight of My teeth adorning your lovely, perfect skin.”
“...I am certain.”
“I see your dislike of the idea is clear.” Hsin laughs.
Qingxiao moves to the door, only to be stopped immediately by a pair of hands wrapping around her waist. “Hsin.”
“You cannot be leaving already,” Hsin complains. “We have hardly—”
“It is morning,” Qingxiao points out, though she does turn in Her arms to face Her. “I must cultivate. Xuanfang requires its Paragon. And its Sentinel,” she adds.
Hsin pouts, ears conveying their host’s disappointment in no subtle manner. “So quick to be rid of Me, is that it?”
Qingxiao pauses. The next words leave her mouth before she can stop herself. “Hsin. Next time…tell me,” Qingxiao says slowly, hesitant at daring to command her Sentinel so brazenly. “Please. If You need to leave again.”
Hsin softens. The sorrow in Her eyes makes a return, but it aches less when Qingxiao notices the fondness around it. “Do not worry. If within My power, I will.”
Crimson eyes flicker, then flicker again, downward. Qingxiao tilts her chin up, a silent allowance. Hsin curls Her hands around Qingxiao’s neck, a thumb immediately and knowingly pressing against a bruise hidden by embroidered fabric, and Qingxiao sighs in what she claims to be irritation when Hsin softly presses their lips together. Again. And again.
And again, until dawn becomes early morning, and their embrace is only broken when the Sentinel of Mengzhou is chided by Her own appointed Xuanfang Paragon.
…Hsin’s absence is a pain so prolonged it is no longer present. Qingxiao opens her eyes from cultivation, her hand automatically seeking out a warmth no longer present on the floorboards. A warmth that has not been present for years.
Wind whistles across the mountaintop. Leaves rustle. Petals fall. Qingxiao listens to the cacophony of sound, letting it bring her some semblance of peace. Still cross-legged, she summons her guqin, balancing it across her knees as she begins to play. A familiar tune, steady, sharp, focused. Upon plucking the final string, the ending note expels a rift of calm around her.
A particular sound breaks through the rest. Living metal, the dance of gears, painted porcelain flapping against the sky. Qingxiao looks up, hand already moving for the Rafter Kite to perch atop. The bird chirps, its wings clattering.
Qingxiao hesitates. The name curls off her tongue and springs to life, hopeful.
“...Hsin?”