The obsidian glass was cold under his palm, a deep, swallowing cold that felt like the heart of the mountain. Lin Tian didn't push his Ice Flame Qi into it. He didn't try to overwrite Mu Chen's false image.
Instead, he reached inward toward it.
He found the two threads anchored deep in his spirit. One was a river of glacial silver, familiar and aching. The other was a vein of molten gold, steady and warm. He touched them both.
Xueya, he thought, not with words, but with a pulse of recognition down the bond they had forged in desperation and trust. I need you.
Across the plaza, standing rigid between her minders, Bai Xueya gasped. Her head snapped up. Her eyes, wide and frightened, found his. The sect's suppression arrays pressed down on her, trying to choke her connection. But the bond was older than their formations, deeper than their politics. It vibrated like a plucked string.
