The moment the woodpile split open, the half page of scorched paper was stirred by the wind, its edges curled like dead leaves. Chen Wuya crouched down, his fingertips touching the lingering soot on its surface. When the pad of his finger brushed over the words "West Chamber," it left behind a faint streak.
He said nothing. He merely held the scrap between two fingers, rose to his feet, and walked toward the stove. The instant the flames leapt up, ashes whirled into the air like a swarm of moths rushing into fire.
Bai Zhi stood by the doorway, still holding the flexible sword she had only half finished wiping last night. She did not ask where the paper had come from, nor did she ask who had sent it in. She only watched Chen Wuya's back—the bandages around his shoulders had been changed, but his movements remained stiff and sluggish, as though every lift of his arm tugged at old wounds.
Footsteps sounded beyond the courtyard.
They were neither the light tread of a sneaking intruder nor the hurried hoofbeats of a courier, but the proper footsteps of someone paying a formal call—one step, one pause, restrained with ceremonial courtesy.
Bai Zhi's gaze tightened slightly.
Yet Chen Wuya had already turned around. He went to the corner, took down the coarse cloth outer robe hanging from a wooden peg, and draped it over himself at an unhurried pace. He did not look outside or ask who had come. He only said softly to Bai Zhi, "Go open the door."
The hinges turned, and sunlight spilled into the courtyard.
Two men stood beyond the threshold. One was middle-aged, his Daoist robe cinched at the waist, an iron-ribbed fan in hand, his brows sharp as if carved by a blade. The