The peaks of the Sky-hold Sect rose like frozen waves carved from moonlight, shimmering with ancestral qi and pride. It was a place untouched by war, where even blades lowered their eyes and grudges dared not whisper.

  Zhao Wei walked beneath its towering arch with her cloak fluttering in the crisp mountain wind. Snow laced the bridge stones, and the silence here was of a different breed, ritualistic, sacred, and soaked in the invisible weight of expectation.

  By her side, Jian Yu nearly slipped for the fourth time on the polished stone steps.

  “Curse these fancy rocks,” he muttered. “What do they polish them with, the tears of frozen fairies?”

  Zhao Wei gave no reply, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Just slightly.

  Ahead stood the Pavilion of Wounds and Wine, a neutral ground where sects came not to fight, but to drown secrets in wine and occasionally, each other. Its wooden beams were carved with tales of fallen heroes and gods too weary to be remembered. Lanterns swayed from the ceiling like watching eyes.

  “Remember,” Zhao Wei said quietly, “speak only when you’re spoken to.”

  “Easy. I wasn’t planning on talking to any ancient immortal librarians.”

  She gave him a flat stare.

  “…Unless they’re hot,” he added with a wink.

  A single glance from Zhao Wei was enough to shut him up.

  Inside the pavilion, the warmth hit them first followed by the scent of spiced rice wine and aged sandalwood. Warriors in various sect robes murmured around low tables, while elders in violet and jade sat loftily, sipping from their ceremonial cups as if tasting clouds.

  At the center of the room, seated like a viper sunning itself, was Feng Ren.

  He wore the colors of the Rainshard Sect now, white with streaks of storm blue and his smirk was as venomous as she remembered. He looked up from his cup with lazy recognition, the flicker of surprise hidden beneath cultivated detachment.

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  “Ah,” he drawled. “The mute fox of Ember finally slinks out from her ashes.”

  Jian Yu blinked. “Mute? She talks all the time.”

  Zhao Wei casually stepped on his foot. Hard.

  Feng Ren stood, his fingers trailing the rim of his cup. “Or should I say… the fox who plays dead.”

  The room shifted. Conversations hushed. Eyes turned.

  Zhao Wei did not flinch. “Speak plainly, Ren. I’ve no patience for snakes that hiss instead of strike.”

  Laughter bubbled from him, sharp and cold. “Oh, I missed this. You always did have a way with words… until the day your clan was branded traitor and your name was carved from the war stones.”

  Her hands remained at her sides, but inside, something stirred. Not rage. Not sorrow. Something colder.

  Ren’s eyes gleamed. “You shouldn’t have come. There are… stories. That the Ember Lotus harbored a traitor among their own. That the warlord Wei Ning died not in battle, but by betrayal.”

  Zhao Wei tilted her head, gaze unreadable. “And who spins these tales?”

  He smiled. “Does it matter? Words are seeds. They grow. They rot legacies.”

  A gong sounded thrice, breaking the tension.

  From the upper stair of the pavilion, a lean figure descended in dark gold robes, marked with the Sigil of Equinox, a twin sun and moon clasped in a blade’s arc.

  Elder Shi Xuan, the neutral arbiter of Skyhold.

  “Enough.” His voice was soft but bound with the weight of mountains. “Let the past bleed in silence. You are all here for the trials. Not grudges.”

  Feng Ren bowed with theatrical grace. “Of course, honored one.”

  Zhao Wei mirrored the gesture with measured poise, though her gaze lingered on Feng Ren.

  As the elder turned away, Jian Yu whispered, “So… that guy tried to murder you?”

  “No,” she said. “He succeeded. Once.”

  Jian Yu opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “Okay, that’s not ominous at all. Do I get a list of people who killed you before breakfast, or is this gonna be a surprise every time?”

  She didn’t answer but this time, her smirk was unmistakable.

  As the evening deepened, the trials were announced. Each sect would send one warrior to demonstrate martial control before the Spirit Mirror, a relic that reflected not form, but truth.

  Zhao Wei would step forward tomorrow. But tonight… she listened. Observed. And felt the itch beneath her skin like something ancient was waking. Watching.

  In the flicker of firelight, across the room, a cloaked figure raised a cup toward her. A quiet salute. A face she had not seen since before her death.

  General Lin Yuan.

  Once her fiercest rival. Once her oath-bound brother.

  And now he was here.

  Alive.

  Watching.