Several months had passed since the party.
Deep below the palace foundations, in a wide stone room carved from the bedrock, there was no sound except for the slow, steady drip of water somewhere in the dark.
At the center of the chamber stood a round stone platform, three steps high, carved with old lines that ran inward like the spokes of a wagon wheel.
Sitting in the middle of it, cross-legged on the cold gray stone, was Ling Luochen.
Her back was straight, her hands resting flat on her knees, her eyes closed in deep focus.
Her breathing was slow and even, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the stillness of the room.
Haoran stood at the foot of the steps, his hands tucked loosely inside the wide white sleeves of his robe, his gaze resting upon her with quiet attention.
"So is everything ready?" asked Haoran as he stared at Ling Luochen who sat on an altar.
Ling Luochen did not open her eyes, but her chin gave a small, firm nod.
