The cold, pitch-black iron of the nameless Tang Dao remained level, its tip pointed unwaveringly between Qing Yan's glowing azure eyes.
Beneath Haoran's boots, the shattered floor were completely still, yet in the dark crease where his heels met the stone, a microscopic ripple stirred within the gloom.
A shadow within a shadow.
Deep within that thin sliver of darkness, a slender, phantom presence coiled like an invisible serpent.
It was Qing'er.
As she always had, she had remained submerged within his shadow throughout the trek across the Eight Wastes Desolate Land, through the blood-soaked burial fields, and into the ascending levels of the imperial tower, masking her breathing from the heavens.
Her divine sense was sharp, honed by a lifetime of silent assassination and protection.
