Archive of Our Own

The fire reaches him first.

It crawls up the blackened slopes of the Burial Mounds in bright, snapping tongues, fed by talismans and spiritual energy and the Jianghu’s righteous fury. Smoke coils thick and bitter in the air, stinging the eyes, clogging the throat. Below him, cultivators shout and scream, their voices overlapping into a single, ugly roar- his name torn apart and reassembled into a curse.

“WEI WUXIAN!”

“KILL HIM!”

“THE YILING PATRIARCH WILL PAY!”

Wei Wuxian stands at the very tip of the ridge, where the land drops away into nothing. The wind howls past him, tugging at his robes, cold against skin already numb from exhaustion. His back is to the abyss. In front of him: torches, swords, banners bearing sect insignia he once knew by heart. Cloud Recesses white, Yunmeng Jiang purple- burned now, trampled, indistinguishable in the churn of bodies and hate.

He looks down at them.

For a moment, it is strangely quiet in his head.

He recognises faces. Too many of them. Men who stood shoulder to shoulder with him once, who drank with him, who nodded in approval when he fought for them. Men who looked away when the Wen remnants were dragged from their homes. Men who raised their swords anyway.

The Wens had screamed, too.

That memory presses in, sharp and sudden: Wen Qing’s back straight as a blade even as she knocked him out with her needles; Wen Ning’s vacant eyes as he walked away from Wei Wuxian’s body; A-Yuan crying, clutching at his sleeves, asking him why the bad men were shouting. He had promised them. He had sworn- laughing, confident, foolish- that he would keep them safe.

Family, he had called them.

Below him now stand the people who slaughtered them.

Something inside his chest twists, tight and sickening. Wei Wuxian breathes in smoke, ash and the resentment of the Burial Mounds and the spirits inside it until his lungs burn. He feels hollowed out, scraped raw. The resentful energy inside of him has long since fallen silent; what keeps him standing now is sheer stubbornness, muscle memory, and the cold weight of the Stygian Tiger Amulet pressed against his chest.

They keep coming.

A line of cultivators advances, forming ranks despite the uneven terrain. Someone shouts an order. Talismans flare to life. Spiritual energy crackles, bright and aggressive, cutting through the darker, thicker resentful energy that seeps endlessly from the Burial Mounds.

Wei Wuxian watches it all with distant clarity.

This is it, then.

He glances back, just once, over his shoulder.

The cliff yawns wide and black, a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. The Burial Mounds do not end here- they plunge downward, layered with bones and old grievances from centuries back and things that never found peace. He knows, instinctively, what would happen if he stepped back and let himself fall.

The corpses would rise.

They would tear him apart, bone from bone, flesh from flesh, until there was nothing left but resentment feeding on resentment. A fitting end for the Yiling Patriarch. The world would be spared. The siege would end. Thousands would live.

It would be easy.

The thought comes quietly, without drama. Reasonable. Practical. Almost merciful.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes.

He imagines it- the moment of weightlessness, the rush of air, the brief, foolish hope that it might not hurt as much as he expects. He imagines letting go, finally, of the endless noise, the accusations, the guilt that has gnawed at him since Lotus Pier burned.

He imagines disappearing.

For a heartbeat, he almost does it.

Then another thought cuts through, sudden and blinding in its clarity.

I don’t want to die.

It startles him. He opens his eyes again, breath hitching. The realisation sits heavy and undeniable in his chest. Not fear- not exactly. Something sharper. More defiant.

He thinks of Wen Ning’s awkward smile. Of Wen Qing scolding him for not taking his medicine. Of A-Yuan’s small hand tucked trustingly into his sleeve.

If he dies here, then this is all they are remembered for: victims. Collateral. Acceptable losses.

Wei Wuxian’s lips curl.

No.

If the world insists on calling him a monster, then he will be a monster who remembers. A monster who does not bow his head and quietly disappear to make things easier for everyone else.

He straightens, spine aligning with sudden, dangerous purpose. The noise below swells as someone spots the movement.

“Don’t let him escape!”

Spiritual energy surges forward in a wave.

Wei Wuxian laughs.

The sound rips itself from his chest, raw and sharp, edged with hysteria. It echoes off the cliffs, carrying unnaturally far. Several cultivators falter, their advance stuttering as they look up at him in alarm.

“Escape?” he repeats, voice carrying easily over the chaos, “Oh, you little fools, I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers curl around the Stygian Tiger Amulet.

The resentful energy has always been there, a constant, pressing presence- like the deep hum of the earth itself. He has drawn on it before, carefully, cautiously, like a man dipping his hands into boiling water and pulling them back before the pain becomes unbearable.

This time, he does not pull back.

Wei Wuxian opens himself to it.

The response is immediate.

Resentful energy surges upward from the Burial Mounds, no longer sluggish or diffuse but eager, ravenous. It coils around him in thick, dark streams, shrieking as it moves. The air turns icy. Flames gutter and waver, their light dimming as if swallowed by his shadows.

Cultivators cry out in alarm.

“What is he doing-?!”

Wei Wuxian throws his head back and laughs again, louder this time. The sound fractures, tipping into something wild and unrestrained. He brings the amulet to his chest, pressing it hard enough to bruise.

“Come,” he says softly, almost kindly.

The Stygian Tiger Amulet answers.

It burns- no, freezes- against his skin, a pain so intense it strips the breath from his lungs. The resentful energy pours through it, filtered and reshaped, flooding into him in a torrent. It fills every hollow place, every crack and weakness, roaring through his meridians with brutal force.

Wei Wuxian screams.

The world dissolves into sensation. Cold so sharp it feels like heat. Voices overlapping, thousands of them, whispering, sobbing, raging. Images flicker at the edges of his vision- bones, blood, fire, hands clawing at the earth.

He does not push them away.

He takes it all.

The ground shakes. A shockwave ripples outward, knocking cultivators off their feet. Spiritual barriers shatter like glass. Torches extinguish en masse, plunging the lower slopes into eerie half-darkness.

Wei Wuxian is dimly aware of his own laughter, of the sound tearing his throat raw as the energy continues to pour into him. It feels endless. It feels right.

Then, abruptly, there is nothing.

No sound. No pain. No sensation at all.

White engulfs him.

When awareness returns, it does so slowly, like wading up through deep water.

Wei Wuxian is lying on the ground.

The first thing he notices is the silence. The Burial Mounds- never truly quiet, not even in death- are utterly still. The resentful energy that once pressed against his skin like a living thing is gone, leaving behind a strange, aching emptiness.

He lifts his hands into his line of sight.

They look… normal. Whole. Unburned. No shaking, no blood. His fingers flex easily, obediently.

Then he sees the colour.

Black stains his nails, glossy and unnatural. Dark veins trace intricate patterns beneath his skin, winding up his wrists and disappearing beneath his sleeves. They pulse faintly, in time with his heartbeat.

Wei Wuxian exhales a shaky laugh.

He pushes himself upright.

The movement draws gasps.

He looks around.

Every cultivator within sight is on their knees.

Not fallen. Not injured. Kneeling.

Their backs are rigid, their expressions frozen in shock and terror. Some tremble visibly, muscles straining as if resisting an invisible weight. Others stare blankly ahead, eyes glassy, mouths slack.

Wei Wuxian feels it then- the connection. A vast, intricate web of intent and command, stretching outward from him. He knows, with absolute certainty, that if he wills it, they cannot disobey.

The realisation sends a thrill through him.

Slowly, he rises to his feet.

His legs feel steady. Strong. He walks forward a few steps, boots crunching softly against the ashen ground. The kneeling cultivators shudder as he passes, heads bowed low, foreheads nearly touching the earth.

Wei Wuxian stops.

“Kowtow,” he says.

His voice is calm. Almost bored.

Every cultivator slams their head to the ground.

The sound is thunderous.

Wei Wuxian blinks- then laughs. He laughs until his sides ache, until tears blur his vision. He bends forward slightly, hands braced on his knees, shoulders shaking as the sound tears free again and again.

They listen.

Finally. After everything.

When he straightens, he wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing soot across his cheek.

“Get up,” he says.

They obey.

The movement is stiff, reluctant. Terror hangs thick in the air, palpable. No one meets his gaze. Swords hang uselessly at their sides, hands shaking too badly to lift them.

A figure pushes forward through the crowd.

Nie Mingjue’s face is thunderous, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles stand out starkly. He glares at Wei Wuxian with undisguised fury and something like dread.

“What did you do?!” he demands.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head.

For a moment, he looks almost boyish, lips curved in a small, delighted smile.

“I took in the energy of the Burial Mounds,” he says, giggling softly, “It worked, you know.”

Silence crashes down like a blade.

Horror ripples through the gathered cultivators, faces draining of colour as understanding dawns. Someone stumbles back, tripping over their own feet.

Wei Wuxian spreads his hands, black nails glinting faintly in the firelight of their torches.

“Now,” he says pleasantly, “shall we talk about forgiveness?”

The Jin throne is colder to the touch than it looks.

Wei Wuxian feels it through the layers of silk and brocade as he sits back against carved gold and lacquer, one leg crossed loosely over the other. The armrests are shaped like coiling beasts- dragons, he thinks distantly, or perhaps something meant to resemble them. They gleam in the lantern light, polished to the point of excess. Everything in Koi Tower is like this: bright, heavy, ostentatious, as if the Jin sect fears that if they stop shining for even a moment, someone might notice what rots beneath the surface.

Below him, Jin Guangshan and Jin Guangyao kneel.

No- kowtow.

Their foreheads press to the floor, bodies folded low in perfect submission. Jin Guangshan is sweating through his robes; the silk at his back is darkened and clinging. Jin Guangyao’s shoulders shake in small, rapid tremors he cannot fully control. Neither of them dares to lift their head.

Around them, Jin disciples stand in rigid lines, eyes fixed straight ahead. Not one of them breathes too loudly. The vast audience hall, once filled with music and laughter and the clatter of cups, feels like a tomb.

Wei Wuxian smiles.

It is not the wide, careless grin he used to wear like a shield. This one is measured. Thoughtful. He tilts his head slightly, studying the curve of Jin Guangyao’s spine, the way Jin Guangshan’s fingers twitch against the polished floor.

Three days.

Only three days since the Burial Mounds fell silent.

Only three days since the world bent its knee.

He leans back, gaze drifting to the high windows, to the banners bearing the peacock crest fluttering faintly in the draft. It feels unreal, still, like a dream that should dissolve the moment he wakes. And yet- every time he reaches inward, he feels it. The vast, cold presence coiled inside him, obedient and waiting.

After the siege, he had let them go.

That, perhaps, had shocked them most of all.

He remembers standing amid kneeling cultivators, soot and ash clinging to his robes, and telling them to return to their homes. Calmly. Almost pleasantly. He remembers the disbelief in their eyes, the hesitation before their bodies finally obeyed the command he had woven into them.

Go back, he had said, And wait.

They had scattered like frightened birds.

Then he had followed.

One by one.

Small sects first. The ones who had shouted the loudest while hiding behind others’ blades. The ones who had sent men to Nightless City and claimed ignorance when blood stained the streets. He had arrived at their gates alone, flute at his side, resentful energy trailing him like a shadow.

They had welcomed him with forced smiles and trembling hands.

And he had sat.

He had told them to kneel.

He had told them to speak.

“State your sins,” he had said, every time.

Some had cried. Some had tried to bargain. Some had attempted lies, their words faltering as the command tightened around their throats and forced the truth free anyway. He had listened to every confession- every bribe taken, every scapegoat offered, every rumour started with careful malice and plausible deniability.

He had made them obey him in small ways, precise ways. Lift your head. Lower it. Speak louder. Look at me when you confess. Not because he needed to- but because they needed to learn what it felt like, to have no room to manoeuvre. To fear every word they spoke.

By the time he left each sect, they were shaking.

Good.

The Nie sect had been different.

Nie Mingjue had met him at the gates, saber at his side, spine straight as ever. He had knelt without being told, jaw clenched, eyes burning with defiance even as his body bowed.

“State your sins,” Wei Wuxian had said.

And Nie Mingjue had done so.

Only two.

That he had lied to Nie Huaisang about Baxia’s influence. That he had allowed his temper to rule him, again and again, even when it hurt those he was meant to protect.

Wei Wuxian had listened. He had searched the man’s face, the rigid honesty carved into every line of it.

Then he had nodded.

“You owe him the truth,” Wei Wuxian had said, “Tell him yourself. If I return and you have not- then I will.”

Nie Mingjue had paled at that. Not at the threat of force- but at the idea of losing even that final choice.

Wei Wuxian had left the Nie sect standing.

He has not yet gone to the Gusu Lan.

He has not yet gone to Yunmeng Jiang.

Those thoughts sit heavy and deliberate at the back of his mind, waiting their turn.

A sharp intake of breath below him pulls him back to the present.

Wei Wuxian’s smile widens as he looks down again at the sea of yellow robes. Jin Guangshan’s shoulders have begun to shake outright now. Jin Guangyao’s breathing is too fast, too shallow, a sure sign he is close to panic.

Wei Wuxian leans forward, resting one elbow on the armrest.

“State your sins,” he says.

The words hiss through the hall, soft and deadly.

For a heartbeat, no one moves.

Then one of the Jin disciples stumbles forward.

He is young- too young, Wei Wuxian thinks distantly. Barely past his first sword. His hands tremble so badly that the scroll he holds rattles audibly as he kneels and raises it above his head.

Wei Wuxian watches him shake for a long moment before taking it.

The scroll is heavy.

He unfurls it slowly, eyes scanning line after line of neat, careful characters. The longer he reads, the quieter the hall becomes. Jin Guangshan’s muffled sobs turn into something closer to a whine. Jin Guangyao lets out a thin, broken sound that might be his name.

Wei Wuxian laughs.

It bursts out of him, bright and incredulous, echoing off the gilded walls. He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth as if to stifle it, shoulders shaking.

“Oh,” he says lightly, “Oh, this is excellent.”

He looks down at Jin Guangshan.

“So many problems,” he continues conversationally, “So many disasters. Nightless City. The rumours. The ‘evidence.’” 

His eyes flick back to the scroll. 

“You worked very hard, didn’t you, Jin Guangshan?”

Jin Guangshan sobs openly now, words tumbling out in a frantic rush. Jin Guangyao twists, trying to turn, trying to look up-

Wei Wuxian’s smile vanishes.

His snarl snaps through the air like a whip.

Two Jin disciples cry out as their bodies jerk forward, dragged by invisible strings. They stumble, screaming, toward the centre of the hall.

“Have them executed,” Wei Wuxian says coldly, “I wish for their heads to be placed on spikes and displayed in Lanling. Outside.”

The words land like a killing stroke.

Jin Guangshan screams.

Jin Guangyao screams too, voice breaking, sharp and desperate, his careful composure finally shattering. They thrash, bodies convulsing as the command takes hold. Jin disciples sob as they are forced to move, hands closing around their sect leaders’ arms, dragging them bodily across the floor.

“NO, NO, PLEASE- PLEASE-!” Jin Guangshan howls.

“Wei Wuxian!” Jin Guangyao cries, terror stripping away every layer of polish.

Wei Wuxian watches them go without blinking.

When the hall doors slam shut behind them, the silence left behind is suffocating.

He rolls the scroll back up and hands it to another Jin disciple, whose face has gone ashen.

“Free Wen Ning from the dungeons,” Wei Wuxian says, “Copy this scroll. Send it to every cultivation sect.”

The disciple bows so deeply his forehead strikes the floor, then scrambles away as fast as his legs will carry him.

Wei Wuxian leans back again.

He studies his hands.

The black veins are still there, faint but unmistakable, branching beneath his skin like ink spilled into water. His nails gleam darkly in the lantern light. He turns his hands over once, slowly, as if seeing them for the first time.

Then he looks up.

The remaining Jin disciples are rigid with terror, waiting for his next word like a death sentence.

“I am a benevolent person,” Wei Wuxian says mildly.

Several of them flinch.

“I don’t enjoy this,” he continues, “I don’t want to tell you what to do every moment of every day.” 

His gaze sharpens, smile thinning. 

“But you all have truly pushed me too far with the games you tried to play on me.”

He stands.

The motion alone sends a ripple of fear through the hall. He descends the steps of the throne slowly, boots echoing against the floor.

“Live your lives,” he says, “Manage your sect. Pray that I never need to visit for such a reason again.”

He stops in front of the nearest disciple.

“But if you do,” he adds softly, leaning in just enough for the man to smell the rather contrasting scent of petrichor and peach blossoms, “then you will find that the price is very, very high.”

He straightens.

“Dismissed.”

They scatter.

Only one remains, frozen in place before him, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head.

“Bring my nephew to me,” he says.

The command sinks in.

The disciple bows, turns, and runs.

Wei Wuxian watches him go, fingers flexing once at his side, as the weight of what comes next settles into place.

The air at the gates of Gusu Lan is cool and clean, scented faintly with pine and incense. It slides over Wei Wuxian’s skin like a rebuke.

He stands at the entrance stones, boots planted on immaculate white rock, a dark stain against the Lans’ carefully cultivated purity. The sect wards hum softly beneath his feet- ancient, disciplined, restrained. He feels them brush against the vast, coiled presence inside him, testing, recoiling. They recognise him now. They know better than to bare their teeth.

Behind him, Jin disciples stand in orderly lines. Not guards. Not allies.

Obedient.

They wear gold and yellow, but their eyes flick toward Wei Wuxian with the same instinctive attention a blade gives the hand that wields it. He does not need to look back to know they are waiting for him to breathe, to twitch, to think.

In his arms, Jin Ling squirms.

The baby is warm and alive and solid in a way the world so rarely is anymore. Wrapped in layers of silk and talisman-threaded cloth, Jin Ling grips a fistful of Wei Wuxian’s sleeve with surprising strength, gurgling softly as he kicks one tiny foot.

Wei Wuxian adjusts his hold automatically, rocking him with the same absent-minded ease he once used on A-Yuan. The motion is instinctive. Muscle memory. Something deeper than memory, even.

He is dressed in Jin finery today.

Black and red silk, heavy with gold embroidery that glints dully in the morning light. Dragons coil along his sleeves, their eyes picked out in fine thread. The robe is too extravagant, too loud, too Jin- and that is precisely why he wears it.

Let them see.

Let them choke on the sight.

Footsteps approach.

Wei Wuxian looks up as Lan Xichen emerges from between the white stone pillars, robes pristine, expression carved into something sharp and controlled. His steps are measured, his back straight, his hands folded within his sleeves.

His eyes are wrong.

Not gentle. Not warm. There is no polite concern there, no careful diplomacy.

There is hate.

It sits naked and unhidden in Lan Xichen’s gaze, burning brown and steady as it fixes on Wei Wuxian’s face- then flicks, just for an instant, to the baby in his arms.

Good, Wei Wuxian thinks distantly, See it. Feel it.

Lan Xichen stops a precise distance away and bows.

It is perfect. Flawless. Deep.

It makes something ugly and satisfied curl in Wei Wuxian’s chest.

He shifts Jin Ling into one arm and nods to one of the Jin disciples. The man steps forward instantly, arms already raised.

Wei Wuxian passes Jin Ling over without ceremony. The baby protests with a small, offended sound, then settles as the disciple rocks him gently, murmuring nonsense.

Only then does Wei Wuxian move.

He steps forward and reaches out.

Lan Xichen stiffens- but he does not move away.

Wei Wuxian’s fingers close around his chin.

Not roughly. Not gently either. Just enough pressure to make the intent unmistakable.

He tilts Lan Xichen’s face upward, studying him closely. The hatred in those eyes does not waver. There is pain there, too, buried deep- but Lan Xichen has always been good at burying pain.

Wei Wuxian smiles faintly.

“Take me on a tour,” he says softly, “Then bring me to the rooms you have set for us.”

A pause.

Lan Xichen’s jaw tightens. For a moment- just a moment- Wei Wuxian wonders if he will resist, if the famed grace of Gusu Lan will crack here, in front of his disciples, in front of Jin eyes hungry for justification.

Then Lan Xichen inclines his head.

“Yes,” he says.

Wei Wuxian releases him and turns, gesturing with two fingers. The Jin disciple steps forward again, presenting Jin Ling back into his arms. Wei Wuxian settles the baby against his chest, one hand cradling the back of his head, and follows Lan Xichen into Gusu Lan.

They walk.

The paths are exactly as Wei Wuxian remembers- white stone, bordered by water so clear it mirrors the sky. Pavilions rise with elegant restraint, each beam and tile placed with purpose. Bells chime softly in the distance, stirred by the breeze.

Lan disciples line the walkways.

They stop and bow as Lan Xichen passes.

As Wei Wuxian passes, they stare.

Some with fear. Some with loathing. Some with poorly concealed fury that trembles just beneath their carefully schooled expressions. Wei Wuxian does not acknowledge them. He keeps his gaze forward, rocking Jin Ling gently as the baby coos and reaches for the gold thread on his sleeve.

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, adjusting the infant’s grip, “Careful, baobao. This was expensive, you know.”

Jin Ling gurgles in response, entirely unimpressed by sect politics or ancestral grudges.

Lan Xichen leads him through courtyards and halls without commentary. He does not explain the significance of buildings, nor does he point out landmarks. His silence is deliberate, tight as a drawn bowstring.

Wei Wuxian lets it be.

He feels eyes on him everywhere. He feels the wards pressing closer, testing, retreating. He feels the Lan sect holding its breath.

When they reach the guest rooms Lan Xichen has put aside for them, the doors slide open soundlessly.

Wei Wuxian steps inside without waiting to be invited.

The space is neat, spare, and painfully familiar in its restraint. Incense burns low on the table. Books are stacked in precise order. Everything smells faintly of sandalwood and something cool beneath it.

Wei Wuxian stops near the centre of the room.

Lan Xichen turns to face him, hands still folded, posture immaculate.

Wei Wuxian shifts Jin Ling slightly, rocking him as the baby lets out a pleased little noise and pats at Wei Wuxian’s chest with clumsy enthusiasm.

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, soft despite himself, “You’re very chatty today.”

Jin Ling responds with a delighted squeal.

The sound echoes strangely in the quiet room.

Wei Wuxian feels it then- a thin, sharp slice of guilt.

Jiang Cheng’s face flashes in his mind, furious and grief-stricken and resolute as he raised his sword at the head of the siege. The memory burns.

He looks down at Jin Ling.

Your father is dead. Your mother is dead. And your uncle led the people who killed my family.

The guilt does not vanish- but it curdles, thickening into something bitter.

Wei Wuxian rocks Jin Ling more firmly, cooing back at him, brushing a thumb gently over the baby’s cheek. Jin Ling beams up at him, trusting and bright.

Just like-

A-Yuan’s face rises unbidden. Dirt-smudged, smiling, eyes wide with absolute faith.

The breath catches in Wei Wuxian’s chest.

He lifts his gaze to Lan Xichen.

“You are dismissed,” he says flatly.

Lan Xichen’s eyes widen a fraction.

Then he bows again. Lower this time. Deeper.

He leaves without another word.

The doors slide shut.

The silence presses in.

Wei Wuxian stands very still, Jin Ling warm and alive against him, the weight of the child grounding him in a way nothing else has managed to do since the Burial Mounds went quiet.

A tear slips free before he realises it has formed.

It tracks down his cheek, hot and humiliating.

He does not wipe it away.

He stares at the closed doors, at the place where Lan Xichen stood, at the immaculate order of the room- and sees instead a burning settlement, blood-soaked ground, four clans standing shoulder to shoulder as civilians screamed.

They murdered him.

Not accidentally. Not as collateral.

They murdered A-Yuan in cold blood.

Wei Wuxian’s grip tightens minutely around Jin Ling.

“I won’t forgive them,” he whispers, voice steady despite the tear still cooling on his skin.

The resentful energy within him stirs, responding to the promise.

“I’ll make them pay,” he continues softly, “Slowly.”

Jin Ling yawns, blissfully unaware, and curls closer into his chest. Wei Wuxian, in the meanwhile, bows his head, pressing his forehead briefly to the baby’s hair.

For a fleeting moment, grief threatens to crack him open.

Then he straightens.

The grief settles into iron.

He will never forgive the four sects for how they have corrupted the depths of Wei Wuxian’s very soul, but taking away his family in the attempt to simply gain control over him.

And he has all the time in the world to make sure they understand exactly why.

Night settles over the Cloud Recesses with a hush so complete it feels deliberate.

Wei Wuxian walks alone along the white stone paths, his footsteps muted, the hem of his dark robes brushing softly against the ground. Lanterns glow at measured intervals, their light steady and restrained, never too bright, never flickering. Even at night, Gusu Lan feels awake- watchful, orderly, breathing in quiet discipline.

He isn’t tired.

That, in itself, is strange. The day has been long, heavy with tension and movement and the constant awareness of eyes on him. He should feel the drag of exhaustion in his limbs. Instead, there is only a restless alertness humming beneath his skin, resentful energy coiled and attentive, as if the night itself has sharpened it.

Jin Ling’s nanny had taken the baby hours ago.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t liked that.

He had stood there for a moment too long, fingers lingering on the soft silk blanket, watching Jin Ling’s eyelids droop as the woman murmured gently to him. He had felt the familiar spike of unease- the instinctive need to keep the child within reach, within sight. It had taken conscious effort to let go.

The nanny is innocent, he had reminded himself, frightened, but innocent. There’s no need to hover. No need to make her shake because I’m watching her.

Still, the absence weighs on him now.

He exhales slowly and keeps walking.

The Cloud Recesses at night are different from the Gusu he remembers. Quieter, yes- but also sharper, edges more defined. The wards hum faintly against his senses, brushing against the presence inside him and retreating, like water testing a blade.

His steps carry him farther than he intends.

At some point, the path beneath his feet changes- not in stone or design, but in feeling. The air grows cooler. The lanterns thin out. The buildings retreat, giving way to trees and shadow.

Wei Wuxian slows.

He does not recognise this path.

That realisation should bother him. It would have, once. Now, his curiosity outweighs his caution. He tilts his head, listening to the soft rustle of leaves, the distant sound of water.

And then- unbidden, persistent his thoughts turn.

Lan Zhan.

Wei Wuxian’s mouth tightens faintly.

Lan Wangji has not come to greet him. Has not appeared at the gates. Has not stood beside Lan Xichen with polite restraint and carefully masked emotion.

He hasn’t seen him at all.

It needles at him more than he expects.

Lan Wangji, who had once defied Wen Chao. Lan Wangji, who had stood, bloodied and shaking in the Xuanwu Cave, still fighting with a broken leg. Lan Wangji, who never failed to show up when it mattered.

Wei Wuxian frowns.

The resentful energy inside him shifts, dark and displeased, responding to the direction of his thoughts with something uncomfortably close to possessiveness. It coils tighter, as if bristling.

He pushes the feeling down and continues forward.

The path curves gently- and then he sees it.

A house.

Small, set apart from the main structures of the sect, partially hidden by trees. Its lines are simple, its presence understated. No lanterns hang by the door. No markers announce its purpose.

Isolated.

Wei Wuxian slows to a stop, studying it. His curiosity sharpens. The Lans value order, community, proximity. They do not place buildings at random.

He approaches.

The door is unlocked.

Of course it is.

Wei Wuxian pushes it open. The hinges creak softly, a sound that echoes too loudly in the quiet. He pauses, listening.

Something rustles inside.

Not footsteps. Fabric. A faint, uneven breath.

Wei Wuxian steps in.

The room is dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through a paper window. It is unmistakably Lan in its restraint. The walls are bare. A low table sits to one side, neatly arranged with writing tools- brushes cleaned and aligned with meticulous care. A qin rests on its stand nearby, dark wood polished to a soft sheen.

The scent of sandalwood lingers in the air, clean and familiar.

The bed is simple, neatly made- except for the figure lying atop it.

Wei Wuxian’s gaze sharpens instantly.

The rustling comes again, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

He moves closer, steps soundless.

The person on the bed lies face-down, hair loose and spilling like ink across pale sheets. Long. Elegant. Dark enough to blend with shadow, yet catching silver where the moonlight touches it.

The back exposed beneath the parted sleeping robes is- 

Wei Wuxian stops.

Whip marks crisscross the skin.

Not shallow. Not old.

Fresh, livid lines, red and dark against pale flesh, some already bruising, others still angry and raw, some bleeding and dripping blood onto the floor. The pattern is unmistakable.

The discipline whip.

There are 33 marks, if he is counting correctly.

Wei Wuxian’s expression shifts, something cold and sharp settling behind his eyes.

Why would the Lans-

The person stirs again, a quiet, broken sound slipping free before they can stop it.

Wei Wuxian steps closer without thinking.

“Shh,” he murmurs instinctively, voice low and gentle despite the fury simmering beneath it, “Easy, there.”

He kneels beside the bed and reaches out, fingers brushing through the long hair. It is cool to the touch, slightly damp with sweat. The man flinches faintly at first contact, then stills.

Wei Wuxian’s brows draw together.

“It’s all right,” he says softly, the words slipping out without any calculation needed. 

He smooths the hair back, revealing the elegant line of a neck bent in tension, shoulders drawn tight.

He places a hand carefully against the injured back.

The skin is hot beneath his palm, fever-warm.

Wei Wuxian hums.

The sound is quiet, absent-minded, the way he used to hum when calming frightened children or coaxing A-Yuan to sleep. He closes his eyes and lets the resentful energy uncoil just enough to seep through his hand- not violently, not forcefully, but guided, precise.

The energy responds eagerly.

It flows into the wounds like water into cracked earth, stitching torn flesh, soothing inflammation, knitting skin together seamlessly. The whip marks fade beneath his touch, bruises lightening, pain dissolving.

The man on the bed lets out a soft, involuntary whimper.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t stop humming.

The tune drifts into something more familiar- a melody slow and steady, one he hasn’t thought about in years and yet remembers perfectly.

The song Lan Zhan once hummed to him.

The one he never admitted he remembered.

Wei Wuxian’s fingers move with care, tracing the last remnants of pain away. He hums through the final note and lifts his hand.

“All finished,” he says lightly, smiling down at the injured figure as if expecting a small boy to turn over and beam at him, “Good as new.”

The man exhales shakily.

There is a pause.

Then, barely audible-

“Wei Ying…”

The world stops.

Wei Wuxian freezes.

The name strikes him like a physical blow, cold and precise. His smile slips away. His hand hovers uselessly in the air.

Slowly- too slowly- the man on the bed turns his head.

Moonlight spills across a familiar face.

Lan Wangji looks back at him.

For a heartbeat, the world holds still.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen, breath catching painfully in his chest. For a moment, he is back in the Xuanwu cave, back in Nightless City, back in a thousand moments where Lan Wangji had been bloodied and furious and unwavering all at once. The sight of him- alive, unmistakably himself- hits Wei Wuxian harder than any blade ever could.

Lan Wangji’s eyes widen too.

He jerks upright in one sharp motion, immediately hissing as pain flares across his back. His hand flies out to brace against the bed, fingers curling tight in the sheets, breath going shallow. But he doesn’t look away. His gaze locks onto Wei Wuxian’s face, searching, disbelieving.

“Wei Ying,” he whispers.

The name is barely sound at all, fragile as breath against glass.

“What are you doing here?”

Wei Wuxian stares at him.

For a second, his mind blanks completely. All the sharp edges, all the calculations, all the cold certainty he has wrapped around himself over the past days evaporate under the weight of Lan Wangji sitting in front of him, bare-backed and wounded and real.

“I-” Wei Wuxian starts, then stops. 

His voice comes out hoarse when he tries again. 

“I- Lan Zhan, what the hell happened to you?”

Lan Wangji’s brows knit together faintly, confusion flickering beneath the pain. He shifts carefully, straightening despite the stiffness in his movements.

“Punishment,” he says simply.

The word lands with quiet finality.

Then, as if the thought occurs to him only after speaking, he adds, “What is Wei Ying doing here?”

Wei Wuxian lets out a short, incredulous breath.

“You don’t know?” he asks.

Lan Wangji shakes his head once, slow and deliberate. 

“No.”

Something inside Wei Wuxian cracks.

The sound that tears out of him is laughter- but it is sharp and jagged, bordering on hysteria. It echoes off the plain walls of the room, too loud, too sudden. He laughs until his chest aches, until his vision blurs, until he has to brace a hand against the edge of the bed to keep himself upright.

“Oh,” he manages, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, “Oh, my Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji watches him closely, eyes dark with concern, his fingers tightening in the sheets.

“I’ve taken the cultivation world for myself,” Wei Wuxian continues, the words spilling out in a rush now that they’ve begun, “Ever since the so-called great four sects thought they could set up a siege on me. Thought they could burn the Burial Mounds to the ground and call it justice.”

His smile twists, brittle and sharp.

“They killed all the Wens,” he says softly, “Every last one of them.”

Lan Wangji’s frown deepens, something tight and painful flickering across his face.

“And A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian adds.

The name tastes like blood in his mouth.

Lan Wangji inhales sharply. 

“Wei Ying,” he whispers, “I thought you were dead. I thought you were killed at the siege.”

Wei Wuxian blinks.

“What?” 

The word slips out before he can stop it. 

“Did your brother not tell you what happened at the Burial Mounds?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head again, more quickly this time. 

“No. I was not there.”

Wei Wuxian exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. For the first time since stepping into this room, something like weariness seeps into his bones.

“Lan Zhan…” he says quietly, “All the Wens are dead. Even A-Yuan. And I-” 

His voice falters for half a second before he forces it steady again. 

“I lost it. Completely.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes sharpen.

“No,” he says.

The certainty in his voice makes Wei Wuxian look up.

Lan Wangji shakes his head, breath coming a little faster now. 

“A-Yuan… A-Yuan is alive.”

The words don’t make sense.

Wei Wuxian stares at him, brow furrowing. 

“What?”

“I saved him,” Lan Wangji says, the admission low and urgent, as if afraid the walls themselves might hear, “I took him from the Burial Mounds.”

Wei Wuxian’s thoughts stutter.

“But-” he starts, “But you said you didn’t know what happened at the siege.”

“I didn’t,” Lan Wangji agrees, “After Xiongzhang returned, he would not tell me what occurred. No matter how many times I asked.”

His hand moves unconsciously to his forehead, fingers brushing against bare skin where a ribbon should be.

“All he gave me,” Lan Wangji continues, voice tightening, “was a ribbon. A red ribbon.”

Wei Wuxian goes very still.

“I was afraid,” Lan Wangji says quietly, “So I went to look for you. In the Burial Mounds. I could not find you.”

He swallows.

“But I found A-Yuan. Hidden in a tree trunk.”

The words hit Wei Wuxian all at once.

Not gradually. Not gently.

They crash into him like a wave, knocking the breath from his lungs. His knees weaken, and for a terrifying second he thinks he might collapse right there, onto the floor of Lan Wangji’s room.

“A-Yuan…” he whispers.

Alive.

The image of that small boy- grubby hands, crooked smile, unwavering trust- slams into his chest so hard it hurts to breathe.

“A-Yuan is alive?” Wei Wuxian asks, voice barely holding together.

Lan Wangji nods.

The room tilts.

Wei Wuxian stands abruptly, pacing two steps before stopping, turning back on Lan Wangji with wild, searching eyes.

“Where?” he demands, “Where is he, Lan Zhan?!”

Lan Wangji hesitates. His gaze flicks toward the door.

“In the infirmary,” he whispers, “Xiongzhang will not allow me to see him currently. He has a fever.”

Something dark and furious coils tight inside Wei Wuxian.

His smile is gone now, replaced by something sharp and dangerous. The resentful energy within him responds instantly, surging hot and restless beneath his skin.

“Gusu Lan,” Wei Wuxian hisses, voice dropping to a low, lethal register, “will pay for their impudence.”

He turns back to Lan Wangji, eyes burning.

“For what they have done to my zhiji,” he says, “and my son.”

Lan Wangji’s breath stutters at the word.

Wei Wuxian steps forward and reaches out, hands steady as he helps Lan Wangji to his feet. Lan Wangji leans into the support without protest, jaw clenched as he adjusts to standing, pain still lingering despite the healing.

Wei Wuxian’s grip is firm. Protective.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, already turning toward the door, “Take me to him.”

Lan Wangji nods immediately.

“We must hurry,” Wei Wuxian adds.

The corridor to the infirmary feels longer than it ever has.

Wei Wuxian barely registers the white stone beneath his boots or the disciplined lanterns lining the path. His world has narrowed to the warmth of Lan Wangji’s hand locked around his, the faint tremor in Lan Wangji’s fingers betraying what his face refuses to show. Their white and black robes flutter around them as they run- undignified, improper, utterly un-Lan- and Wei Wuxian thinks, distantly, that if Lan Qiren could see this, he would choke on his own fury.

Good.

Let him.

The doors to the infirmary slide open with a sharp crack as Wei Wuxian pushes them apart using far more force than necessary. The scent of medicinal herbs rushes out to meet them- bitter, clean, familiar in a way that makes his chest ache. For a terrifying half-second, the room looks empty.

No beds.

No child.

Wei Wuxian’s heart lurches violently, resentful energy stirring like a wounded beast under his skin.

Then he sees it.

A folding screen stands near the far wall, white silk stretched over wooden frames, painted with pale bamboo that looks too peaceful, too serene. It hides the bed completely, as if whatever lies behind it is something shameful. Something to be kept out of sight.

Wei Wuxian lets go of Lan Wangji’s hand.

He crosses the room in three strides and shoves the screen aside.

The bed is there.

And on it-

“A-Yuan.”

The name leaves Wei Wuxian’s mouth as a broken sound, torn loose from somewhere deep in his chest.

The child is small against the wide infirmary bed, swallowed by white sheets. His face is flushed an alarming red, sweat dampening his hair, lashes clumped together as his breath comes shallow and uneven. His mouth parts slightly with each inhale, a faint, distressed sound escaping him.

Too hot.

Far too hot.

Wei Wuxian is at the bedside in an instant, dropping down so hard the wood creaks beneath his knees. He gathers the child up without hesitation, cradling him against his chest, one hand instinctively pressing against A-Yuan’s back as if to shield him from the entire world.

He’s burning.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, forehead resting against the child’s temple.

“I’m here,” he whispers hoarsely, “I’m here, I’m here-”

A-Yuan stirs.

His eyelids flutter, eyes glassy and unfocused as they crack open. For a moment, confusion clouds his gaze. Then recognition dawns, slow but unmistakable.

“Xian-gege…” he murmurs weakly.

The sound hits Wei Wuxian like a blade straight through the heart.

“A-Niang…”

Wei Wuxian breaks.

A soft, helpless sob tears its way out of him as he tightens his hold, his fingers curling into the back of A-Yuan’s robes like he’s afraid the boy might vanish again if he loosens his grip even for a second.

“I’m here,” he repeats, voice shaking, “Oh gods, I’m here.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

Resentful energy unfurls from him, dark and familiar, but carefully restrained- no sharp edges, no violence. It flows like ink in water, warm and deliberate, threading itself gently into A-Yuan’s small body. Wei Wuxian knows this energy better than his own pulse. He guides it with absolute focus, drawing the fever out as if siphoning poison from a wound.

A-Yuan’s breathing evens.

The heat beneath Wei Wuxian’s palm begins to fade.

Slowly, steadily, the flush drains from the child’s cheeks.

A-Yuan blinks.

Then blinks again.

His eyes clear, dark pupils sharpening with awareness as he looks up at the face hovering above him.

“Xian-gege!” he exclaims, suddenly bright, suddenly alive, “Xian-gege- A-Niang! You’re here!”

Wei Wuxian laughs and sobs at the same time, clutching his son so tightly he nearly forgets where he is, nearly forgets there are rules and sects and consequences waiting outside this room.

“My sweet Yuan-er,” he whispers brokenly, “My little radish… oh gods, I thought you were dead.”

A-Yuan giggles, weak but genuine, his small hands fisting in Wei Wuxian’s robes. 

“A-Niang, A-Niang, you didn’t leave me!”

Wei Wuxian presses his face into the child’s hair, breathing him in- herbs and sweat and simple life. Resentful energy still coils around them, protective now, curling like a living thing around both of them, dark but gentle, humming with devotion.

“I would never,” he murmurs fiercely, “Never, radish.”

A-Yuan’s gaze drifts past Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.

His face lights up even more.

“Diedie!”

Wei Wuxian freezes.

He turns slowly.

Lan Wangji stands a short distance away, rigid as if carved from stone, eyes fixed on the child in Wei Wuxian’s arms. His breath catches audibly at the word, his lips parting just slightly.

Wei Wuxian lets out a watery laugh, shaking his head. 

“A-Yuan, A-Yuan, you shouldn’t call your Rich-gege that-”

“No.”

Lan Wangji’s voice cuts in, quiet but unyielding.

Wei Wuxian looks up at him, stunned.

Lan Wangji steps closer, his expression soft in a way Wei Wuxian has rarely seen- unguarded, aching, real. 

“It is fine,” he says simply.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whispers.

The infirmary is quiet around them, lanternlight low and steady, shadows pooling in the corners like they are listening. A-Yuan lays warm and heavy against Wei Wuxian’s chest, small breaths puffing softly through his nose. The world feels- fragile. Balanced on a knife’s edge.

Wei Wuxian does not look at Lan Wangji at first.

“I have become a tyrant, Lan Zhan,” he says.

The word tastes bitter. He lets it sit between them, ugly and unadorned.

“I have taken the cultivation world by the throat,” he continues, voice roughening despite himself, “They kneel because they are afraid of me. Because they know I can destroy them.”

His fingers tighten unconsciously in A-Yuan’s robes, as if grounding himself.

“Are you truly sure,” he asks quietly, finally lifting his eyes, “that you wish to be associated with me?”

For the first time since he woke, there is hesitation in Wei Wuxian.

Not fear of rejection- fear of acceptance. Fear that Lan Wangji does not understand what standing beside him truly means.

Lan Wangji does not hesitate.

Not even for a breath.

“Wei Ying,” he says.

His voice is steady, low, unwavering in the way it always is when he speaks truth. He looks at Wei Wuxian fully now, eyes clear, luminous, devastatingly sincere.

“You are my zhiji,” Lan Wangji says, “I will always- always- be in love with you. No matter who you are.”

The world stops, words hitting him like a physical blow.

Wei Wuxian stares at him, his mind scrambling uselessly, thoughts skidding apart as if language itself has betrayed him. Love. The word echoes, unreal, impossible.

“You…” 

His voice breaks. 

“You love me?”

Lan Wangji nods once.

No ceremony. No embellishment. Just truth.

Then, softer- softer than Wei Wuxian has ever heard him speak- barely above a whisper, as if the words are sacred:

“I love you.”

Something inside Wei Wuxian gives.

He laughs, breathless and disbelieving, the sound torn from him without permission. It cracks through his chest like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, sudden and blinding and too bright to look at directly.

“So it really wasn’t just me,” he whispers, almost to himself.

He takes a step forward.

Then stops.

Because there are things Lan Wangji does not know.

Wei Wuxian swallows.

“You should reconsider,” he says hoarsely, “Lan Zhan, I- there are things-”

Lan Wangji waits.

Wei Wuxian forces the words out.

“I don’t have a golden core,” he says flatly, “It’s gone. Completely gone. I am standing here on borrowed power, the resentment I took from the Burial Mounds and sheer stubbornness.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze does not waver.

“I have… thoughts,” Wei Wuxian continues, voice dropping, “Ugly ones. Violent ones. Sometimes I imagine tearing people apart just to make the voices stop in my head.”

Still nothing. No recoil. No judgment.

“I took in all of the Burial Mounds’ power,” Wei Wuxian says, teeth gritted now, “Every last bit of it. I didn’t just use it- I absorbed it. It lives in me. It answers when I call.”

His breath shudders.

“Your brother thinks I am despicable,” he adds quietly, “Your uncle hates me. They think I corrupted you. That I ruined you.”

Lan Wangji exhales slowly.

“I know,” he says.

Wei Wuxian falters. 

“You- what?”

“I know all of this now,” Lan Wangji repeats, “And I still love you.”

Wei Wuxian’s laugh comes out strangled this time.

“Lan Zhan,” he says helplessly, “I am not a good man.”

Lan Wangji finally moves.

He steps closer, careful of his healing back, and reaches out- not to stop Wei Wuxian, not to argue, but simply to touch his sleeve.

“You are my man,” he says.

That is all.

Wei Wuxian breaks.

He stands, still holding A-Yuan securely against his chest, and steps fully into Lan Wangji’s space without asking permission. There is no doubt now, no hesitation left to cling to. He leans forward and kisses him.

It is brief.

Reverent.

Desperate.

A promise sealed in the quiet of the infirmary, lips brushing like something holy and fragile and fierce all at once.

Wei Wuxian pulls back just enough to breathe.

“Be my husband,” he whispers, “I beg of you, zhiji.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes widen.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then he nods, breath trembling, emotion finally breaking through his composure.

“Yes, Wei Ying,” he says, “Yes.”

Wei Wuxian exhales, long and shaking.

Then his smile fades.

Not into doubt- but into something colder. Sharper. Purpose settling into place like a blade sliding back into its sheath.

“Good,” he says softly.

Lan Wangji hums in agreement, already understanding.

“Because Gusu Lan still needs to answer for what they have done.”

Wei Wuxian turns and storms out.

The greeting hall is lit like a stage awaiting judgment, lanterns blazing against polished stone, shadows thrown long and dramatic across the walls.

Wei Wuxian seats Lan Wangji carefully at the centre, adjusting the cushions, making certain his back is supported. He places A-Yuan gently into his arms, the child blinking sleepily before settling again, instinctively curling close.

Then Wei Wuxian straightens.

He snaps his fingers.

Three Jin disciples rush in at once, pale with terror, dropping to their knees so fast their robes tangle.

“You,” Wei Wuxian says coldly, pointing, “Get me my nephew.”

The disciple nods frantically and bolts.

“You,” he continues, pointing to the second, “Wake the Gusu Lan disciples.”

Another nod. Gone.

“And you,” Wei Wuxian says, eyes narrowing as he points to the third, “get four others to detain Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren. Now.”

They scatter instantly.

Wei Wuxian turns back-

And freezes.

Lan Wangji’s ears are bright red.

Bright. Red.

Completely betraying him.

Wei Wuxian blinks.

A-Yuan suddenly claps excitedly, grinning wide. 

“A-Niang, A-Niang! You were so scary!”

For a split second, Wei Wuxian just stares.

Then he bursts out laughing, the sound wild and triumphant and alive, echoing through the vast hall like a victory cry.

Wei Wuxian watches them come in.

Dragged is the correct word. Not escorted. Not invited. Dragged- boots scraping against polished floors, restraints biting into wrists that have never known iron. The Jin disciples do not meet anyone’s eyes as they haul Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen forward, hands tight on their arms, movements stiff with terror and obedience.

The greeting hall is silent.

Too silent.

Wei Wuxian sits at ease beside the throne- not on it, never on it. That seat belongs to Lan Wangji. It is Lan Wangji who sits straight-backed and immovable, white robes pristine despite everything, one arm wrapped securely around the small bundle pressed to his chest.

A-Yuan sleeps, warm and whole and alive.

Wei Wuxian keeps his gaze fixed on the figures being forced to their knees.

Lan Qiren is the first to speak, as expected.

“This-” 

His voice cuts sharp and indignant through the hall. 

“This is outrageous! What is the meaning of this humiliation?! Untie us at once! WEI WUXIAN!”

He struggles against the Jin disciples holding him down, back rigid with fury, beard bristling as if insult alone might free him.

Lan Xichen says nothing.

His head is bowed, shoulders slumped in a way Wei Wuxian has never seen before. He looks… hollow. As though something essential has already been carved out of him and he is only now noticing the empty space it left behind.

Then he looks up.

His eyes find the throne.

They find Lan Wangji.

“WANGJI!”

The shout tears out of him, raw and panicked, echoing off the carved walls. 

“What are you doing? What is the meaning of this- why are you sitting there-”

Lan Wangji does not answer.

He does not even look at him.

He only tightens his hold on A-Yuan, one pale hand spreading protectively over the child’s back, his chin lifting just slightly- as if to shield the boy from even the sound of Lan Xichen’s voice.

Wei Wuxian feels something ugly coil in his chest.

He steps forward.

“Silence,” he snaps, voice cutting like a whip, “Lan Qiren, if you value what remains of your teeth, you will keep your mouth shut.”

Lan Qiren’s head jerks up, eyes blazing. 

“You dare-!”

He struggles harder, fury breaking through his composure, robes tangling as the Jin disciples restrain him. Wei Wuxian’s gaze flicks to them, sharp and dangerous.

The Jin disciples stiffen instantly.

“Kowtow,” Wei Wuxian says.

The word drops into the hall like a stone into deep water.

“Every one of you,” he adds softly, “Now.”

No one hesitates.

The Jin disciples drop to their knees first, foreheads slamming into the floor with desperate force. The Lan elders and disciples follow a heartbeat later, robes pooling as they bow, spines bent in submission they have never shown anyone outside their own sect.

Lan Xichen’s breath stutters.

Lan Qiren freezes.

Then, teeth clenched, shaking with barely-contained rage, they bow too.

Foreheads touch the floor.

The Jin disciples begin to beg.

“Forgive us, Patriarch!”

“We did not know- please-”

“We were only following orders-!”

Wei Wuxian watches them with detached amusement, lips curling into a slow, lazy smirk. He does not tell them to stop. He lets the sound of their pleas fill the hall, lets it press down on everyone present until the air feels heavy with it.

Then-

“Patriarch!”

Another Jin disciple rushes in, half-dragging, half-carrying a small bundle in his arms.

Jin Ling.

The child is drowsy, eyes half-lidded, one chubby fist tangled in the fabric of the disciple’s sleeve. He lets out a soft, disgruntled noise as he’s brought forward.

Wei Wuxian’s attention shifts instantly.

He steps down from the dais and takes the baby without hesitation, cradling Jin Ling with practiced ease. His expression softens as he looks down at the boy, all sharp edges smoothing away.

“There you are,” he murmurs fondly, “Did they wake you up, hm?”

Jin Ling blinks at him, unimpressed, then yawns hugely.

Wei Wuxian clicks his tongue, cooing. 

“Tsk. Poor thing. Starving, aren’t you?”

He looks up sharply. 

“You-” 

He jerks his chin at the Jin disciple. 

“Fetch a bottle. Now.”

The disciple bolts.

As Jin Ling squirms, Wei Wuxian carefully lets a thin veil of resentful energy unfurl, delicate as silk, wrapping gently around the baby’s ears. The dark energy hums softly, insulating, protective- ensuring none of the raised voices, none of the tension, reaches him.

Only once Jin Ling settles again does Wei Wuxian lift his gaze.

It lands on Lan Xichen.

Then slides to Lan Qiren.

His smile fades.

“Which one of you,” Wei Wuxian asks quietly, “ordered Lan Wangji to be whipped thirty-three times?”

The hall freezes.

Every Lan disciple goes utterly still.

Even the Jin disciples stop begging.

Silence stretches, taut as a drawn bowstring.

Wei Wuxian lets out a soft laugh.

“Oh?” he says lightly, “What’s this? Do you think I’m stupid?”

No one answers.

His gaze sharpens.

The shift is sudden enough that several elders flinch despite themselves. Wei Wuxian’s posture does not change, but the resentful energy around him tightens, drawn inward like a storm compressing before it breaks.

His voice rises.

“ANSWER ME!”

The words crack through the hall like thunder, reverberating off stone and wood alike. It is not shouted wildly- it is controlled, focused, carrying the full weight of command.

Lan Qiren’s jaw tightens.

For a moment, he says nothing. His lips press into a thin line, breath drawn sharply through his nose as if he is bracing himself against something inevitable. Then he lifts his head slowly.

His eyes burn.

There is resentment there, naked and furious- but beneath it lies something colder. Grim. Resolute. The expression of a man who has already decided that he is right, no matter the cost.

“It was me,” Lan Qiren says.

The words fall heavy into the silence.

Wei Wuxian turns fully toward him.

The movement is unhurried. Deliberate. When he faces Lan Qiren now, there is no trace of humor left in his expression- only an unsettling calm, eyes dark and intent.

“What exactly for?” Wei Wuxian asks.

His tone is mild.

Dangerously so.

Lan Qiren inhales, straightening his spine as if drawing strength from discipline alone. When he speaks again, his voice goes flat, stripped of emotion- recitation rather than confession.

“Lan Wangji attacked thirty-three elders,” he says, “in defense of you, Patriarch.”

The title is not accidental.

Wei Wuxian’s brow furrows, just slightly.

“When?” he asks.

Lan Qiren’s composure fractures for half a heartbeat. His lip curls, the bitterness slipping through before he can stop it.

“Three months ago.”

The words echo.

Three months.

Wei Wuxian’s heart stutters.

Three months ago.

Nightless City.

The screaming. The blood. The sky choked black with resentment and ash. Cultivators dying in droves while the world watched and decided- very neatly- who to blame.

Lan Qiren continues before Wei Wuxian can speak, his voice gaining momentum as he retreats into doctrine, into rules, into the safety of repetition.

“He violated the Lan precepts,” Lan Qiren says sharply, “Openly, and repeatedly.”

He lifts his chin.

“Rule thirty two: Do not associate with evil.”

A murmur ripples faintly through the elders.

“Rule two thousand five hundred and seventy-nine: Do not harbour those who practice unorthodox or demonic cultivation.”

His eyes flick, pointedly, toward Wei Wuxian.

“Rule one thousand seven hundred and three: Do not defend one who brings chaos and slaughter upon the Jianghu.”

Wei Wuxian does not interrupt.

Lan Qiren’s voice grows steadier, stronger, as if the rules themselves are lending him backbone.

“He sheltered you,” Lan Qiren continues, “when you were already declared a threat. He shielded you when you stood at the centre of Nightless City- when cultivators fell by the hundreds.”

“Enough,” one elder murmurs weakly, but Lan Qiren ignores him.

“He drew his sword against his own sect,” Lan Qiren says, eyes blazing now, “Against his teachers. Against the men who raised him.”

He almost trembles with it.

“He broke rule four hundred: Do not raise your weapon against a senior. He broke rule one hundred and thirty four: Do not act on personal desire over righteousness.”

His voice sharpens.

“And worst of all-”

He takes a breath.

“Rule one.”

The hall seems to lean in.

“Do not stray from the righteous path.”

Silence crashes down.

Lan Qiren holds Wei Wuxian’s gaze, breathing hard, as if daring him to deny it.

Wei Wuxian listens.

Very calmly.

The resentment around him does not flare. It does not lash out.

It waits.

Then Wei Wuxian laughs.

Softly.

It is not loud. Not mocking. It is a quiet sound, edged with something sharp enough to cut. The kind of laugh that slips out when disbelief has nowhere else to go.

He lifts a hand and rubs at his temple.

“Is that all?” he asks mildly.

Lan Qiren stiffens. 

“You-”

Wei Wuxian reaches into his sleeve.

The movement is unhurried, almost lazy, but the Jin disciples tense instantly, hands shifting closer to their weapons. Wei Wuxian ignores them.

He produces a scroll.

It is new, but worn already. Its edges are frayed from use, the silk darkened by the rough handling of it. He flicks his wrist.

The scroll lands at Lan Qiren’s feet with a sharp snap.

The sound echoes louder than it should.

Lan Qiren looks down instinctively.

Wei Wuxian’s smile is thin, merciless.

“Since we’re reciting from scrolls now,” he says softly, “I thought I’d bring one of my own.”

The hall holds its breath.

“Read that,” Wei Wuxian whispers.

Lan Qiren hesitates- then picks it up.

His eyes scan the page.

They widen.

Drain of colour.

“I, Jin Guangyao,” Lan Qiren reads hoarsely, “was aided by Su Minshan in starting the massacres at Qiongqi Path, two years ago, Nightless City, three months ago and the Burial Mounds, two days ago…”

His hands begin to shake.

“…and framed Wei Wuxian for the crimes committed by me and my associates, as well as provoking the genocide of innocent Wen civilians that Wei Wuxian was harbouring…”

The scroll trembles violently.

“There were no cultivators inside of the Burial Mounds, apart from Wen Qing and Wen Ning,” Lan Qiren whispers, “and I was fully aware of this. So was my father, cousin and Su Minshan. In addition to this, the Wens killed at Qiongqi Path previous to the massacre were mainly civilians. I beg for forgiveness from you, Yiling Patriarch.”

He looks up.

At Wei Wuxian.

Horror floods his face.

Wei Wuxian snarls.

And then he steps forward-

-and slaps Lan Qiren across the face, hard enough to snap his head sideways.

The sound cracks through the hall like thunder.

Lan Qiren collapses forward instantly, palms slamming against the floor as his body gives out beneath him. He does not rise again. His forehead hits the stone with a dull thud, and this time, he does not dare lift his head.

He trembles.

Not with anger.

With fear.

Wei Wuxian stands over him, chest rising and falling slowly, resentful energy coiling thick and restless around his feet like dark smoke. Jin Ling squirms in his arms, fussing at the sudden movement, and Wei Wuxian immediately tightens his hold, angling the child’s head away, murmuring softly until the baby settles again.

Only then does he speak.

“But you didn’t give my zhiji that,” Wei Wuxian says lightly, almost conversationally, “Did you? You didn’t give him mercy, did you, Lan Qiren?”

Lan Qiren’s shoulders shake.

“You didn’t let him tell you,” Wei Wuxian continues, voice growing colder with every word, “that the massacres were all lies. You didn’t let him tell you the Jins’ hands were soaked in blood. You didn’t let him tell you that the Wens I protected were civilians. Elderly. Sick. Children.”

His smile sharpens.

“You just attacked me,” he says, “Attacked me- and none of you dogs realised that you murdered innocent civilians in cold blood.”

The hall feels like it is suffocating.

Lan Xichen’s breath comes in shallow, broken pulls. His hands tremble against the floor as if the stone beneath him might split open. Lan Qiren bows lower, forehead scraping painfully against the ground.

“Do you have excuses?” Wei Wuxian asks softly, “For whipping my zhiji? For not listening to his pleas?”

No one answers.

Then Lan Xichen lifts his head.

His eyes are glassy, rimmed red, but there is something steady there now- something braced, as though he has accepted the blade already and is only waiting for it to fall.

“Do you,” Lan Xichen whispers, voice hoarse, “even remember what my brother did for you… when he aided your escape?”

Wei Wuxian blinks.

Once.

Then he shakes his head.

“Zewu-jun,” he says calmly, “if you saw my state after Nightless City, I’m afraid whatever that was did not remain with me.”

Lan Xichen stiffens.

“I had just watched my older sister’s ashes scatter into the sky, and that you had sentenced her to never be reincarnated again,” Wei Wuxian continues, voice distant now, as if he is speaking from very far away, “I had watched my martial sister die protecting me, even though I was partially responsible for the death of her husband. I was not… myself at the time.”

He exhales softly.

“I have no memory of Lan Zhan rescuing me. So whatever I said in that time… should not be accounted for as my own words.”

The words land like a physical blow.

Lan Xichen’s eyes widen.

He stares at Wei Wuxian as if seeing him for the first time- not the tyrant, not the Yiling Patriarch reborn, but a man who had been drowning and never known who reached for him.

“I…” Lan Xichen whispers. 

His voice breaks. 

“I apologise, Patriarch.”

Wei Wuxian looks at him.

Really looks.

Lan Xichen is pale, almost sickly, his composure frayed beyond recognition. And beside the throne, Lan Wangji’s expression has changed- no longer controlled restraint, but something sharp and burning. His grip tightens protectively around A-Yuan, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on his brother with unmistakable anger.

Wei Wuxian feels it then- a twist of something ugly and tender all at once.

He clicks his tongue.

“Enough,” he says.

He hands Jin Ling’s bottle to a nearby Jin disciple without looking. 

“Take that. He’s done.”

The disciple bows deeply and retreats.

Wei Wuxian turns back to the Lans.

“Do you believe,” he asks quietly, “that you deserve forgiveness, Zewu-jun?”

Lan Xichen does not hesitate.

He bows again, forehead touching the floor.

“Forgive us, Wei-gongzi,” he whispers, “It seems… all of the Jianghu has greatly wronged you.”

Wei Wuxian laughs.

It is not kind.

“I cannot forgive you,” he says softly, “You took my family from me, Lan Xichen. That is not something I am willing to forgive.”

Lan Xichen flinches.

Wei Wuxian continues, voice smooth and merciless. 

“But you are devoted to your brother. I can see that. You are angry with me not because of the atrocities I was framed for- but because I have wronged him deeply, though I am mainly unaware of how, and will not ask, though I do apologise, with all of my heart.”

His gaze sharpens.

“So,” he says, “I will grant you clemency.”

Lan Xichen’s breath catches.

“But tell me,” Wei Wuxian adds, “did you conspire with your uncle to have your brother whipped?”

Lan Xichen shakes his head immediately. 

“No. Never.”

Before Wei Wuxian can speak again, Lan Wangji does.

“Xiongzhang tried to stop them,” he says quietly, “He pleaded my case for me.”

His voice is steady, but there is tension in it, fine and unmistakable, like a string drawn too tight. He does not raise his head. He does not look at his uncle, or at the elders, or even at Lan Xichen. His gaze remains fixed forward, level with the floor, his posture straight despite the weight of A-Yuan sleeping against his chest.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji continues, “He is innocent. Please do not hurt him.” 

The words land cleanly.

They are not a plea. Not a defense born of sentiment. They are a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty Lan Wangji has always reserved for things he knows to be true.

The hall holds its breath.

Wei Wuxian feels it immediately- the shift. The resentful energy coiled around him, restless and sharp, pauses mid-curl, like a blade halted inches from flesh. It does not withdraw. It simply… waits.

Wei Wuxian does not look at Lan Xichen.

He closes his eyes instead.

For one suspended moment, there is nothing but the echo of Lan Wangji’s voice and the weight of what it means for him to speak now, of all times. To step into the space between Wei Wuxian’s judgment and its target without hesitation. To stake his word- his authority, his truth- on his brother’s innocence.

Wei Wuxian exhales.

It is slow. Measured. The kind of breath taken by someone who knows exactly how much damage he could do if he chose otherwise.

“Release him,” he says.

He does not raise his voice. He does not need to.

The Jin disciple restraining Lan Xichen startles as if struck, fingers loosening at once. He steps back, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touches the stone before he retreats.

Lan Xichen sways.

For a moment, it looks as though he might fall.

Then he steadies himself, hands curling briefly into fists at his sides, breath coming uneven. He straightens with visible effort, spine aligning inch by inch, dignity dragged back into place by sheer force of will.

He bows.

It is not the careful, elegant bow of a sect leader receiving guests. It is deep. Earnest. His forehead lowers until it nearly touches the floor, and when he rises again, his eyes shine with unshed tears he does not bother to hide.

“We will speak again in the morning,” Wei Wuxian says.

The dismissal is calm. Absolute.

“Go.”

Lan Xichen hesitates.

His gaze flicks- once, quickly- to Lan Wangji.

Something raw crosses his face. Regret, fear, relief, grief- all tangled together too tightly to separate. His lips part as if he might speak.

Lan Wangji does not look back.

Not out of cruelty. Out of resolve.

Lan Xichen swallows.

Then he bows again, deeper even than before, and turns away. His footsteps echo softly as he leaves the hall, the sound measured and controlled until the doors slide shut behind him.

Only then does Wei Wuxian move.

He flicks his fingers once, an idle, dismissive gesture.

“The rest of you,” he says, “Only the disciples I have brought with me and the Lan elders should remain.”

The remaining Lan disciples do not wait for further instruction. They bow hastily- some too quickly, movements uncoordinated with fear- and retreat en masse. Robes whisper against stone as they flee, sandals slapping softly, breaths held until they are gone.

The hall empties.

The elders remain.

Lan Qiren remains.

The Jin disciples stay exactly where they are, backs straight, eyes lowered, awaiting command.

The silence that follows is heavier than anything before it.

Wei Wuxian turns.

His gaze settles on the Lan elders, one by one, assessing them with a calm that is far more frightening than rage. They kneel rigidly, spines stiff with discipline even now, hands folded within their sleeves, faces pale.

Lan Qiren kneels at their head.

He has not looked up since the slap.

Wei Wuxian steps forward.

The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoes sharply in the vast space, each footfall deliberate. The resentful energy follows him, coiling low and thick around his legs like shadow given weight.

“I wish,” Wei Wuxian says quietly, “for all of you to kneel before your discipline wall for three days.”

The elders stiffen.

It is subtle, but unmistakable- the faint hitch of breath, the tightening of shoulders. They know what that means. They know the wall. They know what it is designed to do to a body left unmoving before it.

“No food,” Wei Wuxian continues, voice even, “Only water, if you cannot practise inedia to the fullest.”

He pauses, just long enough for the meaning to sink in.

“You will each receive one lash of the discipline whip.”

A murmur ripples through the elders despite themselves- a barely audible sound of shock and restrained protest.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head.

“Lan Qiren,” he adds, almost gently, “will receive three lashes.”

Lan Qiren’s breath shudders violently.

It is the first real crack in him since this began. His hands tremble where they rest against the floor, fingers digging into stone as if he might anchor himself there through sheer will.

“You will then enter seclusion for three months,” Wei Wuxian says, “Your spiritual energies will be blocked to prevent healing.”

He smiles.

It is thin. Cold. Utterly devoid of humour.

“Your punishment begins once I make my journey to Yunmeng with Lan Wangji.”

Lan Qiren jerks his head up.

“No!” he snaps, the word tearing itself loose before he can stop it, “You cannot- this is-!”

Wei Wuxian looks down at him.

There is no anger in his eyes.

Only judgment.

“Well,” he whispers, voice low enough that it does not carry beyond the first row of kneeling figures, “that is your final punishment, after all.”

Lan Qiren freezes.

The realisation hits him all at once. His face drains of colour, fury giving way to something stark and naked. Fear.

Wei Wuxian straightens.

“Lan Wangji will no longer be a part of the Gusu Lan Sect,” he says evenly, “He will be my emperor consort- beside me, at Nightless City.”

Lan Qiren’s mouth opens.

No sound comes out.

“I will be taking Qishan as my land,” Wei Wuxian continues, as if discussing the weather, “I do not trust any of you foolish cultivators with it. I have become your emperor now, as it seems apparent to me you all need a firm hand, and you will heed my word as law.”

He waves his hand, dismissive, already finished with them.

“Remove them.”

The Jin disciples move at once.

They seize the elders firmly but without unnecessary force, hauling them to their feet despite protests that finally break loose- sharp intakes of breath, choked words, a single anguished cry cut short as Lan Qiren is dragged upright.

“This is madness!” Lan Qiren shouts, voice cracking. “Wangji- WANGJI-!”

Lan Wangji does not respond.

He does not turn.

He only tightens his arm around A-Yuan, chin lifting slightly, eyes forward and unyielding.

The doors slam shut behind the departing figures.

Silence returns.

This time, it is not oppressive.

It is… peaceful.

Wei Wuxian turns back.

A-Yuan sleeps soundly against Lan Wangji’s chest, small body warm and relaxed, breath even. One tiny hand curls into the white fabric of Lan Wangji’s robes, fingers fisted as if afraid to let go even in dreams.

Wei Wuxian’s expression softens instantly.

The sharp lines of power and command ease, something gentler breaking through. He steps closer, reaches out, and carefully brushes his knuckle against A-Yuan’s cheek.

Lan Wangji looks up at him.

His eyes are dark and steady, reflecting candlelight and certainty in equal measure. He inclines his head just slightly and whispers, reverent and sure,

“Bixia.”

Wei Wuxian smiles.

It is small. Private.

“Huanghou,” he whispers back.

The road out of Gusu Lan curves gently downward, pale stone giving way to packed earth and grass darkened by recent rain. Morning mist still clings low to the ground, threading between the trees and the white pavilions they leave behind. Bells chime once, distant and restrained, and then even that sound fades.

Wei Wuxian does not look back.

Ahead, the path stretches long and uneven, winding toward Yunmeng. Toward Lotus Pier. Toward unfinished business that has been waiting for him longer than he wants to count.

The procession moves at a measured pace.

At its center is the sedan chair- Jin craftsmanship through and through, lacquered wood and silk curtains embroidered with peonies and clouds. Four Jin disciples carry it with rigid precision, steps synchronised, faces pale but determined. Inside sits Lan Wangji, back supported by layered cushions, posture carefully controlled. He holds Jin Ling against his chest, one arm curved protectively around the baby, the other resting still at his side.

Lan Wangji should be on a horse. He would prefer to be on a horse. Wei Wuxian knows that as certainly as he knows the feel of a flute under his fingers.

But Lan Wangji is not foolish.

The wounds on his back are healed- skin smooth again, unmarred by whip or scar- but healing is not the same as recovery. Wei Wuxian can feel it when he reaches outward with his senses, the faint imbalance where resentful energy once surged to compensate, now receding as Lan Wangji’s golden core reasserts itself. The process is slow. Pain lingers, deep and stubborn, the kind that does not show on the surface.

Sitting, reclined, supported- that is what Lan Wangji needs.

So Lan Wangji sits in the sedan, dignified even there, white robes immaculate, hair bound neatly, expression composed.

Wei Wuxian rides beside him.

The horse is steady beneath him, dark-coated and patient, hooves splashing softly through shallow ruts in the road. A-Yuan sits in front of him, perched securely between Wei Wuxian’s arms, small hands gripping the saddle horn with fierce concentration. His legs dangle on either side, boots swinging as the horse walks.

Every so often, A-Yuan leans back until his head bumps lightly against Wei Wuxian’s chest, giggling as if this is the height of entertainment.

Wei Wuxian hums absently in response, keeping one arm firm around the child’s middle. He glances toward the sedan, eyes narrowing just slightly as he studies Lan Wangji’s profile through the parted curtains.

Lan Wangji’s gaze is lowered, focused on Jin Ling, who has one chubby fist tangled in the edge of his sleeve. The baby makes a pleased, bubbling sound, mouth working around a half-formed smile.

Wei Wuxian clicks his tongue.

“Lan Zhan,” he calls, voice easy, pitched to carry without effort, “You all right in there?”

Lan Wangji lifts his head.

For a moment, the sunlight catches in his eyes, turning them a pale, reflective gold. Then he inclines his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting- not quite a smile, but close enough that Wei Wuxian feels it like a warmth spreading through his chest.

“I am,” Lan Wangji says. 

His voice is calm, steady. 

“A-Ling is good company.”

As if on cue, Jin Ling coos loudly, delighted by the sound of his own name. He waves his free hand, fingers splayed, and lets out a soft, triumphant squeal.

Wei Wuxian laughs.

“Well,” he says, leaning forward a little to peer in at the baby, “I should hope so. After all that fuss to bring you along, it would be very rude if you weren’t.”

Jin Ling responds by sticking his fist into his mouth and gnawing on it with fierce dedication.

Wei Wuxian’s smile softens despite himself.

Huangzi, he thinks, the word settling into place with surprising ease. 

Emperor’s nephew. 

It is ridiculous. It is excessive. It is- if he is being honest with himself- exactly the sort of thing Jin Guangshan would have preened over endlessly.

Wei Wuxian feels no urge to preen.

What he feels is responsibility, heavy and unavoidable.

The thought threads back into the tangle he has been worrying at since they left the Cloud Recesses. Plans stack atop plans in his mind, intricate as talisman arrays. He has time to think now- too much time, perhaps, given the long road and the steady pace.

The cultivation world kneels to him.

That much is already done.

But kneeling is not the same as order.

He does not want the title of Chief Cultivator. The words taste sour, stained beyond recovery by men who used them to justify slaughter and ambition. Jin Guangshan. Wen Ruohan. Names that rot the air around them.

Wei Wuxian refuses to pick up something so thoroughly ruined.

Bixia, instead.

Not a cultivator elevated above others by sect consensus, but something older. Broader. A ruler not of techniques or clans, but of the structure itself. One who commands not loyalty, but obedience- and who is bound, in turn, by the weight of what that obedience costs.

The emperor’s system is… workable.

It formalises what already exists. He commands all cultivators whether he wants to or not. Giving that command a shape, a hierarchy, means he can limit it. Define it. Stop it from turning into another blunt instrument wielded by men who think righteousness excuses cruelty.

Lan Wangji as Huanghou.

The thought settles without friction.

Not a consort hidden behind screens or titles whispered with contempt, but equal beside him. Visible. Untouchable. Someone the world must look at and understand that Wei Wuxian does not rule alone.

A-Yuan as Taizi Dianxia.

The image makes something in Wei Wuxian’s chest twist painfully, then ease. A future. A real one. Not borrowed days stolen from the edges of disaster, but years laid out ahead of them, uncertain and bright.

And Jin Ling- 

Wei Wuxian glances again at the sedan, at the small bundle of silk and life cradled in Lan Wangji’s arms.

Huangzi.

Nephew.

Family, even if the word has been mangled by blood and politics and grief.

There are practicalities, of course. Rituals. Decrees. An adoption rite, properly done, with blood and spiritual seals, so that A-Yuan is theirs in every way that matters- not just by love, but by law, by lineage, by the rules the cultivation world pretends to respect.

Wei Wuxian intends to use those rules until they choke on them.

A-Yuan shifts suddenly, bouncing in place.

“A-Niang!” he squeals, voice sharp with excitement.

The horse slows, responding to Wei Wuxian’s instinctive tightening of the reins. Ahead of them, the road dips slightly, collecting rainwater into a wide, muddy puddle that reflects the pale sky above. The water is brown and opaque, rippling faintly as insects skitter across the surface.

Wei Wuxian snorts.

“Well spotted, Yuan-er,” he says, “Very impressive.”

The horse comes to a halt just before the puddle, ears flicking forward uncertainly.

A-Yuan leans forward eagerly, peering down. 

“Lots of water!” he announces.

“It’s a puddle,” Wei Wuxian corrects, “Not a lake. We are not swimming.”

A-Yuan gasps as if gravely insulted. 

“Swim,” he insists.

“We are absolutely not-”

Jin Ling lets out a loud, indignant squawk from the sedan, as if offended by the exclusion.

Lan Wangji looks up, gaze flicking from the puddle to Wei Wuxian, then to A-Yuan. There is a pause, brief and measured.

Then he says, “It is… shallow.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him.

Lan Wangji meets his gaze evenly, expression composed. Only the faintest hint of amusement softens his eyes.

Wei Wuxian laughs, helpless.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, “you’re a bad influence.”

A-Yuan cheers.

The Jin disciples exchange uncertain looks but do not comment. They shift their grip on the sedan poles, waiting.

Wei Wuxian nudges the horse forward.

The hooves splash into the puddle with a wet, satisfying sound. Mud ripples outward, water sloshing around their ankles. A-Yuan shrieks with delight, throwing both hands into the air.

“Again!” he demands.

The horse steps through, calm as ever, emerging on the other side with a flick of its tail.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head, laughing, and glances back at the sedan. 

“You see what you’ve done?” he calls, “Now he’ll expect this at every puddle.”

Lan Wangji adjusts Jin Ling slightly as the baby fusses, then settles again. 

“It is acceptable,” he says.

Wei Wuxian feels something settle into place at that- not the words, but the certainty behind them.

This, he thinks. This is what he is fighting for.

They move on.

The road grows narrower as the day wears on, hills rising and falling, the landscape shifting from pine-shadowed slopes to open fields dotted with distant farmhouses. Clouds drift lazily overhead, sunlight breaking through in warm patches.

They speak little, but comfortably.

Wei Wuxian points out landmarks he remembers from past travels. Lan Wangji listens, occasionally offering a quiet correction or confirmation. A-Yuan dozes and wakes and dozes again, head lolling against Wei Wuxian’s chest. Jin Ling babbles intermittently, soothed by the steady sway of the sedan and Lan Wangji’s presence.

At one point, Lan Wangji murmurs something too soft for the Jin disciples to hear. Wei Wuxian rides closer.

“Hmm?”

Lan Wangji glances down at Jin Ling, then back up. 

“He has the same shine in his eyes. Like yours,” he says.

Wei Wuxian blinks.

Then he smiles, slow and real. 

“Unfortunately for him,” he replies lightly, “He’ll get into all sorts of trouble.”

Lan Wangji’s mouth curves, just barely.

The road to Yunmeng stretches on.

-fin-