The dining hall of the inn had begun to recover its flow. The scrape of chopsticks, the murmur of conversations, the faint hiss of wine being poured—little by little the place exhaled the tension that had earlier gripped it. Yet, like drifting sparks that refused to die, glances still wandered now and then toward the large table by the window.

  There, four men of the Lei clan sat, their posture loose but their eyes sharp, each trying in his own way to mirror confidence. The table before them filled steadily as servants came and went, setting down steaming dishes one after another, roasted duck glistening with fat, bowls of river fish steeped in ginger, bamboo baskets carrying dumplings that breathed fragrant steam.

  Still, it was not the food that fed the atmosphere, but the unspoken pressure of the men’s gathering.

  Breaking the moment, Lei San leaned forward, voice carrying a tone too polished, the kind meant more for display than camaraderie. “Elder Morin, the clan chief would not send you himself unless this matter was grave. Why not share it with us, brother—let us broaden our horizons?”

  The others joined in quickly, urging with forced laughter, their eagerness laced with thinly veiled envy.

  Lei Morin chuckled, savouring the attention like wine rolling across his tongue. Strictly speaking, he was no elder of the branch clan, but his closeness to the chief had earned him a place in that delicate space where deference and ambition often tangled. It pleased him to be addressed so, especially when no true elders were present to correct the title.

  He lifted his cup, swirling its contents lazily before answering. “I cannot reveal details. The chief has given me strict orders. Four months have passed since the trade had to be stopped, and with their resumption comes a deal of considerable weight. That is why the chief saw fit to send me in his stead. That is all you may know.”

  The others nodded solemnly, their feigned expressions pretending at understanding. A silence fell, broken only when Lei Tin muttered with bitterness, his voice low yet edged with spite.

  “It’s all because of that cursed brat, Veylan.”

  At that name, Xiao Lei, seated some distance away in the quiet shadow of his own table, felt his body tense. His ears sharpened, his stillness deepened. His gaze—flat, unreadable—remained fixed on the bowl before him, yet within, every thought bristled awake.

  “You are right,” another agreed—Lei Mo, his tone dripping with resentment. “If that boy hadn’t provoked Young Master Lei Xuanlan, none of this would have happened. The young master’s fury forced the chief’s hand. He had to shower them with gifts just to calm the storm—so many gifts that he even dipped into his own savings. A disgrace.”

  Morin’s smile thinned. His gaze, lazy a moment ago, sharpened like a knife. “Silence. If others hear such talk, what will they think? Do not forget—this is an unofficial trade. If word leaks, it will not only be the chief’s burden. It will be our heads on the block. Hold your tongues, or even I will not be able to save you.”

  A sheen of unease passed through them, quickly hidden behind hollow grins. Lei Tin was the first to recover, his tone eager, his back bending with practiced flattery.

  “What is Elder saying? It is not as if this is our first time conducting such business. Have we ever failed the chief? Please, rest assured. In two days the buyers will arrive. We conclude the deal, return home, and share in the rewards. Elder need not worry.”

  Their laughter rose then, loud and careless, clashing against the restrained air of the inn. The sound rolled across the hall like coins spilled on a temple floor—bright, hollow, empty.

  No one else paid them heed. To most, it was merely the boast of men with wine loosening their tongues. Yet in one corner sat a boy, silent, his expression carved in stillness. His face bore no ripple of emotion, but his eyes gleamed with a feral light—cold, sharp, and savage, like the glint of a wolf waiting in the dark.

  As Xiao Lei sat locked in silence, another child elsewhere faced her own reckoning.

  Lian had not eaten since last night. Her lips were pale, her small frame frail, yet she sat before the gate with a smile that was no smile at all—thin, brittle, and carved onto her face as if to keep herself from breaking.

  From within the house, the clamour of quarrels spilled out—harsh voices rising, something crashing to the ground, the scrape of furniture dragged across the floor. She did not turn her head. Her gaze remained on the sky where the sun, already past its zenith, drifted westward. Its light gilded her lashes but did little to warm her.

  When she had first come here, she had known life here would not be easy—scarcity was certain from the start. Yet she had clung to a fragile hope—that the three of them, bound by the thing called family, might live together, scraping by yet still finding a kind of peace. Within mere hours, that hope had shattered. Reality was sharper, crueller, than she had dared imagine.

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  The door behind her creaked. Footsteps shuffled against the threshold, uneven, weary. Her father staggered into view, shoulders heavy as if the air itself pressed down upon him. He stopped near her, letting out a long sigh that trembled at its end. His lips parted, searching for words.

  But before he could speak, Lian’s voice, calm and quiet, cut the silence.

  “I am leaving.”

  The words burned her throat, but her smile did not falter.

  Zi Lao froze. The words struck him harder than any blow. He had come to say the same, though the thought had gnawed at him all night. His wife’s bitter insistence, the empty grain jar, the knowledge that even their own mouths went unfed—he had wrestled with how to tell his daughter she could not stay.

  Yet looking into her eyes now, he realized he did not need to say it. Those eyes—too steady for her years—held no trace of childish fear. They bore a maturity carved not by time but by suffering, by necessity.

  In that moment, Zi Lao felt himself age. His back bowed, his breath grew shallow, as though a decade had settled upon him in an instant.

  He managed only two words, heavy as stone.

  “…No need.”

  He turned, as if to retreat before his weakness betrayed him. But her small hand caught his, fingers thin yet firm.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I don’t blame you.”

  Then, before he could speak again, she knelt. Her knees struck the dirt. Her forehead touched the ground in a single, solemn kowtow. The sound of it was soft, yet it rang louder in his heart than any shout within the house.

  And then she rose. Without hesitation, without looking back, she walked away.

  Zi Lao remained rooted where she had left him, as though his body had turned to stone. Only his eyes betrayed him. Red-rimmed, they overflowed, tears dripping one by one onto the dust at his feet like the first drops of rain before a storm.

  No one could know the tangle of his heart in that moment. But the pain he carried was plain to see, etched into every line of his face, raw and unhidden.

  At last, he raised a hand and wiped his cheeks with the roughness of a man ashamed to be weeping. Slowly, heavily, he turned back toward the door.

  The quarrel inside rolled on, but beneath that noise, hidden within the voices, there lingered something deeper—a sorrow vast and intangible, one that could not be shouted away.

  ?? — ? — ??

  Lian wandered the streets without aim, her steps unmoored from thought. The world blurred around her. Stalls, voices, the clatter of hooves—all faded beneath the weight swelling in her chest. At some unmarked moment, her eyes misted. A soft, broken sob slipped free, then another, until grief hollowed her throat and spilled into the air, louder with every breath.

  Passersby turned their heads. A few slowed, their faces marked with fleeting concern. One or two even leaned closer, murmuring words of comfort. But her silence, her unresponsiveness, made them withdraw just as quickly.

  This was the outskirts of the city—where every household carried its own burden heavier than stone. Who among them could spare time for a little girl’s sorrow? Soon the crowd flowed on, leaving her cries to dissolve into the noise of the street.

  Still she walked, tears streaking her cheeks, her small shoulders trembling. Her thoughts tangled like knotted string. She could not return to her grandfather’s house—she did not even know the way, and without him, what awaited her there but servitude, perhaps worse? No, she could not—would not—choose that path.

  Memories pressed upon her. Her father’s drunk voice, her grandfather’s steady presence, her late mother—just a shadow, a face she had never seen but longed for. Yet none of these brought comfort.

  They only deepened the hollow ache inside her chest. Until, suddenly, another image pierced through the haze: a young boy with a bow, eyes steady, movements sure. Xiao Lei. She did not realize it, but her feet had already turned, carrying her toward the inn where they had stayed some days ago.

  The city churned around her as she moved. Hawkers shouted, their cries sharp as flung stones. Crowds shoved and jostled. A cart rolled past so close the wheel brushed the hem of her dress, jolting her back to awareness.

  Startled, she glanced upward. The sky was already sinking into hues of amber and violet; the sun’s edge rested against the horizon. Somehow, she had wandered until the inn stood only a short distance ahead.

  Her steps slowed. Doubt caught her like a snare. He had said he would leave. What if he was gone already? She hovered there, caught between yearning and fear. Then a thought struck—what if he was still here? Her heart thudded.

  She quickened her pace, then faltered again. Even if he remained, would he allow her near? His words before had been harsh, biting. They should have wounded her. And yet, recalling them now, she felt only a strange warmth, as though his severity itself offered her safety.

  Resolve gathered in her chest. She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, drew a trembling breath, and broke into a run.

  The inn rose before her, lanterns beginning to glow in its windows. She burst through the doors, breathless. The innkeeper glanced up, recognizing her. “Sir has gone out,” he said simply. Relief loosened her knees. He was still here.

  She sank into a corner seat, her small frame folded in on itself, and waited. Her fingers traced the wood grain of the bench until her nails ached. Each time the door creaked, her breath caught—only to falter again when strangers shuffled in. Lantern smoke clung to the air, dry and bitter, and she coughed into her sleeve.

  Time bled into hours. The chatter of guests dulled, replaced by the softer hush of night. Lanternlight flickered against the walls, shadows stretching long and thin. Yet Xiao Lei did not return. Anxiety gnawed at her, making her shift restlessly on the bench. At last she pushed herself upright, intent on searching for him.

  The door creaked open. A draft of cool night air swept in—and with it, Xiao Lei stepped across the threshold.

  Something within her broke free. Before thought, before breath, she ran to him. Her small body struck his chest, the bow at his side grazing her forehead. A sting flared—thin, sharp. Blood welled, sliding hot down her temple. She paid it no mind. Arms locked around him, clinging with desperate force, her sobs pouring out, raw and unrestrained.

  Xiao Lei did not return the embrace. He stood unmoving, hands loose at his sides. Only his lips curved, slowly.

  A smile—silken on the surface, edged like a hidden blade. The girl, blind in her grief, wept harder. But the innkeeper, watching from across the room, felt the air tighten, colder, as if winter had crept inside. For in that smile was not comfort, but conquest.

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.