It was snowing.
The year's first snow came without warning.
It gathered on tiles and in the yard, soundless—making the world colder, whiter, and utterly still.
Qingshui sat at the window. The courier pigeon paced across the table. Outside, flakes kept falling.
"Kill the target."
Those words rolled over and over in her head, sending swells through her heart-sea.
She closed her eyes and drew a long breath. Her chest rose and fell.
In her ear, it was as if the Water Envoy's drill-voice spoke again—
"Mission is mission."
"You have no feelings."
"Hesitation is death."
"Do not forget—your codename was bought with forty-nine lives."
Her lashes trembled. Her exhale seemed to carry crystals of ice.
After a moment, she opened her eyes. Only cold remained in them.
She rose slowly and set her hand on the knife.
"Mission."
The word was so soft it sounded like she was biting the words off her back teeth.
Her fingers closed on the hilt and drew out the short blade that had drunk so much blood.
Metal slid free with a clipped, frozen clang—like the severing of the last strand of mercy.
The door creaked. Snow air flooded in as Qingshui stepped into the courtyard and walked to the main room.
A breath of qi wrapped the hinges; the door opened without a sound.
Inside was deadly quiet. She could hear the soft sift of snow in the yard.
She did not rush. She made her breathing thin and slow, let her eyes adjust to the dark, then opened Bihua's door.
Bihua was asleep on her side, black hair spilled on the pillow, features unguarded and at ease.
The face that always furrowed over accounts, sparred with her, scolded Layne—
Now calm, still—and achingly beautiful.
Layne slept in the side room. No movement there—only a child's light breathing.
Qingshui's throat worked. She stood there for several heartbeats, eyes locked on Bihua's throat and heart as if seeking the cleanest angle.
The blade creaked against her knuckles.
She drew a deep breath.
Her foot went forward; the point lifted a fraction. Moonlight bled through window paper and laid a cold sheen across steel.
Her steps made almost no sound as she closed in on the bed, a cat stalking prey.
The room was cold; the brazier's ember-glow fluttered and faded. Her palm was colder still.
The hilt trembled; she crushed down with force until her joints clicked.
"Before the mission there is no self. No sentiment."
She shut her eyes once. The lids stung. The throat worked, as if swallowing memories brined with tears.
Her wrist quivered; she clamped her jaw. Her breath rasped like a bellows.
"…It's just a mission."
No emotion—only a hoarse pant.
The knife rose to her shoulder and steadied—its tip lining up with Bihua's throat.
One step more—
A touch more force—
She could almost hear the blade's whisper as it parted the air.
Bihua rolled over.
It was a small, silent shift—but the bangle at her wrist tapped something at her waist with the faintest click.
A sound Qingshui knew to the marrow. A sound she had heard for thirty years.
So light—yet in this dead-quiet snow night it pierced her ear like a needle.
Her whole body jolted. The point jerked; she nearly dropped the knife.
She lifted the quilt's edge. Bihua, feeling the chill, curled a little tighter—exposing the circle of jade at her waist.
A ring from her own broken pendant. How could it be here?
Qingshui froze—fingers bloodless, breath thrown off its rhythm.
On instinct, she freed one hand, trembling, and drew out the rest of her ring-pendant from her breast. Same grain. Same milky glow. Even the grooves encircling each ring matched line for line.
Moonlight fell cold and knife-white.
The rings in her palm and the circle at Bihua's waist fit together in the light—like pieces never meant to be apart.
Qingshui's eyes widened. Something lodged in her throat.
Then the flood came.
Seventeen years old. A dark alley.
Pinned to a wall by louts—hands on her, fists in her ribs.
Her scream. Her useless struggle.
Then someone barreled in, seized a wrist, shielded her.
A voice that shook but did not yield: "Back off. I've summoned the constables."
She remembered the blade he took to his arm, hot blood speckling her face. She did not remember when the officers came. She did not remember his face. Only that her ring-pendant was torn—when she picked it up afterward, a piece was missing.
Qingshui's throat cinched; her breath snagged.
Her eyes burned.
She stared at Bihua—at that familiar, beloved, weary face now tight against the cold—
At the jade at her waist and the pendant in her hand—
and everything became clear.
Bihua was that man's wife.
Layne was that man's son.
Qingshui's hand shook so hard the knife weighed a thousand catties. She ground her molars; a tiny, animal sound scraped from her throat.
Tears, scorching hot, rolled from the corners of her eyes and struck her chest like flame.
Her eyes were blood-red; her breathing broke ragged; her chest heaved to bursting.
Her mind howled, again and again—
Do it.
Strike.
She is the target.
But the knife would not fall.
That face was too familiar.
It hurt too much just to look at it.
Her gaze slid to the jade—snug with her pendant, seamless—chanting at her like a living thing:
This is the wife of the one who saved you.
That is the child he left behind.
A ragged breath tore from Qingshui's lungs.
The tip wavered twice—then rang against the floor with an ice-cold ting.
The sound shattered the last wall inside her.
She scrubbed her sleeve across her eyes. It only smeared the wet; the more she wiped, the worse it blurred.
Through clenched teeth, voice ground down to a rasp:
"How… am I supposed to do it… damn it…"
The sleeper stirred.
Bihua's brow knit; long lashes quivered. Her eyes opened, slow.
Their gazes locked.
Bihua blinked, pushed herself up a little. Her eyes flicked to the knife on the floor, then back to Qingshui's face.
Qingshui was shaking, breath tearing, cold sweat and tears slicking her cheeks; her eyes were red enough to bleed; her sleeve still clumsy at her face; something clutched tight in her other hand.
The room was so quiet even the wind seemed crushed under the weight of snow.
And into that hush, a laugh sounded from outside—cold as iron.
"Heh… just as expected."
The window banged wide under a blow. A gust hurled snow into the room; the brazier flickered twice and died.
A low, rasping voice unspooled—a chill that seeped up from a stone crypt.
"The Water Envoy doubted you'd do it. So he sent me."
Qingshui's head snapped up; every nerve strung to breaking.
Moonlight spilled through the gaping window. A shadow perched on the courtyard wall.
A man in black sat there, hem lifting in the wind.
He cradled a curved blade, the pommel against his temple. His eyes, in the moon, were a shark's—locked on prey. His mouth held a smile—equal parts mockery and pity.
Wind drove flakes through the opening—cold, needling—thick with killing intent.