The room was silent, nothing but the low rustling of parchment and the occasional flick of a brush against a porcelain ink dish.
The desk in Lan's study had been cleared of everything except for the materials before him: ink infused with powdered beast bone marrow, the brush carved from a spirit beast's whisker, and a stack of talisman paper—neatly trimmed, pale with a faint shimmer, and pulsing softly with residual alchemical warmth.
Seraphine had prepared exactly one hundred sheets. Each carried the scent of ash and bark, the edges layered with alchemical lacquer that kept Qi from bleeding uncontrollably.
Lan leaned back in his chair and stared at the stack.
A hundred chances. A hundred weapons. A hundred mistakes, if I lose focus.
He picked up the first one carefully, as if lifting a soul.
"I suppose I should begin."
But before his brush even touched the ink, the temperature in the room dropped.
