Next morning, wind carried word to Cloud Recesses:
The burnt ruin hid a half-destroyed storage talisman, sealed in bone ash.
Wangji listened, eyes darkening.
"Not Wei Ying's hand," he finally said.
"But someone who studied him. Closely."
"A disciple?" Lan Qiren asked.
"No." Wangji's gaze turned distant, haunted.
"A shadow."
Meanwhile, in the Pavilion's quieter corner:
"Lan-Hun," Xiao murmured, "why keep chasing these ashes?"
"Because someone wants them found," Yujin answered.
"But only the parts that burn others — never themselves."
He paused, voice dropping.
"And because once, I failed to fly. I can't watch another city burn."
That night, the enemy moved:
Under black silk masks, figures crept along Yinshi's rooftops.
At the Pavilion gate, a young errand boy tried to bar them.
He fell silently, blade across his throat, eyes wide in final terror.
The figures split: — One toward the Pavilion, torch in hand. — Another toward the alley where Yujin always passed at dusk.