The shop felt different in the days after their visit to the Circle. Not busier, not louder… but heavier somehow, as though every cup of tea brewed carried a little more weight than before. Lin Xun could not decide if that was the Circle's influence, or simply his own awareness of it.
Shen Lan swept the front floor that morning, her movements as unhurried as ever. She did not speak much about the meeting, only glancing at the folded parchment invitations that sat on the counter as though they might unfold themselves and give their answers.
One bore the faint blue ink mark of the river pavilion, its delicate strokes curved like ripples on still water. The other, darker and less elaborate, held the mark of the mountain road broker.
"Which first," Shen Lan asked quietly, her voice barely louder than the bristles of the broom brushing against the floor.
"The river," Lin Xun said, not because he had decided it firmly, but because the name felt calmer in his mouth. "We can leave in the morning. It is not far, and… it will be easier to return here quickly."
Shen Lan's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than usual, as if weighing the truth behind his choice, then she nodded and returned to sweeping.
The first customers of the day were two merchants from the southern market. They smelled faintly of river reed and fresh ink, and they ordered a pot of soft mist green. Lin Xun brewed it in silence, letting the pale leaves dance in the steaming water, curling and unfurling with the kind of grace no human hand could teach.
As they sipped, the merchants murmured about shipments delayed, about someone buying up certain tea leaves before they reached the stalls. One name surfaced quietly between them... Eastern Cloud. Lin Xun did not ask for details, but he stored the words in the same corner of his mind that now held the folded invitations.
By midday, the shop was full enough that the air smelled of warm wood and drifting steam. A group of traveling disciples stopped in, their robes patched but clean, and ordered a tea that would keep them awake through a night's march. Lin Xun chose a darker blend, heavy with roasted edge, and poured it into their hands as though pouring a bit of his own steady focus into the cups.
The disciples left behind a pouch of dried mountain berries in payment, their thanks quick but sincere. Shen Lan took the pouch to the back, and when she returned she had the faintest hint of a smile.
When the lull came in the late afternoon, Lin Xun began to sort through the shelves behind the counter. The river pavilion gathering, if it was anything like the whispers described, would be a place for showing not just skill but character. He ran his fingers along the small clay jars, pausing on one that held leaves from the spring's first flush... bright, clean, with a scent like rain on bamboo.
He took it down and placed it beside the small brazier, then added two more jars... one of sun-kissed yellow leaves from the western slopes, and another of silver-tipped buds he had been saving.
Shen Lan watched him work, arms folded loosely. "Three jars?"
"I want options," he said, weighing the buds in his palm. "One to steady the mind, one to lift the spirit, one to spark memory. I don't know what the pavilion will want… but I know what I can offer."
The sun had already lowered by the time the last customer left. The street outside had that quiet hum it always carried at dusk, as though the air itself was settling in for the night. Lin Xun poured two cups of tea... nothing rare, nothing demanding, just a clean green to close the day, and set one in front of Shen Lan.
They drank without speaking for a while. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounded along the river.
"You're thinking about what they'll ask you to brew," Shen Lan said at last.
Lin Xun's lips curved faintly. "And about why they invited me at all."
"They saw what you did at the tasting," she said. "That is reason enough."
"Or it was a test to see if I would follow when called," he murmured.
She did not answer, and in the quiet her silence was its own sort of agreement.
That night, Lin Xun packed the jars into a small wooden case lined with cloth. He added a set of cups... plain porcelain, the kind that let the tea speak without decoration... and a polished scoop of sandalwood. The last thing he packed was a folded strip of paper, on which he had written only one line: Tea must be honest.
When dawn came, the river was wrapped in a pale veil of mist. The air was cool enough to bite at the edges of his breath. Shen Lan walked beside him without hurry, her sword at her side as always, and the wooden case in his hand felt heavier than it should have.
They passed through the waking streets, past vendors laying out baskets of steaming buns, past a cart piled with morning vegetables still wet from the fields. The scent of frying dough and boiling broth tangled with the river's damp breath until the air itself felt steeped.
The river pavilion stood just beyond the bend, its low eaves painted in faded blue, the kind of blue that held stories of decades under sun and rain. A narrow walkway ran along its edge, where a few early risers leaned over the railing with cups in hand, watching the current drift by.
Lin Xun stopped at the foot of the steps. From within, he could hear the faint sound of water pouring, not hurried, not slow... the rhythm of someone brewing with care.
Shen Lan glanced at him once. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be," he said, and started up the steps, the mist parting around them like steam from a fresh cup.
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