The sun stood at her zenith, impartial and unblinking. Above, the sky was a washed blue, stripped of drama; below, the ground still clutched at the last remnants of winter. Snow lingered in stubborn patches, pressed thin and grey where boots had passed too often. Spring had not yet won—but neither had winter fully surrendered.
There was something between them. Something unfinished.
"What did you think of my sparring with Miss Dōngzhí?"
Heiwa's voice broke the stillness as she slid her staff back into its resting place along the corridor wall. The wood clicked softly against stone, a neat, final sound. I had not realised how close I was standing until my knees wavered, breath catching as though I had been startled awake.
"You lost?" I blurted, immediately regretting it.
Heiwa glanced at me, unimpressed but not offended. "I know that," she said, lowering herself to sit against the railing. "That is not what I am asking."
Heat crept up my neck. Now fully visible, with no excuse left to retreat, I walked over and sat beside her. The stone beneath us was cold even through layers of fabric, a reminder that comfort was still something borrowed, not earned.
"I… I don't know," I said at last. The words felt heavier than they should have, as though they were being dragged up from somewhere deep. Silence followed, wide and expectant. I know that I do not know, I thought, and the thought itself felt like an answer masquerading as ignorance.
"I learned," Heiwa said.
There was a smile on her face, but it was doing other work—holding something back, smoothing over disappointment that had not yet found its shape. It was the kind of smile people wore when they refused to let failure be seen as such.
I wanted to ask about the fox fire. About the way she had fallen. About why Dōngzhí's calm had unsettled me more than the flames themselves. But the questions tangled in my chest, heavy with the fear of sounding trivial in the face of something serious. So I said nothing.
"I still have a great deal to learn," Heiwa continued, as though saying it aloud might tame the thought, might turn it into something manageable. Her fingers curled briefly, then relaxed. A quiet attempt at self-reassurance.
I clenched my fist, nails biting into my palm. I did not trust my voice.
"We will be alright," she said suddenly, turning to me. She took my hands in hers, warm despite the cold, grounding in a way that surprised me. The certainty in her tone was not loud, not dramatic—but it was deliberate.
Before I could respond, another voice joined us.
"Oh! There you are."
Dōngzhí approached with measured steps, a small tray balanced effortlessly in her hands. Upon it sat a porcelain teapot, three cups, and a modest arrangement of snacks—neatly cut, unassuming, thoughtful. She looked as calm and clear as still water in sunlight, untouched by the tension that seemed to cling to everything else.
She set the tray down and immediately placed the back of her hand against my forehead.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"I'm alright—sorry," I murmured, the apology slipping out before I could stop it.
Heiwa, already reaching for a snack, paid it no mind.
Dōngzhí hummed softly and withdrew her hand, then, without ceremony, rubbed the top of my head once, as though smoothing unruly thoughts rather than hair. "Have some tea," she said. "And eat."
We did.
For a while, the only sounds were porcelain against wood, the soft exhale of steam, and the distant murmur of life continuing beyond the walls. The tea was warm and faintly floral, the kind meant to soothe rather than impress.
"When will brother and the others be back?" Heiwa asked eventually, her voice casual, a finger resting thoughtfully beneath her chin.
Dōngzhí paused, considering. "Who knows," she said lightly. "But they should already be on their way."
She took a sip, then added, almost as an afterthought, "If matters grow beyond them, they only need to hold for a day. The capital will send aid."
The shift was immediate.
Heiwa's expression soured—not into anger, but into something tighter, more brittle. A look shaped by experience rather than emotion.
"They can no longer stand aside," Dōngzhí continued, rising as she gathered the tray. "Not now. Foreign assistance—especially from the Church—changes the equation."
She carried the tray inside, leaving the words behind like footprints in fresh snow.
"Are they truly that influential?" I asked after a moment, turning to Heiwa.
She exhaled slowly. "Yes. It is no small mercy that no paladin was dispatched. That alone could have… complicated matters."
"Even if they mean to help?" I pressed.
Heiwa hummed in response, noncommittal, her eyes already half-lidded as though the answer were too obvious to require speech.
We sat together in the quiet that followed, not speaking, yet understanding all the same.
It was not discussed openly—but the shape of the situation was clear. Premises laid bare, conclusions left unspoken. An enthymeme, complete without ever stating its end.
The sun continued her slow descent, shadows stretching long and thin across stone and snow alike. They crossed one another like sentences cut short—like conversations no one admitted to having, yet everyone understood had already taken place.