The weather held.
It didn't improve, didn't worsen—just stayed. The sky remained a pale, unmoving sheet stretched over the city, its color flattened by cold. Snow that had fallen days ago clung stubbornly to the edges of rooftops, packed into corners where sunlight never reached. Along the streets, it had been pushed aside into uneven ridges, greyed by passing feet and wheels.
Even the wind felt restrained.
It moved, but without urgency—slipping between buildings, brushing past corners, then disappearing before it could build into anything that mattered.
Inside, the hotel carried its own version of stillness.
The door to the sitting room closed softly behind me, the latch settling with a quiet click. Warmth from the fireplace reached me a second later—uneven, layered over the lingering chill in my coat. I shrugged it off slowly, feeling the cold release from the fabric in stages, then crossed the room.
"They seem much better."
I lowered myself into the chair across from Mr. David. The cushion compressed under my weight, the stuffing shifting faintly before settling. My hands rested briefly on the armrests, fingertips brushing the fabric as if checking its texture.
"We could leave in two days."
The fire cracked to the side.
A piece of wood shifted inward, sending a brief pulse of heat across the room before it faded back into the steady burn.
"I see."
Mr. David didn't look up immediately.
His hand moved toward the teapot, fingers closing around the handle with practiced ease. He tilted it, pouring into a second cup. The stream of tea struck porcelain with a soft, steady sound, steam rising in thin curls that drifted sideways before dissolving.
He slid the cup toward me.
It stopped just within reach, the base clicking lightly against the table.
I leaned forward and picked it up. The heat pressed into my palms, sharper than expected, forcing my fingers to adjust slightly before settling.
For a moment, I didn't speak.
The fire shifted again. Shadows along the wall stretched and pulled back, following the movement of the flame.
"Sir… are you a cultivator?"
The question left me without resistance.
It hung in the air—not heavy, but present.
Mr. David paused.
Not completely. His hand stopped halfway to his book, fingers hovering just above the page. Then, slowly, he lowered it, closing the book instead. The cover met the table with a muted sound.
"Hmm."
He leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under the shift.
"What gave that impression?"
I lowered my gaze to the tea, watching the surface ripple faintly from the movement of my hand.
"Back during the visit of the Draken Prime Minister…"
I stopped.
The memory hovered—clear enough to speak, but unnecessary.
No reaction came.
I continued.
"And now—those two are under the weather."
I lifted the cup, bringing it close enough for the steam to brush my face. The heat fogged my vision for a second.
"You're not."
I blew lightly across the surface. The liquid shifted, small ripples breaking the reflection.
Too hot.
I lowered it again.
Mr. David took a slow sip from his own cup.
The movement was unhurried, precise.
"A fine observation."
He set the cup down carefully, fingers releasing it without sound.
"But I could be anything."
The fire cracked again.
A small ember broke loose, glowing briefly before dimming.
"A long-lived vampire."
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering it.
"A witch."
His eyes moved toward me now.
"Even a mage."
The room seemed to tighten around that.
"And with age," he continued, lifting his cup again, "regardless of what I am, I would have gathered enough knowledge to stand where I do now."
He angled the cup, watching the tea shift inside.
"No?"
I held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.
The logic was clean.
Experience could imitate power.
Given enough time, it could replace it entirely.
I nodded.
"But," he said.
The cup touched the table again, a soft, final sound.
"You are correct."
A pause followed.
Not long—but enough to settle.
"I am a cultivator."
Something in my chest tightened.
Then released.
The chair scraped faintly as I stood.
The movement felt sudden even to me, but I didn't stop. My knees met the floor with a dull pressure, the cold of the wood seeping through the fabric of my clothes almost immediately.
My hands followed.
The surface was smooth, colder than expected.
My forehead lowered until it touched the floor.
"Zhǎngwò."
The word came out steady.
"I would be honoured if you would take me as your student."
The room went still.
The fire continued to burn, but its sound seemed distant now—muted behind the weight of the moment.
"Am I not your superior already?"
His voice reached me without force.
Calm.
Measured.
I lifted my head slowly, the shift pulling a faint stiffness into my neck.
"That's… for me to learn to be Victoria's handler."
I pushed myself back slightly, sitting upright on my heels.
"This is different."
The floor pressed against my legs.
Cold. Unyielding.
A soft sound followed—the book being moved again.
I looked up.
Mr. David's fingers rested against the cover before he set it aside.
"For people like Victoria and Alvie," he said, "being their handler is a life commitment."
The words didn't strike immediately.
They settled.
Then expanded.
"Life… commitment."
I repeated it quietly, pushing myself back into the chair. The cushion shifted again under my weight, the fabric creasing slightly where I leaned.
"I first met them," he continued, "when I was just a gold core like you."
The firelight caught the edge of his face, sharpening the line of his jaw before the shadow returned.
"He travelled here to become a cultivator."
A faint note of amusement threaded through his voice.
I blinked.
"Miss Alvie did that?"
He nodded once.
"Yeah."
He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting upward—not unfocused, just following something internal.
"And although he didn't become one," he said, "there was no need."
The room fell quiet again.
The fire continued its slow consumption, wood collapsing inward in small increments.
"Your relationship with them will change you," he continued.
His gaze returned to me.
"And you will need to change with it."
I frowned slightly, fingers tightening around the cup. The heat had dulled now, settling into something steady.
"No qi."
I spoke slowly.
"They fall ill… what are they?"
The question lingered.
He reached for his book again, opening it with a practiced motion. The pages shifted under his fingers, a soft, dry sound.
"They are," he said, eyes already scanning the text, "what happens when the law layer refuses to leave anything unaccounted for."
The answer felt complete.
And incomplete at the same time.
"I will say," he added, almost absently, "I envy you."
I looked up.
"You will get the chance to live along them."
A small pause.
"At least for the first few."
The meaning didn't settle fully.
Not yet.
I opened my mouth—
A knock interrupted.
Sharp.
Measured.
"Yes?"
The word came out automatically.
The door slid open just enough for a staff member to bow slightly, their silhouette framed by the hallway's softer light.
"Madam."
Their voice stayed low.
"Miss Enmatsu is here to see you."
I turned slightly, glancing back at Mr. David.
He had already returned to his book.
The page turned.
The sound was quiet.
"I'll step out for a bit."
I rose, the chair shifting back slightly as I pushed away from it.
The coat felt colder than before when I slipped it on. The fabric hadn't fully warmed, the chill settling against my shoulders again as I adjusted it into place.
The hallway outside felt different.
Less warmth.
More stillness.
My footsteps carried further here, the wood beneath them responding with faint creaks that echoed just slightly before fading.
We stopped at a door.
It opened.
The room inside was dim.
Not dark—just contained.
A single lantern burned near the center, its flame steady, casting a soft amber glow across the low table and the cushions arranged around it. The corners of the room remained untouched, the light thinning before it reached them.
The scent of incense lingered.
Faint.
Persistent.
She sat across from the entrance.
Miss Enmatsu wore red.
The color settled into the fabric of her hanfu—not bright, not sharp, but deep. It absorbed the lantern light rather than reflecting it, the folds of the cloth shifting slightly as she moved.
Her hands were already at work.
Water poured.
Steam rose.
I stepped inside. The door closed behind me with a soft, final sound.
"Zhi."
I bowed slightly.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
She nodded once.
Nothing more.
I moved forward and sat opposite her. The cushion compressed under my weight, firmer than expected. The table between us was low, the teaware arranged with deliberate spacing—nothing touching, everything aligned.
She slid a cup toward me.
"Thank you for attending."
Her voice was even.
Controlled.
"No thanks needed."
I took the cup.
The heat pressed into my palms immediately, sharper than the one before. I adjusted my grip slightly, letting it settle.
Her hair was tied into a bun. A few loose strands rested against her cheek, unmoving. Behind her, her tail shifted—slow, steady, never fully still.
"I heard you work with the Concord."
"That's correct."
I took a sip.
Bitter.
Firm.
The taste lingered longer than expected.
She watched the surface of her own tea, the reflection trembling slightly as steam rose.
"Would they happen to know what happened to my father?"
Her eyes lifted.
Amber.
Still.
Focused.
"Hmm."
I set the cup down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the table.
"Only what we were told."
The space between us narrowed.
Not physically.
But in weight.
"He died of heartbreak."
The words felt thinner out loud.
She lowered her gaze again.
"I am not pointing fingers."
A pause.
"But I do not believe the narrative."
The lantern flickered once.
The flame bent, then steadied.
"You think Draken might have had him assassinated?"
I watched her hands.
Her fingers traced the rim of her cup.
"My father was rather stubborn."
Her voice remained level.
"He might have refused the withdrawal order."
I looked at the arrangement of cups, the space between them.
The possibilities unfolded quietly.
"The Prime Minister."
The words came slower.
"The Draken Prime Minister… even the Concord…"
She didn't confirm.
Didn't deny.
Instead, she reached to the side.
A small bag appeared in her hand.
She placed it in front of me.
The fabric rustled softly against the table.
"I heard your companions were unwell."
Her tone didn't change.
"This tea may help."
I picked it up.
The contents shifted slightly inside, leaves brushing against each other with a faint, dry sound.
"They're… rather picky."
I bowed slightly anyway.
"Thank you."
She poured herself more tea.
The motion was precise.
Measured.
"How is your father?"
The question came without warning.
I lifted my cup again, feeling the warmth press into my fingers.
"Still travelling."
A small pause.
"Around."
"I see."
Nothing followed.
The silence stretched.
Not empty.
Full.
Her tail continued its slow movement behind her, brushing lightly against the fabric of her clothes.
The incense thinned further, the scent barely noticeable now.
I tightened my grip on the cup slightly, feeling the heat press into my skin.
She had changed.
Or was changing.
The same way Father had.
After—
I stopped the thought.
The steam from my tea rose in thin strands, drifting upward before disappearing into the dim ceiling above.
We sat there.
Across from each other.
Not speaking.
The room held us in place.
Like a tiger licking its wounds—
quiet,
watching,
waiting.