Chapter Text
The humid air clung to Su Meilin’s robes as she trailed her sister through the bustling market street, her fingers brushing against jade trinkets displayed on a vendor’s cart. At seventeen, Meilin—once Hemlock Potter—still marvelled at the sensory richness of this world: the sharp scent of star anise mingling with ripe persimmons, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the way sunlight fractured through silk canopies overhead. Five years her senior, Su Xiyan moved with lethal grace ahead of her, the Hua Hua Palace head disciple’s silver hairpin catching the light like a blade. "Keep up, Meilin," Xiyan called over her shoulder, her voice cool but edged with affection. "Master expects us back before dusk."
They slipped into a narrow alley where the sounds of commerce faded, replaced by the drip of rainwater from tiled roofs. Xiyan paused before a nondescript teahouse, its wooden sign creaking in the breeze. "Remember," she murmured, adjusting Meilin’s collar with brisk precision, "these meetings are not for the sect’s ears. What you see here stays between us." Her eyes held a rare flicker of vulnerability beneath their usual steel. Meilin nodded, curiosity coiling in her chest. She’d long sensed the shadows in her sister’s meticulously ordered life—the unaccounted hours, the faint scent of ozone and crushed violets that clung to her robes after "night hunts."
Inside, the air tasted of aged pu'er and damp stone. Two figures waited in the dim back corner booth. Tianlang-Jun lounged against silk cushions like a lazy panther, his dark robes pooling around him, a half-smile playing on lips too sharp for true nonchalance. Beside him, Zhuzhi-Lang sat rigidly upright, his gaze lowered respectfully—until it lifted and met Meilin’s. His eyes, a startling shade of molten gold, widened fractionally. A blush crept up his neck, clashing endearingly with the severe line of his jaw. Tianlang-Jun chuckled low in his throat. "Su Xiyan, your little shadow grows more striking each time. Introduce us properly."
Su Xiyan’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Meilin’s shoulder before releasing her. "My sister, Su Meilin," she stated, her voice cool water over stone. "Meilin, this is Tianlang-Jun and his nephew, Zhuzhi-Lang." Zhuzhi-Lang bowed stiffly, his serpentine grace momentarily awkward. "This humble one greets Su-guniang." Meilin returned the bow, her own cheeks warming under his intense, golden stare. She recognized the coiled stillness in him—a predator’s patience, yet his shyness felt disarmingly genuine. Tianlang-Jun’s gaze flickered between them, amused and calculating.
Tianlang-Jun leaned forward, pouring fragrant tea into delicate celadon cups. "Come, sit," he commanded, though his tone was velvet. "Xiyan tells me you share her sharp mind, little sister." His eyes, dark as obsidian, held a challenge. Meilin settled beside Xiyan, her senses prickling. She caught the faint, metallic tang of demonic energy beneath Tianlang-Jun’s cultivated charm and the sweet, earthy scent of Zhuzhi-Lang’s coiled power. Xiyan accepted her cup without looking at Tianlang-Jun, her posture flawless, yet Meilin saw the minute tension in her jawline—the conflict between duty and desire.
Zhuzhi-Lang remained silent, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from his untouched tea. When Meilin accidentally brushed his sleeve reaching for a honeyed walnut pastry, he flinched as if scalded. "Apologies," he murmured, voice low and raspy. Meilin offered a small, reassuring smile. "None needed." His golden eyes flickered to hers, startled, then darted away. Tianlang-Jun snorted softly. "Nephew, must you resemble a startled rabbit? Su-guniang won’t bite." Zhuzhi-Lang’s blush deepened, staining his pale neck crimson.
Su Xiyan cleared her throat, drawing attention back. "We depart for the Ghost Lotus Grotto at dawn," she stated, all business. "The sect believes it’s a routine artifact retrieval." Tianlang-Jun’s smile turned predatory. "Ah, but we know better. Those ruins whisper of celestial-grade treasures—and delightful traps." He leaned conspiratorially toward Meilin. "Your sister handles wards like a poet crafts verses. Elegant. Brutal." Pride warmed Meilin’s chest, mingling with unease. Xiyan’s knuckles whitened around her cup. "Flattery won’t disarm the pressure plates, Tianlang-Jun."
Zhuzhi-Lang shifted, his shoulder brushing Meilin’s again. This time, he didn’t pull away. "The grotto’s lower chambers flood with the tide," he offered quietly, his gaze fixed on the table. "There’s... a narrow passage behind the moonstone waterfall. Safer." Meilin tilted her head. "You’ve mapped it?" His golden eyes met hers—brief, intense. "Once. Long ago." Tianlang-Jun chuckled. "My nephew’s memory rivals a star-chart, Su-guniang. Trust his guidance." Zhuzhi-Lang’s ears flushed crimson.