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Treatise of the Pathways: Chapter V - The Unknown; Article 15.a

To Find a Path to the Unknown

i. Pull a strand of loose thread from your shirt. Note: Do not manufacture a loose thread. Only pull upon one already unspooling from the weave.

ii. Dip the thread in the water collected in a stranger’s footprint or the tracks of an animal. Note: If you are not outside and are lost in an unknown man-made structure, consult the Treatise of Mazes.

iii. Wrap the thread thrice around the fifth digit of your left hand.

iv. Hold your right hand over your eyes, whilst holding your left hand forward, palm open and perpendicular to the earth. Note: If you hold your palm parallel to the earth, you will instead find a path to the Known. Refer to Article 10.b.

v. Spin six times. Spin once more until you feel a tug on the thread wrapped around your finger.

vi. Follow the tugging. Correct your course should the tugging ever cease or weaken. The thread shall lead you to the Unknown.

~

The pavement is wet. Patches of it are black, where the tiling has sunken in. The rest is sparkling and golden, like mischa glittering at the bottom of a river, made a fool’s treasure by the lamplight. Above, the sky is overcast, with barely a star peering through.

It is late and Wei Ying is drunk. He is drunk and he has wandered just outside of town and in the wrong direction, away from the repurposed hotel he shares with eight other students (five undergrad, two other masters students, none of them reliant on a student visa and therefore completely unbothered by the completion of their degrees). 

Wei Ying is drunk and it is late, and this part of town is quiet, all the houses and shopfronts quiet and dark, bay windows turned reflective against the dimly lit night. In the distance, he can hear the waves roll in. Even when he cannot see the sea, he can hear it – its constant, reassuring murmur. Sometimes he imagines he hears it through the window of his apartment, whispering secrets.

Wei Ying’s foot slips on the pavement. His ankle twists, but not painfully, and he laughs at himself. The laugh tastes almost as bitter-sour as the vodka he poured down his throat back at the bar.

To his left stretches a long expanse of gray stone wall, tipped with metal spikes. Over the top of the wall, old pine looms and whispers in perfect mimicry of the ocean.

Wei Ying looks up at the pines and imagines himself swaying as they do in the briny breeze. He can smell them, all sharp and green and fresh. He thinks of the coniferous trees that line the garden of his uncle’s home, of the blue-tiled swimming pool that glows like a sapphire in the afternoon sun, the ridiculous sprawling use of space in a city so cramped that people live stacked on top of each other.

Wei Ying’s foot slips again, but he catches himself on time. He’s very good at picking himself back up again, at rolling with the punches and improvising.

It’s hard, sometimes, to figure out the right thing to do.

His aunt is a reasonable woman. She would never actually tell him what to do, or what not to do. She just makes recommendations, and very often, they’re very reasonable recommendations.

It’s just that she sometimes has a way of saying things that…

Wei Ying gives up on the pavement and walks directly on the road.  He can’t hear any cars coming, and anyways, it’s now a straight stretch of road without any treacherous bends. 

Anyways, Wei Ying thinks to himself, it’s not like other kids don’t get yelled at. 

It’s just that Wei Ying gets yelled at about the strangest things.

Sure, he gets scolded for going out a lot, for spending his allowance buying his less-fortunate friends warm lunches and dinners, and sometimes for when he gets into fights defending girls from creeps in bars (though less so, because Yu Ziyan considers sexual harassment the lowest of crimes). But the scolding always feels sort of perfunctory, as if Wei Ying’s aunt is just doing it because it’s what guardians do.

But receiving a Biochemistry offer from Oxford – that got her yelling at him so loudly the veins stood up on her forehead. ( You should have gotten a scholarship. Why bother applying if you’re just going to make us pay for it? They only accepted you because you’re an international student and they want our money, you know. )

Or how could he think of applying for a masters in Marine Biology at University of California? ( Scholarship? What kind of scholarship is 50%? Do you know how much those degrees cost? And I suppose you’ll need a car too. American cars, do you know how much gas costs? And do you know how hard it will be for your uncle and I to attend all your graduations? We don’t have family in San Diego – how will you manage when an emergency happens? You just don’t think! Stupid, stay in the UK like your brother and sister. They have fish in England, don’t they?)

She could just say no. But no isn’t a word his family is meant to say.

And anyways, Wei Ying knows what she means. 

He has a position in life that he’s meant to play, and he should not overreach beyond his status and means. He has dues to pay.

He owes the Jiangs a lot. He owes them everything. Without their patronage, he would have never been able to attend a good international school back home. Never been able to study abroad at a good university. And he’s so lucky. He’s luckier than most.

Specifically, though, he knows what he owes them, what he’s promised to Jiang Cheng and to his uncle. When he’s done his full education, PhD and the lot, he’ll add an MBA to the top and go home, run the family business at Jiang Cheng’s side, ever the faithful right hand.

And to be honest, it’s more than a rotten orphan like Wei Ying deserves in life. Everything he’s received from the Jiangs has been more than his parents could have ever given him, even if they’d survived the crash, even if the world had spun round slightly differently and they had lived happily ever after in their little flat overlooking the sea. At Jiang Cheng’s side, Wei Ying will have status. Money. A place in the world.

Headlights flash ahead, drawing long cones of white over the road. Wei Ying skips to the left, up onto the pavement, pressing himself against the stone wall. The cold surface of it presses against his back, soaking through his sweater as he watches the car glide past.

Wei Ying watches as its tail lights wink like a wolf’s eyes in the woods, before they round the corner and disappear from sight. He exhales through his mouth. His breath curls in the air. He tips his head back and feels the damp press of the stones against his scalp, looks up at the dim outline of the moon as it passes behind a thin cloud. 

Wei Ying does not want a place in the world. He wants to disappear, like foam upon the shore, like Hans Christen Anderson’s little mermaid with her broken heart and her stolen love, never hers, never hers, never hers. 

He pushes off the wall and continues up the road, his fingers trailing along the wall. Ahead, he sees something unravel in the shadows. The wall, although seemingly unending and unyielding, tapers down as it crumbles beneath an overgrown blackberry bush, before rising again on the other side. 

Stopping by the bush, Wei Ying plucks a few of the small blackberries. He pops one into his mouth. They explode with delightful tart sweetness, easing away the edge of his dizzy drunkenness. 

There is a hole in the bush, large enough for a person to fit through. He peers through it.

Beyond the blackberry bush is a beautiful, well-kept lawn, with a grassy slope that drifts down to a low wall built of plaster and mismatched slate. Beyond the wall, the ocean rolls gently in, dark and mysterious and framed with frothy white at the break. Facing the ocean stands a single bench made of pale wood, shaded by the curving boughs of an oak.

That bench seems peaceful in a way that Wei Ying has never felt in his life, and he thinks – rather suddenly – that if he could just sit on that bench, every problem he has ever encountered in his life will fade away.

Wei Ying pockets his blackberries and climbs through the hole in the hedge. Twigs and sticks catch in his too-long hair, and berries fall to the ground at his feet, to be picked apart tomorrow by dormice and sparrows. Once through the hole, Wei Ying brushes leaves out of his hair as he straightens.

The edge of a sword presses against his throat, deadly sharp and icy cold. Wei Ying glances up along the sword’s edge, too afraid to move his head for fear of slicing his jugular clean through. It is a real sword. He can tell by the weight of it.

Holding the sword is a tall man, standing half in the shadow of a tall pine, half illuminated by the silver light of the moon. His hand is steady on the pale hilt of the sword, despite its weight, despite its danger.

Wei Ying observes this only dimly. He is enraptured by the man’s impossible, terrible beauty. If jade could be wrought into the likeness of a god, then this would be its shape. He looks vaguely East Asian, though his posture and clothing place him quite comfortably at any over-privileged college at Oxford – the gray sweater-vest, the pressed trousers, the lace-up leather shoes, the crisp shirt and its sleeves rolled up perfectly to reveal muscular forearms. His hair is short, parted neatly, revealing the angular planes of his face.

‘What is your business here?’ asks the strange man. 

His English is perfect, clipped, and precise. Native. Well-worn, like old shoes. It screams something the locals crave more than money – class . 

‘Uh,’ says Wei Ying. He swallows nervously. His adam’s apple presses uncomfortably against the edge of the sword. ‘I just wanted to sit at the park bench?’ he says, pointing at the distant bench facing the sea. 

The man’s brow arches sharply. The rest of him remains perfectly still. 

‘This is not a park,’ the man says.

‘Yeah,’ says Wei Ying, struggling to find sobriety, ‘I’m getting that now. Look, can you just let me go and forget about this. I’m really sorry. Genuinely, I thought this was a park.’

The man tilts his head back, his eyes narrowing as he studies Wei Ying. The moonlight catches the lines that bracket his mouth. 

This is not a man who smiles often. 

Wei Ying, caught in staring at that mouth that does not smile, steps back. The sword follows a fraction of a second too late, and something in Wei Ying’s muscle memory clicks in, and he ducks and rolls out of the way before he knows what he’s doing.

‘You!’ yells the man, but Wei Ying is already on his feet and out of range of the sword.

See, yes , Wei Ying is pretty drunk, but he didn’t get forcibly enrolled in all those fucking wushu classes for nothing. 

He ducks as the next swing comes, and when the sword slices towards him ( real sword oh my god real sword ), blade horizontal to the ground, he catches it with the palm of his hand and flips it up with considerable force. The blade flies up and over the strange man’s head, and buries itself deep in the wet earth. 

The man looks at the sword, now with only half the blade visible above ground, and then back at Wei Ying – not in astonishment, but fury. Before Wei Ying can move an inch, the man springs back into a one-handed backflip, yanks the sword out of the ground, and charges forward at Wei Ying.

‘Oh my god,’ says Wei Ying, who is still pretty drunk, and falls into a reverse nordic squat that his under-15s rugby coach would be proud of. 

The sword narrowly misses his face by a hair. He watches the cold blade pass over his nose, then retract, almost as though in slow motion.

‘Holy shit,’ Wei Ying says. ‘Can you-’ but the man attacks again, and Wei Ying ducks again, skidding back over the damp grass and ruining his jeans with grass stains, ‘-stop trying to kill me?’

A muscle twitches in the man’s jaw as he whips his sword at his hip, reorients himself, and stalks counterclockwise to Wei Ying’s movements, blocking the hole in the blackberry bush – and Wei Ying’s only means of escape. 

‘Listen,’ says Wei Ying, lifting his palms in an attempt to parlay with this very handsome, very psychotic man. ‘I’ll leave, okay? I’ll leave right now.’

The man’s lips curve downwards, and he lunges forward in an attack almost too fast to react to, but years of being yelled at in a musty gym has given Wei Ying excellent reflexes, and so he steps out of the way. The man stumbles past, and Wei Ying reaches out and smacks the man on the wrist. The sword falls to the ground.

The man is fast, yes, but Wei Ying is far faster. He scoops the sword up from the ground by the hilt, flipping it to adjust his grip, and with precision drilled into him as a little boy performing hundreds of backflips in a musty gym, swings the sword at the man’s bare throat. He stops just a centimeter away from skin.

The weight of the sword is perfectly balanced, yet hefty enough to strain the neglected muscles in Wei Ying’s arm. And yet somehow, he holds it steady, all drunkenness wiped clean from his bloodstream as his heart beats steadily in his breast. Something long quiet in him seems to rear its head.

The strange man stares at Wei Ying, his chest rising and falling visibly with heavy breaths. The moon fills out his eyes. They are as light and clear as amber resin. 

‘Will you please stop trying to kill me now,’ Wei Ying says, frowning.

The man is silent. 

Wei Ying sighs heavily. He lowers the sword, wipes off a blade of grass from his sleeve, and hands the blade back to its owner, hilt-first. 

The man looks deeply irritated with this, his mouth curving sharply downwards. He steps away from Wei Ying. ‘No,’ he says. ‘It was won from me, fairly and honorably. It is yours.’

‘The fuck?’ says Wei Ying, wondering if he is, in fact, still drunk. 

He thrusts the hilt at the man again, and again, the man takes a step back from him, looking even more irate.

‘Alright, fine,’ huffs Wei Ying, blowing out his cheeks. He adjusts his grip on the smooth hilt of the sword, as cold as wet stone beneath his palm. ‘How do I give this back to you?’

‘I must trade with you something of equal worth,’ says the strange man.

‘Uh. Okay.’ Wei Ying rubs his forehead with his free hand. ‘How about your name? Your real name.’ In case he needs to file a police report or stalk this beautiful, scary man on google or something.

The man looks even more angry. He pulls his shoulders back and draws himself to his full height, which is rather impressive and forces Wei Ying to tip his chin up slightly. 

‘My name is Lan Zhan,’ the man says.

‘Cool,’ says Wei Ying, handing the sword over. 

The man snatches it away from Wei Ying and slides it home into a scabbard hanging at his hip. The pale color of that leather is the same as the hilt.

‘I’m Wei Ying, by the way,’ Wei Ying offers. ‘Or Ying Wei. However you want to say it.’  He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Sorry again for trespassing. I really just-’ he breaks off, glancing away at the lone bench beneath the oak. 

It seems to shine an iridescent silver in this light, which is strange, because wood does not glitter.

He shakes his head. 

‘Nevermind,’ he sighs. ‘Well. Goodnight, Lan Zhan.’

He nods to the strange man and ducks back out through the blackberry bush, out of that strange lawn beyond the wall. But before he goes back the way he came, towards home, he looks through the gap in the hedge, and sees Lan Zhan standing there at the edge of the pines, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other over his throat, just above the starched collar of his fine white shirt, beautiful like a prince in dreaming, a hero in fairy tales. 

~

Wei Ying wakes up with a killer hangover. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, thinking of old pine, a pale bench, and a man and his pale sword.

What a weird dream , he thinks to himself. He rolls out of bed, still wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and boxers. 

He picks up his jeans from where they are rolled up on the floor, next to his cheap plastic drawers. There are grass stains on the knees. His sweater, thrown over the back of his chair, smells of pine needles and dew. There are blackberries lined up on his desk. He eats them all in one go.

Okay, he thinks. Not a dream.

In the small sink in his bedroom, he washes his face with icy cold water to chase away the last of his hangover. He locates his phone at the foot of his bed, buried beneath kicked-up blankets, and plugs it into his charger. The screen blinks on, revealing a text from his brother.

Apparently, Jiang Cheng is in town and wants to meet for coffee at their usual.

Wei Ying sends a quick response, closes his messaging app, and discovers a new email in his inbox. His adviser wants to chat before they close up term and prepare for graduation. 

Wei Ying’s stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol he consumed last night. He sighs and sets his phone down on his bed.

He showers as hot as the shower will go - but not for very long, because electricity is more expensive now than ever. He goes downstairs, makes a quick breakfast of toast and salted butter, eating it over the sink to avoid crumbs. 

One of his flatmates is looking extremely distressed, staring blankly at his ipad as though it might save him from the last of his zoology exams (some poor sods are still in the trenches with exams), while the other one is napping on the couch in between shifts finishing his student film. To the best of Wei Ying’s knowledge, it involves a feminist deconstruction of Gisele , and requires long hours of standing in the damp, cold woods with very little lighting or clothing. 

Wei Ying bids both of them goodbye and takes the bus into town, squeezes past the morning crowd on the high street and slips into the local café-cum-bookstore that Jiang Cheng loves – partially because of the aesthetics, but mostly because he has a huge crush on the barista.

(Jiang Cheng gets a lot of crushes and never acts on them. Wei Ying, however, would kiss every person in the bar and never feel a thing about them.)

As Wei Ying meanders past the cashier and the cake display, Jiang Cheng gets up from his seat and waves at him. He’s gotten a cozy spot at the back with two armchairs, and he’s ordered them both coffees already.

Wei Ying absolutely loves Jiang Cheng.

‘Chili hot chocolate with two espresso shots,’ Jiang Cheng recites, handing Wei Ying the paper cup.

‘I love you,’ Wei Ying informs Jiang Cheng.

Wei Ying’s adoptive brother just snorts in return and sips at his cappuccino. 

‘So,’ Wei Ying says, leaning back in his armchair. ‘All done with exams?’

‘Yeah,’ says Jiang Cheng, crossing his legs. ‘I just have this one last formative to submit by five in the evening.’

He always insists on wearing ridiculously expensive sneakers with his clothes for someone who lives in Bristol, where he absolutely would be mugged and robbed blind, unlike here, where the biggest threat is a drunken old man at the wheel of a third-hand Honda going two-hundred miles on a winding lane.

‘Do you want to crash at mine?’ Wei Ying offers.

He takes a sip of his concoction. The combination of sweet and spicy warms up the chill of late spring that seems to perpetually cling to him.

‘Nah,’ says Jiang Cheng, shrugging. ‘I’ll think I might head on down to Newquay tonight and just stay with Yanli. She has that-’

‘Nice new guest bedroom, yeah, I know,’ Wei Ying nods sagely. 

Jiang Yanli never shuts up about the redecoration efforts she’s done on her little house that neither of her parents approve of, but to hell with it, she’s got a thriving business in Newquay selling handmade art, and it’s not like their shareholders would let a woman with ten health conditions take over the family business.

‘Are you done with exams?’ asks Jiang Cheng, his eyes straying to the barista.

Wei Ying hides his smile in his coffee. ‘Uh huh. Last one yesterday.’

‘Ah,’ says Jiang Cheng, grinning. ‘That’s why you smell like a liquor cabinet.’

‘Oh fuck off,’ laughs Wei Ying, which earns him a stern look from the little old lady sitting behind him. ‘Oops.’

Jiang Cheng digs in his pocket and produces a packet of spearmint gum, which he tosses into Wei Ying’s lap. They both snicker about it until they earn another disapproving look from the little old lady, at which point they call it quits and finish their coffee. Wei Ying takes Jiang Cheng’s cup and deposits both of their cups in the recycling bin by the door.

Outside, the air is crisp and stings against their cheeks. There is salt upon the breeze. Somewhere down the street, a busker starts strumming on an acoustic guitar, but any singing is drowned out by the calling of seagulls coming in from the port. 

Wei Ying digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he leans back onto his heels. ‘So,’ he says. ‘I have to talk to my adviser. Do you want to come with me to uni and wait at the library? Maybe work on your formative? The wifi’s good. And they don’t even check to see if you have the right student ID.’

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. He adjusts the strap of his messenger bag. ‘So lax,’ he says. ‘I can’t even use the chemistry study area back at mine. I’m literally studying a science, aren’t I, those stingy pricks, why does it matter if I’m in bloody chem?’

Wei Ying grins. ‘You’re going a bit local there,’ he teases, nudging his adoptive brother in the side. 

They pick up a puff pastry each at the bakery two shops away – breakfast pasty for Wei Ying, apple turnover for Jiang Cheng – and they hop on the bus. They sit side-by-side and eat their pastries as the bus takes them up through town and around the weaving road that overlooks the ocean, before tucking up neatly into the hills, swallowing them in a tunnel of dappled green. They get off at the campus station cut through the green, striding past an equal combination of relieved looking students and incredibly agitated ones. 

Wei Ying lets Jiang Cheng into the library, gives a quick farewell, and hoofs it to his academic advisor's office. Several fire doors and stairs later, he knocks on the wooden door and enters.

He takes a minute to catch his breath as his advisor watches him over gold-rimmed spectacles, sipping her tea in a handmade ceramic mug painted a distressing shade of cerulean. 

‘Well, Mr. Wei,’ she says, once he’s settled. ‘I’m pleased to say that you’ve received another offer. A very good one.’

Wei Ying blinks at her for a moment. Offers don’t usually come through advisors. And he’s already sent half his paperwork for potential postgraduate study, and has received almost all the offers (or rejections) he’s expected to get.

‘Offer?’ he repeats.

His advisor pushes a glossy brochure across the table. ‘The Hawthorn Institute,’ she explains. ‘It’s a research fellowship, and you’ll be required to complete a few classes here. It’s rare that any of our students ever get selected for this program.’

Wei Ying picks up the brochure. There is nothing on the front save for a rather solemn looking building with marble pillars and tall, narrow windows painted emerald green. The Hawthorn Institute for Research and Learning , says the brochure in block serif letters.

‘I don’t understand,’ he says slowly.

‘It’s a research institute,’ his advisor says, giving him a look over her spectacles. She adjusts the multi-colored scarf around her neck. ‘Very rigid non-disclosure,’ she adds, almost as though sharing a secret with him, ‘so I’m not sure if they feed into the Secret Service or something like that, but you’ll live on-campus, which means free room and board. And, you’re guaranteed entry into any post-doctorate in the country, but in my experience, any students that go there rarely ever leave. It’s a very good placement with very good pay.’

Wei Ying holds the brochure in his left hand. The other, he clenches in his lap until his knuckles whiten.

‘But,’ he says. ‘My other applications.’

His advisor sits back in her chair and smiles at him. Behind her left shoulder, a crystal charm twinkles in the sunlight. 

‘We can figure those out,’ she assures him. ‘It’s strongly in your interest to take this offer, Mr. Wei.’

Wei Ying looks down at the brochure, at the building and its green windows, its marble pillars. ‘I don’t know if my family will approve,’ he mutters.

This just makes his advisor laugh. ‘How could they not?’ she asks. ‘Look, just think it over. The deadline is in a week. I’ll set an appointment before then.’ She rolls her chair over to her desktop, clicks a few times on her mouse, and nods in satisfaction. ‘There. I’ll see you Tuesday next.’

Wei Ying thanks his advisor politely, stuffs the brochure into his jacket pocket, and somehow finds his way back to the library. He feels as though underwater.

Free room and board.  Good pay. Guaranteed entry into any PhD he wants.

What the hell would a place like that want with a random STEM masters student from a mid-ranking university? Wei Ying is smart, sure, but nothing on paper proves that. He’s made sure not to stand out, not after the offer to San Diego. 

Perhaps his emotional turmoil is written on his face, because Jiang Cheng takes him by the arm on the bus back into town, and says: ‘Let’s get your stuff and go see Yanli together.’

And it’s been a while since Wei Ying saw Yanli, so of course he says yes.

He packs an overnight bag and meets Jiang Cheng at the paid parking where he’s left his car. Wei Ying tries not to blanch at the fee – Wei Ying gets things paid for him, of course, but only so much as he sets in the budget he submits to his aunt each term. Jiang Cheng, however, has access to several accounts and credit cards. 

He’s the firstborn son of the Jiang fortune, after all. The only son. 

The world is his to command.

The drive up to their sister’s house is beautiful, cutting over open fields and down winding hedgerows, before easing into smaller cottages that pepper the borders of the seaside town. 

Newquay is beautiful – all open sandy coasts and craggy cliffs and the brilliant blue of the water, and people traversing here for their share of sunshine and saltwater wind. 

Yanli’s house is beautiful, too, just far up enough that she steers clear of the tourists. She keeps a small pot of lotuses in her conservatory, as if to remind her of home. She makes them lotus root soup for dinner, even though it’s not exactly easy to get lotus root out here. When Jiang Cheng mentions it, she smacks his wrist.

‘It’s a treat!’ she scolds him. ‘I had it, just in case you both came to visit.’

After they put away all the cutlery and turn the dishwasher on, they watch television in her living room, cozied up together on the oversized sofa like sardines wrapped in a woolen throw blanket, sipping hot sweetened soy milk.

At night, Jiang Cheng sleeps in the bed in the new guest room (which is also very beautiful, with floral patterns painted into the pale blue walls and dried bushels of lavender in jars by the window) while Wei Ying slumbers on a futon on the floor.

They wake up to the smell of chocolate chip pancakes, which they eat together in the conservatory as Yanli sips her ginseng tea. After polishing off enough carbs to feed half an army, the boys are ushered into the living room, where Yanli lights one of her soy candles and sits down with her hands folded in her lap, which means, now I’m getting serious.

‘Well,’ Jiang Yanli says, in the no-nonsense way she always does, ‘will you boys tell me what’s going on.’

Jiang Cheng glares at Wei Ying. ‘Well?’ he repeats.

Wei Ying digs his hands into the sleeves of his sweater. He takes a deep breath, and then another one. 

‘So,’ he says. ‘You know how I’m considering offers for a PhD?’

‘Go with Cambridge,’ says Jiang Cheng, with almost knee-jerk reactivity. 

Yanli levels a look at her brother that could chill Antarctica. 

‘Sorry,’ Jiang Cheng says sheepishly.

‘Go on,’ says Yanli, ever-encouraging.

Wei Ying takes another deep breath. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘So. Haha. I got another offer from some kind of research institute? I think?’ 

He takes the brochure out from his bag and passes it to Yanli, who opens it and begins to read, her lips moving minutely as she traces the words with her slender fingers. Wei Ying has no idea what she’s reading. He hasn’t even opened the thing.

‘Free room and board,’ Wei Ying parrots. ‘And really good pay, apparently.’

‘What does your adviser think?’ Yanli asks, her eyes still tracing the brochure. 

‘She says it’s a rare opportunity and I should take the offer,’ Wei Ying replies. ‘But, Aunty-’

‘Mom doesn’t actually understand anything that isn’t finance,’ Yanli interrupts him firmly. ‘Don’t make your decisions based on what she’d want.’

She hands the brochure across her coffee table, and Jiang Cheng accepts it from her. He skims its contents and passes the glossy paper back to Wei Ying. Wei Ying glances inside.

There’s mentions of a highly reputable cohort and extensive research facilities and centuries of history . It’s all just waffle, really. Strict non-disclosure, indeed. 

‘So, what kind of research?’ Jiang Cheng asks.

‘They can’t say,’ Wei Ying shrugs. ‘I hope it’s at least tangentially related to my degree, though, otherwise it’s a bit of a waste of their resources.’

‘You won’t be far from the marine conservation centers,’ Yanli points out. She shifts back in her chair and tucks her feet beneath her, keeping them warm. There’s a bit of a chill in this room, with the fireplace out. ‘And you’re in the right area for marine biology, geographically.’ 

Wei Ying shrugs. He looks down at the brochure, then up at his sister. ‘I still don’t know if I should do it,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t know if I can do it. Maybe I’ll fail at it. Maybe Aunty will get angry at me and make me go home. Maybe-’

Jiang Cheng twists around on his side of the sofa, lifts his legs up against his chest, and lands a solid kick in Wei Ying’s ribs. Wei Ying goes toppling over the side of the sofa and onto the ground, where he lies as he hears the sweet music of Yanli telling Jiang Cheng off in rapid-fire Cantonese – a rare and wondrous thing only brought out on special family occasions. Wei Ying curls up on the rug, laughing and wheezing and very winded, as Yanli threatens to slap Jiang Cheng round the face with her slipper.

‘Aiya, ease off, will you?’ Jiang Cheng complains, hands lifted in surrender as he steps away from his very small, very angry elder sister. ‘I’m sorry, okay? Wei Ying was just talking bullshit again.’

Yanli slaps him round the thigh with her slipper.

‘Ow!’ yelps Jiang Cheng.

‘You do not kick your brother,’ Yanli chides. ‘Even if he’s being silly and not very nice to himself.’ At which point she turns around and glares at Wei Ying, slipper brandished at her side. 

‘Haha,’ says Wei Ying. ‘I’m injured.’

‘Promise me you’ll take the research fellowship,’ his terrifying sister says, lifting the slipper threateningly. 

‘Yes,’ squeaks Wei Ying, curling up into a ball. ‘Mercy, mercy.’

Jiang Cheng plops down into Yanli's armchair and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Good,’ he nods. ‘Any chance of us getting to visit your fancy new institute?’

Yanli picks up the brochure, flips it open, and points to a section that says: No visitors or unapproved personnel permitted on campus.

‘Are they recruiting you to MI5 or something?’ Jiang Cheng asks.

‘Imagine,’ says Wei Ying, rolling his eyes. ‘That would give your mom a stress ulcer.’

~

Wei Ying takes the position. There’s orientation next week, and then two weeks after that, a pre-course for select students that lasts about a month.

He tells Jiang Cheng this over the phone as he’s sprawled on his bedroom floor, filling out stacks of paperwork and NDAs, and Jiang Cheng’s in his Bristol flat, getting ready to go out.

‘What the fuck?’ complains Jiang Cheng, his voice crackling over the poor connection. ‘So you get no summer break?’

‘Yep,’ says Wei Ying, shirt tucked up to his chest, gaze drifting over the vague patterns on his ceiling. ‘And I have to move in a week before the pre-course starts.’

Jiang Cheng scoffs. Wei Ying can almost see the curl of his lip. ‘You’re joking.’

Wei Ying rolls over onto his stomach and tugs at a loose thread on his carpeted floor. ‘I wish,’ he huffs. ‘My friends are all out and I’m here, filling out… I don’t even know what this is.’ He shoves a stack of papers. ‘And then I have to pack.’

‘And what did Mom say when you told her?’ Jiang Cheng asks. There’s a clang in the background, presumably cutlery finding their way into the sink. Jiang Cheng lives alone, the lucky bastard. 

‘At least I’m saving money,’ Wei Ying repeats, grinning. 

Jiang Cheng snorts. ‘Well, Yanli and I are probably going back for the summer before my MBA starts. Guess we shouldn’t book your ticket home?’

Wei Ying thinks about their swimming pool at home, the cool comfort of his childhood bedroom, his favorite viewpoint at the top of his favorite hiking path, away from the crowds and the claustrophobic bustle of the city. 

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘no point.’

There’s a pause. Wei Ying listens to the sounds of the laundry machine rattling, two floors below him. 

‘Wish you were coming with us.’

‘Yeah,’ says Wei Ying. He rolls back over and stares at his ceiling.

~

A week later, Wei Ying shows up at the front of the institute, a few minutes out of town on the opposite side. The gates are very high and very, very secure, made of wrought iron and fashioned to look like curling vines of ivy. He seems to be the only one here. 

He announces his arrival to the little intercom box by the gates, and gets let in with a mechanical click. He wanders down a long gravel path hedged in by tall pine trees, glimpsing buildings in the distance made of gray stone and terracotta-tile roofs, though he cannot see a path to lead him to any of them.

At the end of the gravel path stands the building on the brochure – all slender marble pillars and green windows, and a flat roof that makes the structure quite resemble some old Grecian temple. At the front steps of the building stands a woman of small stature with jet black hair pulled back into a severe bun, dressed in a crisp black suit. There are rubies glittering at her ears that only serve to darken her large, haunting eyes. There is something unsettling about her, and it takes a while for Wei Ying to realize it is the fact that the woman does not blink.

She does not speak to him, nor does she gesture to him, but instead turns around and walks up the steps. He follows her through the open double doors, through to a foyer with a polished marble floor and raised arch. There, she motions for him to stand before him, and she pins a small flower made of the palest silver to the lapel of his jacket.

‘Always wear that,’ she tells him, in a voice deeper than he would have expected from such a small woman. ‘Find a seat to the back right,’ she instructs. 

She pulls open a second door, revealing a large chamber that looks almost like the halls of a church. Wooden benches line each side of the room, facing a low stage built of dark, polished wood. Behind the stage looms a stained glass window depicting a hawthorn tree, its leaves a hundred different shades of green. Ornate torches, carved to look like snarling lions, protrude from the walls. 

There are already at least fifty people sitting along wooden benches, filling up nearly every available seat. Wei Ying spies an empty spot at the back right and takes it before it can disappear. He notices that more people are filing in, although not from the path he took – instead, they come in from doors to the side of the building.

The young man to his right flashes Wei Ying a nervous grin. He’s wearing a pinstripe, charcoal suit, with the same silver flower pinned to his lapel. His hair curls a little and falls to his shoulders. 

‘Hi,’ says Wei Ying, lowering his voice. ‘I’m Wei Ying. Or Ying Wei.’

‘Hi Wei Ying,’ the other man whispers, extending his hand to Wei Ying to shake. ‘Nie Huaisang. Legacy.’

‘Sorry?’ Wei Ying whispers back.

At first, Wei Ying isn’t quite sure if the man is a transplant, like he is. But then Nie Huaisang continues to talk, and it becomes clear that his accent, though vaguely Welsh, has a polished edge to it, as though any character had been beaten out of it at an early age. Another local , Wei Ying thinks. 

‘I’m a Legacy,’ Huaisang repeats. ‘My brother studied here before me. I’m guessing you're a Pioneer, if you came through that door. You’re the last one to arrive, I think.’

‘What does that mean?’ Wei Ying asks, confused.

Before Huaisang can whisper another reply, a door opens behind the stage. A tall, stern-looking woman walks out, followed closely by a man with graying hair and a very severe beard. They stand at the center of the stage, the woman looking out at her audience with piercing, blue eyes. 

‘Legacies,’ she says, her voice carrying across the room as though amplified by a microphone. ‘Pioneers. Welcome to the Hawthorn institute. Pioneers, I invite you to rise.’

Nie Huaisang prods Wei Ying in the arm. Wei Ying, still confused, stands up.

There are roughly ten of them, scattered around the pews. Each of the people standing glance around at each other in equal bemusement.

The woman nods at them, seeming to catch each of their gaze as she continues her speech. ‘All your life, you have noticed the thin of the Veil,’ she says. ‘You have always felt out of place with the world. You have been capable of things no other person is. You have known things that should not be known.’

Wei Ying’s stomach flips upside down. He tries not to think about silver scales in a harbor, of shimmering shells collected in a jar, hidden beneath his childhood bed.

‘The feeling that has lived in your heart,’ the woman says, lifting her hands before her, ‘that squirming wyrm in your gut, the coal that burned in your mind, each were guiding you here.’

The woman claps her hands. 

The torches on the walls burst into flame. Wei Ying startles, and a girl behind him lets out a shout. 

The bearded man lifts his hand, and from within his sleeves, a flurry of paper birds explode and soar up. They fly around the hall, up, up, through the wooden eaves and then, in a dizzying blizzard of flapping paper wings, dive. Before they reach the crowd below, they burst into a rainfall of flower petals. Wherever the petals touch Wei Ying’s clothing, it turns the threads white as bone. The same, he sees, happens to each of the Pioneers standing – and only to them, until they are ten people clothed head-to-toe in purest white. The room smells of jasmine. 

The bearded man, satisfied with his work, nods to the woman and leaves. The door shuts politely behind him.

The woman clasps her hand at her chest and grins at her audience. Her teeth are sharp, like a wolf’s.

‘Congratulations, Pioneers.’ she says. ‘You are now a part of the Unknown.’ 

Chapter Text

Treatise of the In-Between: Chapter III - Sight and Unseeing; Article 3.d

To See a Book That Has Been Hidden in an Unknown Library

i. Wash your hands in a bowl of saline water. Note: Do not use soap.

ii. Turn your shirt inside out, and wear it so that the seams are exposed. 

iii. Place a cherry pit beneath your tongue. Note: Do not spit the pit out until the ritual is complete, or you must start over with a new cherry pit.

iv. Start at the far left hand side of a library shelf, with your left hand on the first book on the shelf closest to your left shoulder. 

v. Walk forwards with your hand held over the books until you feel the cherry pit turn clockwise in your mouth, at which point you must immediately halt. Note: Do not remove your hand if the cherry pit turns counter-clockwise. If this happens, keep the cherry pit in your mouth as you immediately alert the closest librarian.

vi. You will find the book you seek beneath the palm of your left hand. 

~

The Pioneers, it seems, have a special orientation away from the Legacies. White-clad, like a gaggle of lost geese, the transplants follow the dark-eyed woman (the one who Wei Ying met at the door, the one who doesn’t blink and probably isn’t human and has those really nice earrings) across the campus green and away from the hall they first convened in. 

The woman is fast on her feet, despite her height.

Wei Ying is faster though, and with his long legs he catches up with her quickly. He sidesteps a grumpy-looking woman with a too-short fringe, and falls into stride next to the woman with the ruby-red earrings.

‘Hi,’ he says cheerfully, extending a hand. ‘I’m Wei Ying. You helped pin my flower.’

She looks up at him with her large, unblinking eyes. He smiles winningly at her.

‘You can call me Dr. Wen,’ she informs him, not quite loud enough for the people behind them to hear.

‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ he tells her earnestly, because it is, truly, very nice to meet her. 

She looks at him like he’s lost his mind. This is a recurring theme in Wei Ying’s life, he thinks to himself. 

The group turns off the sprawl of grass and manicured trees, and cuts alongside the wider edge of what looks almost like a fortress, with two main towers. The structure looms over them with slender pillars of gray brick, impressive battlements and gargoyles spitting beneath flying buttresses – Wei Ying’s brain spits out a quote from Pride and Prejudice, of course – with large archways for people to pass under on their way. Within this tunnel of archways, the group of Pioneers come across entrances to each of the twin towers, marked with an incredibly mundane matching set of navy-blue fire doors with matching keycard locks. 

‘This is one of the newer buildings,’ Dr. Wen informs the group, raising her voice to be heard. ‘Architecture and Urban Planning, this is where you’ll be based. This is the tallest building on campus, if you get lost, it is entirely your fault.’

‘How will we know what we’re doing?’ asks a pale man from the back of the group. His teeth look too big for his head. ‘We weren’t given a list.’

The corner of Dr. Wen’s mouth twitches downward. Wei Ying thinks he sees sharp teeth – not like the lady who welcomed them in the hall, not like a wolf’s, but something a little more frightening, like a shark’s multi-layered, jagged teeth. 

‘You will be informed of your placements at the end of your pre-course,’ she says, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the man who called out. ‘We want each of you to focus on learning about how this Institute and the Unknown function as a whole. Remember, you will not simply be allocated to isolated islands of learning, but will be expected to cooperate and work closely together, regardless of your department.’ 

Wei Ying loves this place. He loves it. 

Dr. Wen subjects them for an uncomfortable minute to her unblinking stare, and then continues through the arches. As before, Wei Ying matches her pace, remaining at her side, which would have probably annoyed any other person, but this seems to amuse her greatly. 

The Pioneer group comes across a towering, enormous greenhouse to their left, on a slight slope up the hill, while on their left, a long row of buildings runs along the downhill slope. Its glittering, domed roofs seem to be made of beaten copper, while its walls are painted flawless white. Wei Ying wonders if these are feats of fantastic architecture or is merely a mastery of magic. 

‘Horticulture,’ barks Dr. Wen, pointing at the greenhouse. She then gestures at the caterpillar of green domes and white walls. ‘Arts and History. If any of you is joining as an archivist, you will be locked in that department’s basement, and for that, I am sincerely sorry.’

The Hawthorn Institute is enormous, and there are a fair few buildings that they have not yet passed, but they soon come to a tall, square building with stained glass windows. There are steps that wind alongside the building’s front, then follow the building around its corner and up. Dr. Wen leads them up this staircase, and as they turn around its sharp bend, they find themselves in a sprawling courtyard. It is not, in fact, a single building, but a structure consisting of several buildings that face into the courtyard.

Dr. Wen points at each of the buildings, going around counterclockwise. ‘Music. Psychology. Medicine. Education. Laws and Politics.’

Wei Ying does not think that he belongs to any of these departments, but he wishes he did. There are creeping vines spilling out from balconies, and colored flags flying between the slanted roofs of each building. There are several people wandering in between open doors, each dressed in vibrant, wonderful colors that Wei Ying has not yet seen in the rest of the campus. 

Dr. Wen leads them up another set of steps that takes them between Education and Laws and Politics, squeezing between lichen-dusted walls and over steep, slippery stone steps, before releasing them onto a generous balcony that peers over a towering cliff of dark slate. As Wei Ying peers over the railing, he stares down a steep drop onto sandy, white beaches. The water is dark and frothy and wonderful. 

The Pioneers gather on the left side of the balcony, chattering to each other about something they see on the horizon, but Wei Ying watches, transfixed by the tide that rolls in over pebbles and pale sand. Is there a way down there? He might be able to scale this wall, but it will be a difficult endeavor and he doesn’t have good enough insurance to deal with broken limbs.

Dr. Wen comes to stand beside him. She places her hands palms-down on the mossy, stone railing and offers him a closed-lip smile.

‘Look there,’ she tells him, and points out to the right, where, on a lower point of the cliffs, there stands what looks like either a large cottage or a barn. ‘That’s Marine Biology.’

Wei Ying stares at it. It is like a dream he once had. 

The cottage has dark, sloping tiles on a quaint pyramid of a roof, and pale blue walls. Its front door faces the open ocean, and not the land, and although the angle they stand at obscures much of the cottage’s front, he can at least see the eggshell white color of that door. 

It reminds him of yearning, of dreams, of wishes made and placed away in cardboard boxes beneath a childhood bed. 

‘Marine Biology is run by the Lans,’ Dr. Wen tells him, as though imparting a secret. 'You’ll learn that us sais-pas can be a bit stubborn when it comes to our preferences.’

Wei Ying frowns at the strange bastardized French. ‘ Sais-pas ?’ 

Dr. Wen grins with all her shark-sharp teeth. ‘Your word, not ours,’ she says, as though reminding him of a mistake he made in a class he’s never taken with her. ‘It doesn’t matter much what we call ourselves – fae, demons, monsters. We allow you to cage us in names and definitions because it makes you less afraid of us.’

There’s something strange about the way she says that last bit, or perhaps the way her face shifts as she says those words, as though she has become less familiar in shape, more like the suggestion of a human than an actual human. The ruby earrings at her ears seem to glow with an unnatural light. Looking at her hurts, the same way it does when Wei Ying presses his bare hand against a metal pole in midwinter. 

‘Come on,’ she says, nudging him with her elbow. ‘I’ll show you the dorms, and then you can go have lunch.’

Wei Ying wonders what, exactly, he did to make this strange, unblinking Dr. Wen behave as though they are fast friends. He is, however, smart enough not to question it. A woman with teeth like that is not to be questioned.

~

At lunch, it takes Wei Ying a few minutes to locate Nie Huaisang in the enormous dining hall. Luckily, so very few of the newcomers at the Institute are as sharply dressed or as coordinated in fashion as the young man, so it’s easy to spot him once Wei Ying does a perfunctory sweep down each of the long wooden tables.

(The trees that it would have taken to make these tables would have had to be large enough to match the sequoias of California, which is impossible in this part of the world.)

‘So,’ says Wei Ying to Nie Huaisang as he slides into the seat next to him. ‘Magic is real?’

Nie Huaisang grins at him. He picks a pear from his tray and places it on Wei Ying’s. 

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Magic is real.’

Wei Ying presses the heels of his palms into the seat of his chair. He leans back in it, and stares up at the tall ceiling of the dining hall, the wooden eaves and the unrecognizable coat of arms molded onto plaster and painted in gold, red and blue. He whistles long and low.

‘That is so fucking cool,’ he utters, dropping his chin so that he can meet Nie Huaisang’s amused gaze. ‘ So cool. We’re at a magical institute. We’re going to study magic. That’s insane.’

Huaisang shrugs. He stabs a piece of penne with his fork. ‘It’s cool, I guess.’

Wei Ying tears off a bit of his bread roll and dips it in the tomato sauce of his pasta. ‘Do you get to join the Hawthorn Institute if you’re not, I don’t know, magically inclined?’

Huaisang places his bread roll in Wei Ying’s tray. In return, Wei Ying gives the other man his yogurt pot. It’s strawberries and cream, and Wei Ying’s never really been a fan of the flavor, but with the way that Huaisang’s face lights up, perhaps he likes it much better. 

‘I don’t know exactly,’ Huaisang replies. ‘But people without a Gift usually can’t even see the buildings of the Institute.’

Wei Ying makes short work of his bread roll, and starts on Huaisang’s one. 

‘How did you know you had a Gift?’ Wei Ying asks. By repeating Huaisang’s intonation, the word feels important. It has weight in Wei Ying’s mouth, like a university major or special title. 

Huaisang grins. He drags his pasta through the last bit of tomato sauce at the bottom of his white, ceramic bowl, finishes it off, and then brandishes his fork as though it were a wand. 

‘My Gift is obvious,’ he tells Wei Ying.

He taps his fork on the edge of the bowl. With a strange ripple, the bowl is gone, and in its place is a squealing guinea pig, which promptly wriggles away from the fork and scurries away, its tiny claws clicking on the wooden surface. It makes it down the table for about a meter before the creature ripples once more, and turns into a pretty little vase of sunflowers. 

‘Huaisang!’ exclaims a girl down the table with piercings on both her eyebrows. ‘Control yourself!’

‘Sorry!’ Huaisang calls. He winces.  ‘Yikes, well. Mingjue – that’s my brother – he hopes that working here will limit the chaos. Cuz of the rules and everything.’

Wei Ying leans over the table and picks up the flower vase. It ripples in his hand, giving off a ticklish feeling against his palm, and then it is a bowl once more. He places it down in Huaisang’s tray.

‘I like your chaos,’ he tells his new friend, and in response, Huaisang beams at him. 

~

Wei Ying and the other initiates are given a long list of pre-reading books to review before the pre-course starts. 

It is a hefty stack of books, wrapped in dark-colored hard covers and labeled with gleaming, embossed letters. He pays for none of them, and will need to return none of them. They are his to keep.

It is a generosity that Wei Ying is unaccustomed to in academic circles, but he has never been one to look a gift horse too long in the mouth.

He pours through each textbook, reading them from cover to cover as he sits on his bedroom floor eating pot noodles. The material is challenging, for sure, but it bears close enough resemblance to theoretical math. Wei Ying’s math is rusty, but he picks it up quickly. 

The rest reads like poetry, and the words flow through him like a current. He forgets time until the sun falls on his face, harsh and warm, and he realizes he’s read through the night.

~

During his move from his small room to the Institute dorms, Wei Ying is faced with the fact that he has accumulated very little during his years in Cornwall. Everything fits in a medium-sized suitcase, a carry-on holdall, and a backpack. 

But it’s not that strange. Wei Ying has grown accustomed to not having a true anchor, a real base that he returns to time and time again. He is the constant packing and unpacking, the piling of worldly belongings into convenient vessels that fit within a restrictive weight limit. He is eternal movement. He is the ocean that is planted between him and his original birthplace. 

His new home is beautiful, albeit a little strange. There are five dormitories located on campus, but Wei Ying is housed in the oldest – a low-standing chateau with empty stables and a narrow spiral staircase that only breaks its relentless, claustrophobic climb to open out into what one might describe as chambers, only they are a little more rustic than what you might see in a period drama. 

Wei Ying is placed on the fourth floor (no elevator, nothing to help him drag all his luggage up), through a low stone arch. There is a narrow landing that is largely occupied by an impressive vase painted in crimson and cerulean. To the right of the vase is an open door, revealing a bath, tiled sink, and toilet. To the left is a cozy little room with a desk, a tidy little bed, and a circular window that overlooks the ocean. The walls are white and the sheets on the bed are a muted beige color. 

Wei Ying doesn’t bother unpacking at first, but goes up to that circular window. From this vantage point, he can see a low, crumbling wall of slate bricks, a leaning oak tree, and – 

‘Holy shit,’ Wei Ying breathes.

It’s the bench. The bench. 

He’s got some time before dinner, and really, there’s nothing much for him to do until Huaisang unpacks his five suitcases of nonsense, so Wei Ying gives into his curiosity.

There are no buildings between the tower and that bench, yet neither is there any discernible path down to the bench between the scattered trees. Wei Ying wanders down the gentle slope over uncut grass, passing between patches of wildflowers. The air smells of fresh leaves and briny foam, and something deep and green and ancient. Perhaps , Wei Ying thinks, this is what magic smells like. 

He slows down once he’s within a few paces of the pale bench. There is a silver plaque fastened to the back of the seat – he can see it now, though he missed it before. It is, without a doubt, the same bench he stumbled across all those nights ago. He recognizes the boughs of the oak, the shape of the bench, the curve of the wall and the ocean beyond.

Much has changed since then. His life is now not quite so grim. The world is full of endless possibilities and all the sorrows that once tied themselves to Wei Ying’s ankles are gone.

But there is a sweet, contemplative peace about this bench. Wei Ying aches for that peace still.

He takes another step towards the bench.

‘This palace is not meant for you,’ says a low voice from behind Wei Ying.

Wei Ying turns around. A few paces behind him stands the man from the other night – the beautiful, terrifying man with the sword. Lan Zhan , Wei Ying recalls, and as soon as he’s said the name, the man’s brow furrows deeply.

He is not wearing his sword today, but he is dressed very similarly to the night they met – powder-blue sweater vest, white shirt, and pressed charcoal trousers. He is truly, unnaturally beautiful, particularly in the generous light of the late morning.

In this fair light, Wei Ying can see that Lan Zhan’s eyes are almost gold.

There is no silver flower pinned to Lan Zhan’s shirt. He is not a Pioneer, nor is he a Legacy, which means he is likely one of the researchers or tenured professors here. 

‘Wei Ying,’ Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying’s name sounds delicious and exotic, pronounced perfectly from that unsmiling mouth. ‘You should not be here.’

‘I uh,’ says Wei Ying, staring at Lan Zhan’s mouth, ‘uh, was accepted into the Institute. Haha. Surprise?’

The beautiful man simply looks at him for a moment, disappointed in his utter stupidity. Wei Ying is not quite sure how, exactly, he’s demonstrated his lack of intellect. 

‘I think I have a Gift,’ Wei Ying offers. ‘So I’m meant to be here, right?’

Lan Zhan frowns and gestures at the bench. ‘ That is not meant for you,’ he clarifies. 

‘Oh,’ says Wei Ying. ‘ Oh! Okay. So it’s one of those privileges for professors or something.’

Lan Zhan sighs heavily. He mutters something under his breath that sounds almost like Mandarin, only it isn’t, because Wei Ying doesn’t understand it. 

But it’s close enough, and Wei Ying is a risk taker. He’s filled it out on all the forms he was given as a child in the fancy primary school his aunt and uncle placed him in. Wei Ying is a risk taker. 

‘Please don’t be mad with me, Lan Er-gege ,’ says Wei Ying, letting his voice fall into what he likes to call little-brother-whine. (It works wonders when Jiang Yanli is mad at him.)

Something twitches in Lan Zhan’s stony face. He sighs, and turns away from Wei Ying, staring up instead at the feather-dusted sky.

He’s not a local at all , Wei Ying realizes. Just well-educated, and well-groomed.

Lan Zhan’s profile is regal. Not regal, the way that some men might look, with their aquiline noses and curling dark hair, or the way some women look with their hooded eyes and knowing smiles. No, he is regal like an old song or a play. Like a hero in a tale. Like a memory lost, a dream forgotten.

‘Look,’ Wei Ying says, ‘I won’t come here again, or bother you.’

Lan Zhan turns sharply back to face him. The light catches once more in his golden eyes. He cannot possibly be human. No human looks quite like that, like a siren’s song, like promises of enlightenment and quiet peace on a forbidden bench.

His brow is furrowed, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched at his sides. His gaze shifts toward the bench, then out over the ocean as it rolls with glittering green-blue waves. He seems torn between frustration and… something else. 

‘There are other places for you and I to convene,’ he says at last.

‘Does that mean you want to see me again, Lan Er-gege?’ Wei Ying teases, only half-serious. ‘Do you want to go for lunch, maybe? Or dinner?’

Lan Zhan’s ears are tipped with a delicate pink. Perhaps the sun is too harsh on his pale skin. 

‘I will see you after your pre-course is complete,’ he informs Wei Ying. ‘There is no need to spend time seeking me out. You will be busy in the weeks to come. Focus on your studies.’

Oh, that’s a shame , Wei Ying thinks, then he stops himself. Why does he care so much whether he sees this strange, beautiful man again? Twice in his life is more than he expected to come across this man that he once had a strange, unprovoked sword fight with in the dark. 

‘Okay,’ he says, meeting Lan Zhan’s golden gaze. ‘Until then.’

To his surprise, the other man bends his head in a nod. ‘Until then,’ Lan Zhan repeats. 

~

Lan Zhan was right, of course. 

Wei Ying is incredibly busy in the weeks that follow.

He and the other Pioneers and the Legacies are introduced to each library, each department. There are countless faces and names for Wei Ying to memorize.

It is also a ritual for newcomers at the Hawthorn Institute to become caretakers of an assigned library or office. Huaisang is sent to Horticulture 3, while Wei Ying and a number of his new friends are given the enormous History Library to care for. 

Wei Ying did a lot of this sort of work growing up – the sweeping, filing, dusting, mopping. He and another Pioneer, Holly, get the job done in no time. They have hours to spare, and so they spend it exploring the stacks in the back of the library, or perusing through the books stored by the wraparound balcony. 

Wei Ying discovers a good number of treasures in the History Library. He pockets a green claw clip, a butterfly brooch made of purest emerald, a small pocketbook bound with red leather, and a paperweight with a blooming peony in the middle, suspended in amber. 

Wei Ying gives the paperweight to Holly, who then brings it to the head librarian. The elderly man looks at the paperweight for a long time, looking both frustrated and extremely relieved, and asks the two of them who might have found it. After discovering that it was, in fact, Wei Ying’s sticky fingers, the librarian gifts Wei Ying a rather nice pair of socks for his trouble. 

‘I don’t like owing someone like you,’ the librarian grumbles. ‘Debts tend to pile up, with your type.’

Wei Ying never does find out what type he might be. He is reassigned to a different office within the week.

~

He reunites with Huaisang at the Literary Review lectures. They sit together in one of the middle rows – not too close to the front, not so far in the back that they won’t hear what’s going on.

This entire class is taught by the bearded man from the welcome ceremony – the one who turned their clothing white. He introduces himself as Dr. Lan. 

(Wei Ying wonders if there’s a relation between this man and Lan Zhan, although they look nothing alike.)

‘There are three sources of truth for magic,’ intones Dr. Lan. He is a thin man, and dresses in tweed and muted colors, and perhaps he was once handsome, although now he looks more grandfatherly than anything else. His voice, however, is clear and carries comfortably over the crowd of new arrivals. ‘The one that most of you will be referring to are Treatises.’

In his first lecture, Dr. Lan covers citations and use of Treatises. He explains how each Treatise links to each other, and how the rituals recorded within are carefully researched and created through peer review, and how not everybody gets to work on them.

Wei Ying recalls a Treatise in his assigned reading. He never experimented with any of the strange, listed instructions. They all seemed odd and far-fetched and also a bit mundane. In the chapter about unlocking doors, Wei Ying had read:

• Locate the feather of a magpie. The gender of the magpie does matter, although it is important not to use the feather of an Australian magpie, as that particular bird is not a corvid.

Treatises, says Dr. Lan, are the bread and butter of how magic is performed. Follow the steps precisely, and you shall arrive at the desired outcome. Do not comply strictly with the instructions, and you risk death or dismemberment.

‘Some of you will be using Almanacs,’ explains Dr. Lan in his fifth lecture, two weeks into the pre-course. ‘Only a select number of this cohort will come into contact with an Almanac – and it appears that you will have the opportunity to contribute your findings, which is very, very exciting.’

Almanacs are sources of information on the Unknown, and is the second source of truth for magic. 

No magic is performed with an Almanac – instead, they simply offer explanations and records of the magical world as it exists today, in all areas of the world. Almanacs often include maps and diagrams and charts.

The lecture on Almanacs is a short once, and once they are in the last fifteen minutes, Dr. Lan begins to explain the issuance of their library cards.

Wei Ying raises his hand. 

Dr. Lan peers into the crowd, his dark eyes settling on Wei Ying. ‘Yes?’

‘Will we cover the third source?’ Wei Ying asks, putting down his hand.

Dr. Lan blinks once. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he says, turning fully away from the chalkboard in front of him. 

The white scribblings of his writing shiver and detach from the green surfaces and fall, like snow, down onto the polished wooden floor, where they melt in puddles of water.

‘You said in the first lecture that there are three sources of truth for magic,’ Wei Ying reminds the professor. ‘Treatises count as one. Almanacs count as two. What’s the third source?’

The old man gets a thunderous look. He slams his hand hard on the chalkboard. The rest of the chalk flings off the board and whirl around him in a small blizzard, picking up in size and speed. The coattails of Dr. Lan’s tweed jacket flap around him with the force of the gale. The room has suddenly gotten very cold, and some of the people sitting in the front row recoil from the sudden gust of icy wind that pierces through the room. There is brine stinking in the air. 

‘That source is not meant for you,’ growls Dr. Lan, pointing a finger at Wei Ying. 

Wei Ying is suddenly reminded of what Lan Zhan said to him – This area is not meant for you.

‘I’m just curious,’ he protests, standing up. The icy wind bites in his cheeks. ‘I’ll stick to the resources allocated to me, I mean, I do have some respect for the system. But I just want to know.’

Dr. Lan takes a step from behind his podium. The blizzard ceases its whistling, and the room gets a little warmer. There’s something almost apologetic in the way the old man speaks to Wei Ying then. ‘The third source is not for you, Mr-’

‘Wei.’

‘Mr. Wei,’ Dr. Lan repeats. He tucks his hands into the pocket of his jacket and he shakes his head. There are small piles of snow gathered around his feet. ‘I suggest you do not go looking for more things that are not meant for you. There are more things in the Unknown than academia and books, and many of those things will cause you irrevocable harm if you are not careful.’

Huaisang seems pale, and he is intentionally not looking at Wei Ying. The rest of the Legacies look to be either cross with Wei Ying, or else terrified of the exchange. Wei Ying wishes he had the privilege of understanding his misstep. He wishes he understood the unwritten rules of this place, but that’s just how institutions of higher learning in this country function. 

Wei Ying sits down. ‘Okay,’ he mutters.

Dr. Lan arches a pale eyebrow. ‘I mean it, Mr. Wei.’

Wei Ying shrugs. ‘Yeah, of course.’

For the rest of the class, Dr. Lan keeps looking at Wei Ying with concern, as though expecting him to explode. Wei Ying wonders why he has this effect on people – why they keep staring at him and telling him off for things that are, for the most part, harmless.

~

Thankfully, Wei Ying doesn’t spend too much time in Lit Review. There are a large number of basic Treatises to study, as well as a range of tests and some preliminary papers to submit on mundane subjects such as the history of Western architecture, or gripping topics like the correct citation method for an Art essay.

(Hint: it is not the same as the correct citation method for an Engineering paper.)

Not all of the pre-course is mind-numbingly dull.

Wei Ying’s cohort sometimes have afternoons where they gather in the green and play cricket or half-hearted rugby. Other times, instead of eating at the Institute’s dining hall, they go into town for dinner and a pint at a pub in town. 

It becomes evident why the Institute names things the way they do. Even in front of normal humans, talking about their pre-course sounds innocuous. There’s nothing supernatural about spending two hours helping a librarian find a Treatise – although those two hours were spent running after a book that had sprouted tiny green legs and was charging around the library like a demented turtle.

Other times, they take the winding path down to the beach together, one of them carrying a picnic basket of sandwiches and a portable jug of Pimm’s. The other Pioneers and Legacies strip off their shoes and socks and go wading in the sea. Wei Ying, however, sits on the picnic blanket, his bare toes in the sand, and he looks up at that blue cottage, admiring the way its shape cuts into the pale gray of the sky. 

He should not yearn for a thing that is not meant for him, but Wei Ying has always been a bit too ambitious for his own good.

But then Wei Ying and a Legacy by the name of Mianmian both get dragged into a three-hour long seminar on the approval process for Almanac revisions, which no one else is required to attend. A few days later, they are pulled into a workshop on the correct style of writing for Almanacs.

When he talks to Huaisang about it over lunch, his fingers all cramped from hand-writing lines upon lines with a fountain pen, Huaisang gets a look of absolute delight. 

‘You’re a science fellow,’ he exclaims. ‘You must be. Or else it’s History, I guess, but that’s not exactly your background, is it?’

Wei Ying shakes his head. ‘No, not History,’ he confirms. ‘I’m hoping to do marine biology here, actually, since it’s what I’ve been focusing on in my masters.’

‘Ah.’ Nie Huaisang looks a little pale. ‘That’s not. Hm.’

He looks left, then right, then left again. He leans in close to Wei Ying’s side, his breath tickling Wei Ying’s ear. 

‘They don’t usually open it to us,’ Huaisang whispers.

Wei Ying pushes him gently away. ‘Foreign researchers?’ he guesses.

Huaisang scoffs. ‘I was born in Swansea, thank you very much. No, I mean humans. Marine Biology isn’t usually open to humans. ’

Wei Ying frowns. He remembers his brief conversation with Dr. Wen, on the balcony South of campus, overlooking the sea and Marine Biology. 

‘So it’s only for sais-pas ?’ he asks Huaisang.

‘Yes,’ is the firm reply. ‘Look, they don’t arrive until after our pre-course, but then, this place will be absolutely crawling with sais-pas . There are loads of departments that belong only to them – we’re not allowed inside. And don’t get me wrong, that’s a good thing. Sais-pas can be violent, temperamental, and they have vicious feuds that can stretch centuries.'

Unbidden, Wei Ying’s mind draws his attention to the midnight scuffle he had with Lan Zhan. 

‘Stay away from sais-pas researchers,’ Huaisang warns.

‘Hm,’ says Wei Ying, thinking of Lan Zhan and his unsmiling mouth.

~

The end of the pre-course comes soon enough. They are congratulated by the woman who gave their welcome speech – a tenured Cartography professor by the name of Dr. Faust – and are all invited to a formal dinner. They are told that an envelope with their assigned departments has already been delivered to their private rooms.

Eagerly, the cohort scatters to their dorms. Wei Ying gets a text from Huaisang as he’s reaching the fourth floor of his tower. 

History of Art! Exactly what I wanted!

Wei Ying types his congratulations, smiling at his phone. On his way up, he passes a girl sobbing down the phone and a group of boys laughing uproariously on the steps. He ducks beneath the stone arch of his floor, avoids the large vase that separates his room from his bathroom, and slips into his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him, and the bustling of the dorms falls away.

There is, indeed, a very fine suit laid out on his bed, in deepest black wool, a dress shirt of palest, purest sky-blue, and a matching black bow tie. There is an envelope placed over the breast pocket of the jacket. 

Wei Ying picks it up and carefully eases the paper open, wary of tearing anything.

Within the envelope is a card made of eggshell paper. On it, in formal, black serif print, are the words:

Wei Ying - Marine Biology; Dragons Lesser and Greater

Chapter Text

The Aquatic Dragon Almanac: Volume III; Chapter 57 - The Lesser Sea Dragons; pp 273.

Winged lesser sea dragons prefer brackish water to seawater, however often roost by the ocean shore during the warmer months. The triple-crested emerald snapper, for example, prefers to make a home for its mate and three eggs in the naturally-occurring holes found in seaside limestone cliffs. Meanwhile, the puffin-beaked firebreather enjoys its spring on the slate cliffs facing the North Sea.

This seasonal behavior is largely to take advantage of the feeding frenzies kicked up by the medium to larger sea dragons just off the coast of England during late spring to early summer, which comprises the hunting season for most greater sea dragons. Hunting season for greater species overlaps very well with the lesser dragons’ mating season, and provides an easy way for lesser dragons to seek prey while remaining close to the nest. 

~

The Hawthorn Hall – the building that welcomed them on the first day – is decked out with delightful splendor for their commencement dinner. The wooden benches have all been cleared out in exchange for round tables and generous seating. The stage itself is free, occupied by an arrangement of canapés and a bowl of punch. Fairy lights drape overhead, stretching beneath the eaves in a low veil of sparkling lights, and there is fire burning in the torches.

There is a champagne reception to start, with caterers making their rounds. Wei Ying briefly wonders what kinds of caterers are permitted to work in the Unknown.

It appears to be free seating, so he picks a spot next to Nie Huaisang, who arrived a few minutes before Wei Ying and seems to have already found himself a group to sit with. 

Huaisang is dressed in a smart suit of forest green, with a string of pearls at his throat rather than a bow tie. He introduces Wei Ying to one of his friends on the project, a shy looking girl with fresh flowers pinned in her hair, and someone that he is apparently sharing studio space with – a tall man whose pearlescent skin shimmers beneath the fairy lights. Wei Ying wonders why this particular detail doesn’t quite shock him. He also notes the lack of a silver flower at the tall man’s lapel.

Wei Ying suspects the reception will run a little long, and hasn’t eaten much for lunch, so he wanders over to the canapés, where he finds Dr. Faust frowning deeply at a selection of salmon and dill sandwiches.

‘Are you not a fan of salmon?’ he asks her.

She glances briefly at him, before continuing her study of the sandwiches. ‘I’ve got a mini shrimp puff here and a tuna tartare cup,’ she says, very seriously, ‘and I have a thing about always balancing my surf and turf.’

‘I cannot believe you just said surf and turf,’ Wei Ying grins. He helps himself to one of the sandwiches and adds a spicy gazpacho shot to his tiny plate. ‘Go for the gougères, they look good.’

Dr. Faust nods solemnly. ‘I will take that advice into consideration, thank you.’

Wei Ying returns to his seat, smiling to himself. It’s likely that everyone in academia is a little strange, whether they’re human or not. Huaisang steals his sandwich but declines the gazpacho, which apparently is not very popular with the table, and is like drinking cold soup and therefore resembles despair, Wei Ying, you absolute freak. 

Wei Ying disagrees. He finishes his gazpacho, which is delicious and not at all despair-causing, and gets up to select another plate of miniature pastries for the table, when he catches sight of a troupe of people entering the room, dressed immaculately in varying shades of white and blue.

Among them, of course, is Lan Zhan, who is wearing a suit that seems to have a silver thread woven into it. He gleams like frost-hardened snow, cold even in all this warm light. There is no blue in his clothing.

At Lan Zhan’s right is a man who looks nearly identical to Lan Zhan, but for the ever-present smile on his face, and the eyes – darker, more upturned at the edges. 

Wei Ying changes direction immediately, abandoning the canapés and instead hurrying up to Lan Zhan, half-empty champagne glass in hand.

‘Lan Er-gege!’ he calls out, waving at Lan Zhan. ‘Hi! Hi Lan Er-gege! So good to see you here.’

Lan Zhan spots him and halts in his tracks. His face goes through a number of complicated microexpressions: first surprise, then his ears turn slightly pink, then he glances at the man at his right, and a deep groove appears between his brows.

‘Wei Ying,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘Do not run.’

‘Sorry,’ Wei Ying grins, even though he is not at all sorry. ‘I’m just so happy to see you, Lan Er-gege.’

The other members of the group are looking at him in particular interest, possibly because Wei Ying’s hair has come out of its neat parting, but also possibly because Wei Ying is still smiling from ear to ear. He would probably also be bouncing on the balls of his feet, only, it’s not really polite to do that when you’re wearing such a nice suit at such a posh party, and Wei Ying would hate to get kicked out of the Hawthorn Institute so early in his career.

‘Wangji,’ says the man to Lan Zhan’s right, setting a hand on Lan Zhan’s arm. ‘Is this a friend of yours? Won’t you introduce us?’

Lan Zhan gives the other man a long, stone-faced look. A wordless argument passes between them, and then Lan Zhan sighs heavily, rubs a hand over his eyes, shifts his weight to his other foot, and says: ‘This is Wei Ying. Wei Ying, this is my older brother, Xichen.’ 

Xichen’s face lights up. ‘So you’re Mr. Wei,’ he beams. 

He extends a hand to shake. His grip is strong, his palm calloused and dry. Perhaps he too carries a sword around with him in the dark, ready to attack strangers when they accidentally walk onto Institute grounds uninvited. 

Xichen’s suit is eggshell blue, and his tie is two shades darker, clipped in with a silver tie-pin that looks like a feathered snake curled in on itself.

‘You’ll be working with Wangji, I hear,’ Xichen smiles, tilting his head. He then blinks, which is unnerving, because he has not blinked even once before this moment. ‘Isn’t that nice, Wangji? I’m very glad you’ll be working with a friend. Mr. Wei, are you looking forward to joining Marine Biology? You must be ecstatic to be given such an opportunity.’

Lan Zhan seems to be focused on staring very intently at the wall just behind Wei Ying’s head, and does not respond to his brother’s statements.

‘Oh, uh,’ says Wei Ying. He stuffs his free hand into his pocket and shifts his weight back and forth. ‘Yes, well, I’m very excited about all of it.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear this,’ says Xichen, and he blinks again. 

Wei Ying wishes he would stop blinking. It feels like a thing sais-pas do when they’re trying to be polite to humans.

Lan Zhan sighs deeply. ‘Brother,’ he grumbles in Mandarin. ‘This is unnecessary.’

Xichen tuts and pats his brother’s arm. ‘In English, Wangji.’

‘Oh um,’ says Wei Ying, whose mouth is faster than his brain, and whose brain never contained good sense to begin with. ‘I speak a little bit of Mandarin, so it’s okay. You don’t have to swap.’

‘But we should communicate in our common language, for the sake of all the Institute’s academics.’ Xichen’s smile is no longer warm. There is a sharp edge to it. There is a new sharpness in the man’s face that did not exist before, a kind of threat with teeth and talons. 

Wei Ying nods, feeling like he’s somehow gotten on the wrong side of this very nice, polite man.

‘Here,’ says Xichen. He pulls something out of the pocket of his suit jacket, and steps forward. With great delicacy, he pins the thing to Wei Ying’s lapel, just beneath his silver flower. ‘A token of friendship from my house to yours,’ he declares, stepping back to his brother’s side.

Wei Ying glances down at the pin. It is an ornate dragon made of fine porcelain, its wingtips a dark blue. It holds its ribbon-like tail in its mouth.

Lan Zhan lets out a short, frustrated exhale. He pushes past his brother, grabs Wei Ying by the wrist, and pulls him away. His grip is strong. Even if it doesn’t hurt, there’s no chance of wriggling free as Lan Zhan drags Wei Ying across the hall. They duck into a small alcove near a side entrance.

‘Lan-’ Wei Ying begins to protest.

Lan Zhan plants his palm on Wei Ying’s chest and pushes him firmly into the corner, out of sight from the hall and its occupants who have all witnessed whatever the fuck just transpired. 

Lan Zhan crowds in close. Wei Ying can feel the heat rising off his body.

Sais-pas can be violent, Huaisang had warned him. Wei Ying has had personal experience with how violent Lan Zhan can be. 

‘Do not let my brother treat you like that,’ says Lan Zhan, his voice low and angry.

Wei Ying fights the urge to shove Lan Zhan off. It would be difficult, but Wei Ying knows how to fight, and he’s bested Lan Zhan before. 

‘Treat me like what?’ Wei Ying asks. ‘Did you not want him to give me this pin?’ He touches the dragon on his collar. ‘Is it not right for him to give me a gift? Or are you angry that I got assigned to Marine Biology?’

Lan Zhan glares at Wei Ying. He pushes him with one hand further into the shadows, until Wei Ying’s back is flat against the cold stone. 

‘Ridiculous,’ says Lan Zhan. His golden eyes are upon Wei Ying’s throat. 

Wei Ying blinks. ‘That I’ll be working with you?’

Lan Zhan’s free hand lifts to touch the dragon pinned to Wei Ying’s jacket. He traces the tiny porcelain wings, the dragon’s long snout, and then, without warning, removes the pin from Wei Ying’s collar and pockets it. He then produces another porcelain creature.

It does not quite look like a dragon, nor does it look like a bird, or a fish, exactly, but a serpentine thing with a beak. Lan Zhan pins this dragon to Wei Ying’s collar, its snout facing towards Wei Ying’s bowtie, and then nods with great satisfaction.

The base of Wei Ying’s skull is pressed against the wall. He is surrounded by the scent of Lan Zhan’s cologne. He does not understand what he did wrong, or what this replacement of gifts means, or why Lan Zhan is so close, why his hand is pressed still to Wei Ying’s chest, just above his wildly beating heart. 

‘I’m not sure I’m understanding what’s happening, Lan Zhan,’ Wei Ying says.

Lan Zhan flinches. His hand drops from Wei Ying’s collar and he withdraws from Wei Ying’s personal space. ‘Do not say my name,’ he says, unhappily.

‘Okay,’ Wei Ying says. ‘What can I call you, if not by your name?’

‘Dr. Lan Jr. is appropriate.’

‘Okay,’ Wei Ying says again. He presses a hand to the back of his neck and makes a noise that is almost a laugh, only, he’s not sure he took a full breath, so it comes out wheezy and half-formed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know the rules. I keep… I keep fucking up and no one will tell me how, and this place is supposed to welcome us in, and I love it, but I just. I keep stepping wrong. I don’t know why.’

Lan Zhan gives a small shake of his head. ‘You are not stepping wrong. You are stepping too close to places not meant for you.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ asks Wei Ying.

‘They are not the same thing,’ Lan Zhan replies. ‘Wei Ying, I see great value that you would bring to my department and field work. That is why I requested you as an assistant.’

A curling tongue of warmth laps the inside of Wei Ying’s stomach. He tries to ignore it, but he is pleased.

‘You requested me? Why?’ Wei Ying asks. ‘I thought Marine Biology wasn’t  open for human researchers.’

‘It is suited to you, and you to it. You see what others do not. You notice things unnoticed. You are a finder of lost things, and there is much that we have lost. I am hoping…’ he trails off. He steps close again, and his finger traces the serpentine, beaked creature on Wei Ying’s collar. ‘My brother mislabelled you. This is a better match for you.’

Wei Ying looks down at the dragon, and tries not to notice how large Lan Zhan’s hands are, or how long his fingers are. He tries not to take in the tiny scars on his knuckles and fingertips, or the tiny silver cufflinks at his sleeves that are shaped like shark teeth.

‘What is it?’ Wei Ying asks, pointing at the dragon pin.

Lan Zhan’s gaze softens. ‘A silver rabbit-ear.’

‘Rabbit-ear?’ Wei Ying repeats. ‘For the fins?’

‘Yes,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘It is a lesser seadragon.’

Wei Ying laughs, delighted. ‘So there are sea dragons.’

Lan Zhan’s mouth curves slightly upward. ‘There are many sea dragons, Wei Ying. Lesser and greater. More than you could ever imagine.’ 

Wei Ying’s laugh catches in his throat, though on what, he can’t be sure. Watching Lan Zhan’s smile lift his cheek and crinkle the corners of his golden eyes, Wei Ying feels spellbound. Perhaps this is why Nie Huaisang warned him away from sais-pas .

Blissfully ignorant, Lan Zhan glances out, at the dining hall. ‘You should return to your friends,’ he says. ‘Try not to stand too close to my brother. He will notice what I have done, and will try to include you in the argument the two of us will inevitably have.’

Wei Ying braves a last smile at Lan Zhan. ‘Thanks for the pin. See you next week at Marine Biology.’

Lan Zhan smiles again. 

Xichen has a very nice smile, but when Lan Zhan smiles, it is as though the sun has broken through the storm and the waves glimmer with borrowed light and everything is brighter. Lan Zhan’s smile is life-ruining. 

‘Until next week, Wei Ying,’ says Lan Zhan, and he gestures for Wei Ying to leave the alcove first.

Heart pounding in his chest, Wei Ying returns to his table. He plops himself down in the seat beside Huaisang, stares into middle distance, and realizes that he is still holding his half-empty glass of champagne. He downs it all in one go and ignores the way everyone else is looking at him.

‘How the fuck do you know Lan Wangji?’ Huaisang demands. ‘ The fucking Dr. Lan. Jr.. Why is he dragging you into dark corners and giving you… gifts ?’ He points at the dragon pin.

Wei Ying covers the pin almost self-consciously. ‘Why shouldn’t I know him? Is he not meant for me?’ 

‘ Wei Ying ,’ says Huaisang. ‘Don’t use their terminology if you don’t understand what it means.’

Oh great, another misstep. Wei Ying leans over Huaisang, pilfers his champagne and downs the rest of that too.

‘I don’t know the rules,’ he grumbles into the empty glass.

The first course is served: honeyed carrots, roast potatoes and duck confit with a red wine sauce. It is fancier than anything Wei Ying has ever eaten.

Huaisang throws his hands in the air. He grabs his chair with both hands and scoots it closer to Wei Ying. He glances over his shoulder, to where the Lans are congregating at the back of the hall. 

‘Look,’ he hisses, lowering his voice. ‘Look, if you’re going to be spending all that time with the Lans, you should know they have very, very particular rules. They’re not like the Wens or the Jins or the Heatherbones, okay?’

‘Am I supposed to know what any of those words mean?’ Wei Ying hisses back. ‘ I’m not a nepo baby. I wasn’t born with a list of rules stapled to my forehead.’

‘Don’t be such a cunt, Wei Ying.’ Huaisang spoons half his carrots into Wei Ying’s plate. ‘The Hawthorn Institute is just the surface of the Unknown. It’s the outer ring. The rest of the Unknown goes so much deeper than you think, and it spreads so much further than just, you know, fucking Cornwall .’

Wei Ying thinks, unbidden, of scales. Of a silver tail flashing in the water, beneath murky water. 

‘ Sais-pas say things are not meant for us humans,’ Nie Huaisang continues. ‘What they mean is that they have an effect, Wei Ying. Like radiation. The closer you get to them, the more your life starts to mutate. They draw that line for our sake, so we don’t mutate too far.’

Wei Ying looks over his shoulder, because he cannot help himself. Lan Zhan is listening to a member of his family speak – some elderly gentleman dressed in a suit with sleeves that taper into a brilliant cerulean –  until his golden eyes drift over to Wei Ying. As their gazes meet, the smallest hint of a smile touches Lan Zhan’s mouth.

Wei Ying turns back quickly, his face warm.

He can still feel the imprint of Lan Zhan’s hand on his chest. His collar smells faintly of sandalwood, still, like borrowed cologne from a secret lover, only Wei Ying has never really had lovers, because he’s not mysterious or cool or anything much other than overworked, overtired and horrendously bad at flirting for real.

What the fuck am I thinking? Wei Ying wonders, and then tries to pay attention to what Huaisang is telling him.

‘You have to be careful,’ Huaisang sighs. ‘Mingjue came here halfway through his PhD. He was here for ages, and when he came back he was different. Like he was looking into shadows and finding things there that needed… fighting.’

On the table before them, champagne magically fills up their flutes. Nobody else notices, or if they do, they must be used to it, because nobody says anything about it. Wei Ying stares at the white-gold liquid shimmer, more magical in color than anything else in here.

‘He used to be an urban planner,’ says Huaisang, stabbing a potato with his fork. ‘And now he works security for the Institute. He carries a sword all the time. He’s got spells tattooed on his arms. He can never go back to the normal world.’

Wei Ying leans his elbows on the tables as he studies Huaisang and his anger, the overwhelming sorrow that feeds into it like a river into a dark lake. Wei Ying had never considered that being a Legacy might come with its unbearable weight, with its scars. But he knows the weight that Jiang Cheng carries on his shoulders, the future he must secure thanks to his legacy. 

‘What did he do?’ Wei Ying asks. ‘What did he take that wasn’t meant for him?’

Huaisang’s gaze moves toward Xichen and his polite smile, his unblinking eyes. ‘He saved a Lan’s life,’ says Huaisang, ‘and now they owe him a debt.’

Wei Ying considers it for a moment. He brushes his hand over the dragon on his lapel. ‘Am I going to mutate in Marine Biology?’

Huaisang snorts. He seems to remember where he is, and who he is. ‘Maybe. Maybe you’ll grow a third eye.’

‘I think I’d still be cute with a third eye,’ Wei Ying says. He holds his dessert spoon over his forehead. ‘Look. I’d be sexy in an eldritch way.’ 

Huaisang smacks at his wrist, sending the dessert spoon skidding out over the floor. ‘Shut up and eat your duck confit, Wei Ying,’ he sniffs.

~

The champagne is very good. It does not stop filling up in the flutes, and so logically, Wei Ying does not stop drinking it.

There are speeches made, some by people Wei Ying recognizes, and people he doesn’t. Wei Ying understands half of them, half of them he’s too fuzzy to understand. He thinks he can tell the sais-pas apart from the humans, more or less. They are drawn with a different brush. Sometimes they are sharper, crisper, almost more defined. Others are soft, hazy, and lit from within by some summer’s golden light. Others are so very pale, like figures trapped beneath cold water.

Lan Zhan, Dr. Lan Jr., the handsome Lan Er-gege stands half-in shadow, watching the stage as some of his family members get up to speak. He glances over at Wei Ying from time to time.

Wei Ying is drunk and he learned, in second year, that you shouldn’t dive too close to sharks when your reflexes aren’t at their sharpest. But oh, he loves his sharks, and anyways, you can learn to redirect even the most curious biter. 

After the speeches are done and dessert is eaten, the occupants of Hawthorn hall spill out onto the green. There’s a marquee of white canvas set up between the trees, in the shadows of the Institute’s mismatched buildings, lit up within the tent with strings of dangling light bulbs and paper lanterns. There is even more champagne on tall tables in the marquee – enough for people to congregate around, but still enough place for dancing. And there is dancing, to wonderful music that seems to echo down from the pointed top of the marquee. 

Nobody seems to care about the champagne or the marquee and its music, not even the other Pioneers. In a way, it makes this particular feat of magic all the more special to Wei Ying, who watches it with a smile on his face. The world is already full of so much wonder and delight. How lucky he is to be able to witness this extra piece. He is a child at someone else’s birthday party, offered a second helping of chocolate fudge cake even after all the others have had a slice.

It is more than he deserves. It is more than he’d ever dreamed about. 

Wei Ying celebrates his extra-birthday-cake luck by talking too loudly to new friends, and dancing with Huaisang until they both trip over each other, and then making even more friends on the dance floor. It gets too warm in the marquee, and Wei Ying goes out onto the grass to cool down.

In a space between two slender pine trees, Mianmian sits on the damp grass, taking a long drag from a cigarette. Wei Ying didn’t take her for a smoker, not with the frothy butter-yellow dress she’s wearing tonight nor the white and pink peonies in her hair, but with the cigarette balanced between her fingers, it feels right.

He sits down with her on the ground and chats to her about Almanacs for a bit, not really pursuing any kind of deep academic thought, but simply because they are both part of a niche and it delights Wei Ying to share this experience with someone else.

Mianmian finds the reference system challenging. Wei Ying finds Treatise labs stifling, and can’t wait to create something instead of learning how to interpret rules appropriately. They discuss the possibility of having to submit ethics proposals, and then Mianmian makes such a rude gesture with her hand that doesn’t go with her petite, fey features, that Wei Ying nearly makes himself cry from laughter.

Then, a while after he calms himself down, Dr. Wen appears from the dark. She’s wearing an immaculate three-piece suit, a flash of red at her throat, and rubies glittering at her ears. Something in her silhouette shifts as she transitions from shadow to light – like she’s putting on her form and slipping off black stains from her small frame.

She pauses in front of them, observing Mianmian for a while. Mianmian, unbothered, breathes out a plume of curling smoke.

Dr. Wen extends her hand. ‘Might I have one?’ she asks.

‘You’ll have to roll your own,’ says Mianmian.

‘Naturally,’ says Dr. Wen.

Mianmian passes her cigarette to Wei Ying. She digs in her dress pockets – pockets! – and produces a silver case. She flips it open at the clasp to reveal papers and a tiny bag of tobacco, all of which she offers to Dr. Wen. 

The sais-pas sits down in the grass with them. She rolls herself a cigarette and lights it up with a snap of her fingers. The fire that rises from her pale fingertips is crimson – not like rubies, but like fresh blood. 

‘Almanac kids,’ she says, her words sending out a plume of smoke. ‘I was an Almanac writer once, you know.’

Mianmian just leans her head on Wei Ying’s shoulder and watches her. Wei Ying’s world tilts back and forth like the hull of a ship cutting over an uneasy sea. Mianmian smells like peonies and honey, and she is nice and warm in the cool night air, and he can only think of Lan Zhan’s palm on his chest. 

He must not take things not meant for him. He must not make a misstep, not in front of Dr. Wen. There is a danger to her that makes his hair stand on end.

‘Wait here, Almanac writers,’ Dr. Wen says, getting to her feet. She passes her cigarette to Wei Ying, who knows better than to try to take a drag from it in her absence. ‘I’ll bring the good stuff.’

Dr. Wen disappears momentarily into the marquee, before returning with a round bottle filled with a sparkling liquid and a few glasses. She settles back down in the grass before them and sets the glasses on the ground. She pours them each two fingers – Wei Ying exchanges the still-lit cigarette for his helping. 

As he tilts his glass against the light spilling out from the marquee, he watches the thick liquid shimmer like trapped mica. 

They toast to Almanacs and drink, though not all at once. It is a liquor to be sipped, apparently, although Wei Ying is not entirely sure that it is a liquor at all. It tastes, impossibly, like starlight and fireworks. Not like the heat or fire of either thing, but the sensation of wonder and delight watching either celestial thing burn in the sky.  

‘Who did you steal this Whimsy from?’ asks MianMian, wiping a droplet of it from her lips with her thumb. 

‘Dr. Faust,’ says Dr. Wen, with a grin that displays her impressive teeth. She tips her head back as she smokes, blowing gray rings into the sky at her exhale. ‘More?’

They drink more Whimsy. It doesn’t make them drunk, but it makes Wei Ying feel dangerous. Full of possibilities.

‘This isn’t meant for us, is it?’ asks Wei Ying, using words that are also not meant for him. The not-liquor churns in his blood, asking to weave and unweave the fibers of what makes him mortal, begging to make him something else. Something more true.

Dr. Wen offers him a closed-lipped smile. Her eyes glow eerily in the dark. 

‘Marine Biology isn’t meant for you, Wei Ying,’ she tells him. ‘Your Gift isn’t meant for you, it’s not meant for anyone. But here you are. And there,’ she adds, pointing at the dragon pin at his collar, ‘that is, and you don’t even know what it means.’

Wei Ying touches the silver rabbit-ear. ‘What does it mean?’ he asks. 

Dr. Wen shakes her head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Oh.’ Wei Ying tries to swallow his disappointment. It sours against the sweetness of Whimsy, almost curdling it. 

Dr. Wen sighs. ‘I literally cannot tell you,’ she says, waving her hand. ‘We have rules too, Wei Ying. Almanac writers are bound to stricter rules than anyone else.’

‘Are we really that different from the others?’ asks Mianmian, her brow furrowing. She leans forwards, looping her arms beneath knees, above her thighs. 

Dr. Wen stubs her cigarette in the grass and twists it in her palm, where it is swallowed in a quick burst of crimson fire. The sharp gasp of light illuminates each of their features and makes them seem strange. More Unknown. Less human. 

‘More than you will ever understand,’ Dr. Wen replies softly. ‘The longer you spend working on your Almanac, the more different you will become.’

‘What about after?’ asks Mianmian. ‘Do we ever go back to who we were?’

Dr. Wen’s eyebrows arch. ‘There is no after ,’ she says. ‘Humans live such short lives. You can spend an entire lifetime devoted to just one Almanac chapter.’

‘The Institute makes us do this?’ Mianmian demands. There is rebellion in her voice.

‘The Institute cannot force you to do anything, girl,’ Dr. Wen says, setting her glass on the grass. ‘No, it is the mystery that compels you. The Unknown calls to you, and you must explore it until you are satisfied. That is what makes you worthy to be Almanac writers. That hunger to explore.’

She accentuates this last sentence with both hands, and for a moment, Wei Ying thinks he might glimpse the researcher she had once been, pre-tenure.

Mianmian purses her lips, seemingly unconvinced. 

Dr. Wen pours more Whimsy into their glasses. ‘Be worthy of your Almanacs,’ she toasts them solemnly. ‘And you, Wei Ying. Be worthy of that pin. Be worthy of your department.’

And she leaves them, striding into the dark. The shadows glide up to meet her, and as she moves out of reach of the light, they embrace her as an old friend.

The Whimsy sits poorly in Wei Ying’s stomach, and it lingers in his limbs, leaving him feeling strange and loose for a few days after. 

~

The path to Marine Biology starts at the back of one of the other dorms, narrow and laid with chalk, winding out to the edge of the Institute, where a low wooden fence separates the campus from the cliffs. Beyond a small wooden gate with a metal latch, the path continues down, past wind-beaten brush and patches of blooming alexanders and campions, to where the Marine Biology cottage stands facing the sea.

There isn’t a door at the back, so Wei Ying follows the dirt path around to the front. The cottage is old, but well-kept – its cornflower-blue walls have recently been touched up with a fresh coat of paint, and there isn’t a tile missing from its sloped roof. 

The door is marked only with a copper plaque that reads, in all capitals: MARINE BIOLOGY.

The briny air beats at the back of Wei Ying’s neck, tucking into the back of his jacket collar and tossing his hair into his face. He can taste salt on the wind as he lifts his hand to knock. 

After a beat, the door opens, revealing Lan Zhan in a pale blue sweater and white shirt. The collar of it isn’t starched, but instead sits softly against the high neck of the cableknit sweater. Wei Ying finds this odd, though he doesn’t know why that’s odd.

Lan Zhan observes Wei Ying’s very sensible walking shoes, his cargo pants tucked into his socks, and the waterproof jacket. He takes note of the flower and dragon pins tucked into the collar of Wei Ying’s sweater, and nods in approval.

‘Come in,’ he says, and opens the door further.

Despite the fantasies Wei Ying permitted himself after receiving his department allocation, the cottage is not bigger on the inside. 

Seaglass charms hang from the wooden eaves, tinkling softly as the sea breeze sneaks in through the open door. Shells of all sizes and shapes battle for space on shelves already packed with files and reference books and carefully-labeled jars. On a high shelf above the doorway, there is a reconstructed skeleton of something that would not have been in any of Wei Ying’s biology textbooks. 

There is a long wooden table to the left of the cottage, facing the windows that overlook the meandering line of cliffs, covered in maps. Around it, trunks are stacked full of what seem to be equipment, including netting, calipers, and other mundane items that would not have seemed strange in normal field work. There are also three pairs of yellow wellies in varying sizes.

The desk in the back is very obviously Lan Zhan’s. Everything is organized into neat piles but for a half-open notebook. Next to the lamp clamped to the desk, there appears to be a specimen beneath a magnifying glass, which Lan Zhan might have been studying when Wei Ying arrived. 

There is another desk facing the right side of the cottage, overlooking the other stretch of cliffs and, in part, the pale buildings of the Hawthorn Institute. It is, for the most part, empty, but for a pocket-sized dictionary, a stainless steel ruler, and a stapler.

‘You may use that,’ Lan Zhan tells Wei Ying, gesturing at the empty desk. 

There doesn’t appear to be anyone else inside the cottage, but Wei Ying looks around anyways, picking his way around corners and along the tall shelves. He peers at titles of books, scanning the ones he can read, and squinting at the ones he can’t – some are embossed in languages he recognizes, others with a runic language he’s never seen before. 

‘Who else works here?’ he asks, peering into a jar of old fish hooks. He picks up a small conch and turns it over in his hands.

‘My uncle, from time to time,’ says Lan Zhan, watching Wei Ying from the middle of the cottage. His hands are folded politely behind him. He is wearing his sword at his belt, which seems strange in contrast to the jade-green wellies he’s tucked his corduroy pants into. ‘And my father, once, but he is gone now.’

The intonation of it makes Wei Ying think he means gone from life. Lost. Dead. 

Wei Ying sets the conch back on the shelf. 

‘You, um.’ He searches for the right words to say. It seems cruel to ask if sais-pas can die. 

‘If my kind loses the desire to stay, we slip away, become seafoam,’ Lan Zhan says with a delicate hand gesture. ‘It happened to my mother, too.’

Wei Ying takes a breath to steady himself, and then another. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.

Lan Zhan looks at him from across the cottage. ‘You mean that.’

Wei Ying steps out from within the shelves, towards Lan Zhan. ‘Of course I do,’ he says earnestly. ‘I’m an orphan, too. My parents died when I was really young. I don’t remember much, just that my mother liked to sing and my father liked to laugh.’ 

It doesn’t hurt to think about them. They were a thing that he lost before he even understood what they were.

The sun is generous with its light as it spills through the cottage windows and pools over the stone tiling of the floor. Marine Biology smells of paper and brine and sandalwood. Lan Zhan’s eyes are steady as they study Wei Ying, and though he stands just out of the way of a sunbeam, his face held in bright shadow, there is no mistaking the striking golden color of his irises. They seem to glimmer as though lit by a star of their own – like forbidden Whimsy, at the bottom of a glass.

It is strange to talk of death and loss in this place, with this person.

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ says Lan Zhan, softly. ‘No child should be alone.’

Wei Ying shrugs. ‘I wasn’t alone,’ he corrects. ‘I had my aunt, my uncle, my adopted siblings. I was really lucky. I’ve had a really good life. A really privileged one.’

Lan Zhan tilts his head to the right, studying Wei Ying for a moment, as though judging the sincerity of his words – and why shouldn’t Wei Ying be sincere? He’s never been alone, and what child isn’t lonely at any point in their life? And anyways, it’s too busy in Hong Kong to ever really feel any sort of emptiness, and even if you do, you can stuff it full of joy and activities and hobbies and things to do and places to see and people that you can’t manage to fit into your schedule.

‘Hm,’ says Lan Zhan, concluding whatever observations he might have made. He shifts his weight onto his right leg, toward his sword. ‘Would you like to see some dragons?’

Wei Ying gasps. ‘Uh, fuck yes I would!’

Lan Zhan gives Wei Ying a pair of wellies to change into, waving off his insistence that he wear his shoes – you will be standing in seawater for several hours, Wei Ying, and you will give yourself hypothermia, which as I understand it, is quite damaging to the human body – and shrugs on a coat that, although beautiful and well-made, looks over five decades old. Lan Zhan leads Wei Ying down a treacherous path that clings to the side of the cliff and snakes down to the beach. He helps Wei Ying onto the rocks, holding him steady as he adjusts to slippery surfaces.

They make their way over to the rockpools. The tide is going out, leaving behind it limp trails of leathery brown kelp that drape over the speckled boulders, and the occasional abandoned seastar. Wei Ying picks his way carefully, performing the flailing steps of a very awkward dance as he dodges barnacles and tries not to slip on algae and seaweed. When his foot does go, Lan Zhan’s arm is instantly there to steady him.

Lan Zhan has no trouble navigating the rocks. Despite his wellies, he moves with impossible grace, stepping nimbly from foothold to foothold without ever breaking into a sweat.

He isn’t human, Wei Ying reminds himself.

They stop by a rockpool roughly four feet in diameter – a large, oblong pool with a slight outcrop offering shade from the sun. Lan Zhan kneels and points, and so Wei Ying finds steady footing and kneels beside him.

There, peering from a bushel of emerald rainbow wrack, silver scales flash in the morning light. 

It’s a dragon. A tiny, beautiful, iridescent dragon with pale fins that curve down its serpentine body, and wonderful, intelligent eyes that are as bright as ripe mandarins. 

‘Blue rockhopper,’ whispers Lan Zhan. ‘Lesser seadragon.’

‘She’s beautiful,’ Wei Ying whispers back.

Lan Zhan, though he doesn’t smile, seems to glow with happiness. ‘You knew it was a female,’ he says, his golden gaze falling upon Wei Ying’s face.

‘Yeah,’ says Wei Ying, grinning up at Lan Zhan. ‘Because there’s her mate.’

Beneath the outcrop of rock in the pool, with long, trailing fins of brilliant aquamarine like flowers unfurling in the water, swims a much smaller dragon of the same species.

Wei Ying gasps and leans closer to the water as the male blue rockhopper swims towards its mate. Its teeth are so very small – perhaps no larger than grains of sand. It is an impossible, wonderful thing, and it is real. 

‘Tell me about the blue rockhopper,’ Wei Ying whispers to Lan Zhan, not daring to take his eyes off it for a second. 

‘They prefer rockpools in the summer months,’ says Lan Zhan, his voice low and soothing, ‘and they are actually one of the few seadragons that hibernate in the winter by moving onto land.’

The tiny male dragon meets its mate by the emerald and purple seaweed, and they twirl together in a braiding pattern, before separating, and coming together again, weaving in and out in an underwater dance. 

‘They feed mostly on krill and small plankton,’ says Lan Zhan, ‘and are known to be scavengers. And they mate for life.’

‘I love them,’ says Wei Ying, breathless. ‘They’re perfect.’

Lan Zhan makes a huffing sound under his breath, and Wei Ying realizes that it’s a laugh.

‘Come,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘There is a nest of triple-crested emerald snappers up that way.’ He gestures back towards the coast, to the steep wall of the cliffs that tower above them. ‘We must go count the eggs.’

Wei Ying stands, sad to leave the blue rockhoppers, but delighted to see what else lies within the Unknown. Lan Zhan smiles at him, brief but blinding in its warmth, and leads the way back to land, steppling elegantly from stone to stone.

Wei Ying, with slippery hands and too-large boots, scrambles excitedly after. 

Chapter Text

Treatise of Work and Home-Keeping: Chapter XII - Shoes, Socks, and Stockings; Article 5a

To Resize a Shoe That Will Not Fit

i. In the closest forest to your place of residence or work, find a coniferous tree that is one-third taller than the closest non-coniferous tree.

ii. Gather three stones from within the shade of this tree. Note: Each stone must not be larger than the palm of your hand.

iii. Soak these stones overnight in a small bowl of water, whilst ensuring that moonlight touches the bowl for a minimum of three consecutive hours.

iv. Dry the stones with sunlight. Note: Do not dry with any other methods such as toweling.

v. Place the stones in the same box as your ill-fitting shoe, and bury it beneath three inches of soil. 

vi. Leave overnight.

vii. Retrieve your box and remove the shoe, which will now fit you perfectly.

~

Wei Ying and the other Pioneers are used to the tenured staff and their peculiarities. However, when the silver-pinned sais-pas start to pop up, it is a stark reminder that they are not in a normal research institute.

There are suddenly twice as many people in the dining hall at lunch and dinner. Some of them seem human enough, though perhaps not if you look at them directly for more than five seconds. There is always something slightly off about the sais-pas , something that Wei Ying is beginning to notice. Perhaps they are a little bit too beautiful, or their skin shines a different color in the sun.

There’s a girl who likes to sit with a group of Legacies who has scales at the crown of her forehead. And there is a group of rather menacing looking, well-dressed History archivists who only appear once the sun has touched the horizon for the night. 

Others are far less human. Wei Ying shares one of his Treatise classes with a sais-pas with moss-green antlers sprouting from his head, and tawny hooves instead of feet. And in his dorms, there’s a new resident living above him who has skin as pearlescent pink as a sunrise, and hair that sings like metal chimes whenever the wind hits it. (Their name is Alisha, and they rather like joining Wei Ying for part of his walk down to the Marine Biology cottage in the early mornings, and for the most part they are exceedingly polite and have an obsession with Buffy reruns.)

Nie Huaisang warns Wei Ying not to let his guard down, though. 

‘You want to be careful of the Jins and the Wens in particular,’ he tells Wei Ying as they eat their sandwiches on the grass one balmy afternoon. 

Wei Ying watches a group of green-skinned silver-pins talk to a stately woman with eyes that are all blue, no pupil, no whites. He recognizes the blue-eyed woman as one of the adjunct professors from Medicine. She often lunches with Dr. Wen.

‘How will I know who the Jins and the Wens are?’ Wei Ying asks. 

‘The Wens all look, well,’ Huaisang shrugs and gestures vaguely. ‘Kinda spooky. And the Jins always wear yellow.’

Spooky . That’s one way to describe Dr. Wen. Terrifying is probably more accurate. 

~

Wei Ying sees his first Jin in the wild as he and Mianmian walk back from an Almanac workshop. (Despite the sudden influx of new sais-pas , they remain the only new Almanac writers in their cohort.)

In the archways beneath the Architecture and Urban Planning fortress, a handsome man in a linen suit colored in saffron yellow is talking to Dr. Faust, a towering man with a shock of bone-white hair, and a red-headed, bespectacled boy who looks to be no more than thirteen dressed in a pinstripe jacket. As Wei Ying and Mianmian pass beneath the archway, the man in the yellow suit dips into a bow at the waist, his right arm extended elegantly to his side. 

‘What is that posh git doing?’ Wei Ying mutters, shaking his head.

Mianmian elbows him in the ribs, causing him to trip slightly. He falls behind by a few steps and is forced to break into a light jog to catch up. They emerge from the shadow of the fortress, stepping into pale light. It is a chilly, overcast day, and the sun has been sadly absent for a few days, as it often does in English summers. 

‘He’s greeting the patrons,’ Mianmian hisses at him. ‘That’s Dr. Antler and Dr. Blackthorn. They’re both on the Board, same as Dr. Faust. And Jin Zixuan is not that much of a git.’

Wei Ying raises his eyebrows. ‘You know him?’

Mianmian blows out her cheeks and releases all the air with a quick exhale. ‘Yes,’ she responds. ‘I grew up with him.’

‘But I thought sais-pas live in the Unknown,’ Wei Ying frowned.

‘Um, well.’ Mianmian scrunches up her nose. ‘I sort of live in the Unknown.’

The confession halts Wei Ying in his tracks. Mianmian is forced to stop, loop around, grab him by the arm and pull him forwards. 

‘You what?’ Wei Ying exclaims, once he’s regained none of his composure. ‘Expand and explain!’

Mianmian sighs. ‘So um,’ she starts, and winces. ‘My mum accidentally sold her firstborn? It’s a long story. I grew up in the care of the Courts, in the Jin household. And before you ask, no, I cannot tell you anything about the Courts.’ 

Wei Ying snaps his jaw shut with a click. Mianmian gives him a dirty look.

‘I was basically Zixuan’s aide until I was invited here. I mean, technically I’m still sworn to seek vengeance against the wielder of any blade that dares seek the blood within his chest, blah blah blah, but.’ She shrugs. ‘We’re academics now so I’m hoping the bloodshed will be zero.’

Wei Ying digests this for a moment as they skirt the green and make for the dining hall. He takes in Mianmian’s outfit – a puffy jean jacket over a canary-yellow sundress dotted with daisies, with matching yellow wellies. He’s never quite realized it before, but Mianmian does wear an unusual amount of yellow, while nobody else here favors that color.

There are probably a few ways that someone ends up a Legacy. Being raised by sais-pas , apparently, is one of them. 

‘So, are the Jins, um,’ Wei Ying squints as he searches for the right term. ‘Local?’

‘Ooh, this I can tell you!’ Mianmian says, excitedly. ‘So the Jins immigrated here a long time ago, maybe with the first merchant ships, and they integrated into the Courts pretty quickly. They know how to play by the rules, and they’re even better at bending the rules a little to gain power. I’ve heard that they’re already vying for the Wens’ spot on the Board of the Institute.’

‘Can they really do that?’ Wei Ying asks. ‘Aren’t there rules?’

The pale walls of the dining hall come into view. At the top of the steps to the main entrance, they spot Huaisang leaning against a pillar. As he spots Mianmian and Wei Ying’s approach, he raises a hand in greeting, his face breaking out into a bright smile.  

Mianmian shakes her head. ‘You just need three members of the Institute board to vouch for them, and so far they’ve got Blackthorn, Antler, and Faust.’

Wei Ying snorts. ‘The Wens can’t be happy about that. Don’t they hold a majority of the Board?’

(This particular fact he learned not from gossip queen Huaisang, but from Lan Zhan himself. It came up in one of their conversations about submitting for study funding and a potential nursery for dragons washed up in autumn storms. The Wens are less than generous when it comes to Marine Biology funding, apparently more likely to request that the Lans use their considerable family wealth than to dip into the Institute budget.)

Mianmian laughs. She lifts a hand to wave back at Huaisang. 

‘Yeah, obviously the Wens aren’t happy,’ she tells Wei Ying. ‘We’re alright though. It’ll come to a head long after our grandchildren are dead.’

~

Wei Ying has bigger things to worry about than the politics of sais-pas . 

For one, he has his research, which has truly kicked off in earnest.

Marine Biology is thinly staffed. The fieldwork, documentation, and Almanac writing were all once done by Lan Zhan alone, often at all hours of the day. And now, Wei Ying is a part of that relentless routine. 

Nearly every morning, they pack their equipment and wellies into the back of Lan Zhan’s Honda. The compact little sedan does remarkably well on the curving Cornish roads. Lan Zhan is an excellent driver too, of course, and never loses his temper when they get stuck behind a tractor for thirty minutes on a country lane.

Wei Ying reads in the car, because there’s little time to do it elsewhere. If he’s at his desk in the cottage, then there are reports to write. Sketches to draw. Charts to record on the half-functioning laptop that the two of them share. 

In the passenger seat of the Honda, Wei Ying catches up on Treatises and supporting literature. He reads each Almanac on dragons, aquatic or otherwise. There are many volumes and each volume has several pages, but Wei Ying is a fast reader and can absorb vast amounts of information like a sponge. 

Lan Zhan drags him to almost every coast in Cornwall. Wei Ying learns to scramble effectively on barnacle-crusted rocks, and gets proficient at climbing slippery rocks in wellies. He takes photographs of dragons with Lan Zhan’s film camera. (Digital cameras don’t do very well near dragons apparently, and nothing ends up getting recorded but warped static.) His pocketbook fills up with scrawled notes on eggs and nests and mating grounds and feeding patterns. 

Wei Ying sees more dragons than he could ever imagine, and every dragon is more spectacular than the last.

He studies lesser dragons of every possible shape and color – crimson fantails, horned dwarf wyverns and speckled snappers in Penzance, European butter-mouths and puffer basilisks in Gwithian, and giant rockhoppers by St. Ives. And they study greater dragons too, with binoculars from the cliffs as their large shapes come close into coves and bays, dorsal fins glittering as they break the ocean’s surface. 

Wei Ying wonders how no one ever sees them. They are enormous and so very brilliant when the sun hits their scales. But apparently dragons only reveal themselves to friends of the Unknown. To a passing fishing trawler, they might as well be a pod of whales. 

But spectacular as dragons are, the work is tiring. The weather is not always kind, and there are days where Wei Ying finds himself wading out over low tide for hours in drizzle and biting winds.

‘Why is this department so small?’ Wei Ying asks, during a lunch break overlooking the dark rocks and turquoise water of Kynance Cove. 

Lan Zhan made them both vegetarian noodles in matching tupperware containers – red for Wei Ying, white for Lan Zhan.

‘Conservation and rehabilitation are difficult things,’ Lan Zhan says, ‘and dragons are a precious resource that many have tried to take advantage of in the past. We Lans are tasked with protecting them.’

Wei Ying looks out over the water. It’s high tide, and the beach has all but disappeared and many of the visitors with it. A fat, dark-bodied seal wriggles onto a sand bank and rests there for a moment. 

Lan Zhan sets his chopsticks down at the edge of his tupperware container. They come in a small container that stacks neatly on top of his tupperware, and he always wipes down each chopstick before packing them away. He’ll wash them in the cottage sink when they get back to Marine Biology in the evening.

‘It was once that we invited other sais-pas to help,’ Lan Zhan says. He leans forward as he joins Wei Ying in observing the seal. ‘But they have their own motivations and desires. Dragons were hunted. The ecosystem became weak. And when it weakened, so too did the distribution of magic across the world. Our kind started to die out.’ 

Wei Ying stares at Lan Zhan, whose eyes remain on the seal. There is no change in his expression, no sorrow in his voice. Just a matter-of-fact delivery, a retelling of events long passed and settled. 

‘Now we limit who we allow into Marine Biology,’ Lan Zhan says, lifting his gaze to meet Wei Ying’s.

The seal is gone from its place on the sand, likely diving deep back into the icy water.

‘And me?’ asks Wei Ying.

A groove appears between Lan Zhan’s brows. ‘You know why you are here, Wei Ying.’

‘Dr. Wen said our lives are so short,’ Wei Ying says. ‘Humans, I mean. I’m just a blip, aren’t I? Inconsequential, in the scale of sais-pas decisions.’

‘I do not think you will be a blip,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘And I trust you more than I trust many others.’

Wei Ying, for some reason, blushes.

Later, on a path that traces around the cliffs overlooking the cove, Wei Ying gathers daisies, sea spurries, and thrifts. He makes a bouquet of butter-yellow and pink, ties the flowers at the stem with a spare weed, and offers it to Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan’s ears are blossom-pink as he tucks the bouquet away in his jacket.

Later, Lan Zhan returns the bouquet of wildflowers, pressed and dried and bound properly with brown string. Wei Ying carries it with him everywhere as a keepsake.

~

There’s work to be done on campus as well.

Lan Zhan sends Wei Ying on frequent errands that have him traversing the green to visit nearly every department.

Wei Ying fetches and returns so many maps from Cartography that Dr. Faust knows him on a first-name basis. She sometimes sends him back from a map run and with a cookie from her jar, which she bakes with dark chocolate chunks and lavender. He also often runs into Dr. Lan senior, who glares at him and tells him to stop running, and then usually sends him on a side-quest to fetch him a book from the History library.

My knees aren’t what they were a thousand years ago, Dr. Lan likes to complain.

Wei Ying doesn’t question how long the Lans live. He doesn’t want to think about the ravine of time that separates him from Lan Zhan. 

Sometimes he has to pick up tools from Horticulture. Often, they’re too heavy or cumbersome to carry, so he gets really good at performing the ritual for lifting heavy things ( Treatise of Work and Home-Keeping: Chapter V; Article 3a ).

In quiet moments, he locates a spot in the History library to nap without fear of being chased out by the librarian – who, at this point, has learned to endure Wei Ying’s presence. 

Wei Ying doesn’t usually nap at his desk in the Marine Biology cottage, since this usually causes Lan Zhan to worry about his health, and assign him less tasks, and Wei Ying doesn’t want that. He needs to prove himself capable. He doesn’t want to be reassigned to a different department.

He discovers that there are very few Treatises in Marine Biology. When he asks Lan Zhan about it, Lan Zhan tells him that dragons generally do not like to follow any summons. They prefer their own borders and limitations.

That makes sense, in a way.

‘Do you think that maybe we’re studying dragons wrong?’ Wei Ying asks him, as they’re developing photographs of saltwater taffy-ears in a borrowed darkroom. 

Lan Zhan clips a photograph up to dry, then gives him an inquisitive look.

‘We apply the basic principles of marine biology to each species,’ says Wei Ying, gesticulating with his tongs. ‘We categorize them and record behaviors like we’re just studying bluefin or sunfish or whatever, like they obey the laws of physics, but they’re not fish . Dragons are- well, they’re the words of fire, earth, air and water that together weave the poetry of magic.’

Lan Zhan considers this for a moment, tilting his head. The gloom of the darkroom makes his cheekbones seem all the more angular. His eyes glow with a warm light, like candles burning low, and they cast halos of illumination that frame his brow and cheeks. He looks inhuman, which he is , but sometimes Wei Ying forgets.

‘No one understands eels,’ Lan Zhan says, ‘and yet biologists categorize them. And is each living thing not also a part of the whole poem?’

He bends his head, submerges a print in a bath, and then lifts it. 

‘Our work as marine biologists,’ he says, turning to clip the print onto the line to dry, ‘whether here in the Unknown or out there in the known world, is to try and record this poetry, in the hopes that we may better preserve it.’

‘Wow, that’s.’ Wei Ying leans against the counter behind him. ‘That’s fucking profound.’

‘Wei Ying,’ chides Lan Zhan, ‘please do not swear.’ But he smiles, even if it’s just a curve of his mouth. 

~

On a gray day in mid-September, Lan Zhan invites Wei Ying to join him in observing a pod of rainbow traversers as they make their hermitage to mating grounds. Wei Ying was expecting a rubber dinghy, but instead they sail out on an actual boat with canvas sails that sprawl above them like the wings of a great bird.

The water is choppy. The boat rocks as it climbs each dark wave, and seaspray clings in Wei Ying’s hair, teasing it into curls. Lan Zhan holds the wheel with one hand as he stares out over the ocean. Instead of his usual jacket, he’s wearing a jumper that is the palest of blues, over a pristine white button down and matching white slacks. The seawater never seems to touch him.

The boat is unmanned, and yet Lan Zhan makes no move to adjust the sails. Wei Ying doesn’t think he’s supposed to notice this, or the lettering carved into the wooden mast and hull of the boat, so he doesn’t say anything.

They finally see it, just past towering dark cliffs of slate, beneath a column of sunlight that escapes the cloudbank above them – giant shapes rolling out of the water, as large as baleen whales but with an entirely different silhouette. The dragons do not have smooth, leathery skin, but are covered from head to tail with scales that shimmer like stars in the night sky. 

They chase the greater dragons up the cliffs until they catch up. Wei Ying scrambles down to the boat’s port side, holding the tracker gun in his hand as Lan Zhan shouts commands at him. He activates the tracker, checking for its blinking light, then aims at the closest enormous body and shoots. The tracker embeds itself in a glittering fin – as painful as a mosquito bite to the great thing.

The enormous dragon performs a barrel roll, tracker disappearing from sight, and dives under the boat. Wei Ying hurries to the other side in time to see, just for a moment, a giant yellow eye staring at him with a sense of curiosity. Wei Ying glimpses a streamlined skull, adorned with iridescent horns and feathered fins, and a long neck. The rainbow traverser dives down, its fins sending up a spray that completely soaks Wei Ying through his sweater and down to his underwear.

He turns to Lan Zhan, laughing, and sees Lan Zhan watching him, his face stoic, his eyes soft.

They follow the poid up around the coast, before parting ways in deep water. Lan Zhan turns the boat back, heading towards the closest bay and its marina.

Lan Zhan pays an elderly gentleman in an orange hat as he docks his boat. The man has orange eyes slitted like a goat. 

As he helps Wei Ying onto the pier, he winks. ‘Getting up to trouble, are ye?’ he asks, his accent thick, his words rounded. ‘Get any scales from the old girls to make a charm? They like to help out, you know. Maybe you can add a few new charms to your knowing book.’

Wei Ying frowns, turning around to face the old man. ‘What’s a knowing book?’ he asks. ‘Do you mean an Almanac?’

The man gives a bark of laughter. ‘Them’s not a knowing book, lad,’ he grins, revealing black teeth. ‘You each got one, your kind do.’

‘Enough,’ says Lan Zhan.

The old man stills, his grin fading. He tugs on his hat and heads down the pier, towards the boat. Lan Zhan ignores the strange old man. He takes Wei Ying by the sleeve and pulls him back along the pier.

‘I must remind you that charm-making is forbidden on Institute grounds,’ he says, his jaw tight, his eyes focused ahead on the shoreline.

‘I’m not making charms,’ Wei Ying protests. He’s having trouble keeping up with Lan Zhan’s long-legged stride. ‘Look, can you slow down a bit? The man’s not following us.’

Lan Zhan scoffs. He turns on his heel and grabs Wei Ying by the lapels of his jacket. He rummages inside Wei Ying’s pockets, his hands careless in how they touch Wei Ying’s chest, his ribs, his stomach. Wei Ying’s ears feel as though they’re on fire. 

Lan Zhn pulls the dried flowers from where Wei Ying stowed them. Somehow, they’ve escaped getting soaked. Lan Zhan thrusts it at Wei Ying, planting it against his chest.

‘ You gave me that,’ Wei Ying protests.

Lan Zhan’s golden eyes narrow. ‘Precisely.’

Wei Ying shakes his head, retrieving the bushel of dried flowers. ‘I really don’t understand.’

Lan Zhan gives him a look that says, of course you don’t, you idiot. But he does not explain, or perhaps he cannot. 

Wei Ying does not know how to stop treading where he should not, or how to stop doing things he should not be doing. A part of him wants to push the boundary further, to give into his curiosity, to step closer to this part of the Unknown.

Instead, he stays silent, and follows Lan Zhan up to the shore. They can catch a bus back to the other bay and retrieve the car.

~

Wei Ying is not a thing made to obey for long. As a child, this led to a good many spankings at his aunt’s hand, and several long lectures from his uncle as he sat on the cool tiled floors of their kitchen. It’s not that he’s malicious or inherently mischievous. It’s just that he’s a creature driven by curiosity. 

It’s what makes him an academic, after all. An Almanac writer.

That burning, all-consuming curiosity.

He can smother it for only so long before it crawls up out of his gut and takes hold of his body.

~

In late September, at the close of summer, Lan Zhan and Wei Ying drive up to an unmarked cove to study the flight patterns of butter-bellied firebreathers. There is a path down to the beach that clings to the rocks, with a steel railing built a few decades ago. As they descend, Wei Ying wonders who maintains these borderlands of the Unknown. Is it humans, or is it sais-pas ? Or perhaps it is the same magic that runs the Institute with invisible hands. 

The last 500 meters of the path pulls the beach out of view, forcing the two of them to carefully navigate between a leaning tunnel of boulders. The rocks are wet underfoot, so neither are looking up until they emerge from the path – and that’s when they see here.

On the pale sand, to the left of a scattering of black rock, a large creature lies groaning on the beach. It is a medium dragon, and it is beached.

‘Fuck,’ Wei Ying utters.

Lan Zhan’s face becomes a shade of ash. He breaks into a sprint immediately, darting across the cove in a flash of white, jade wellies flashing. He is impossibly fast, like a spooked fox disappearing into the woods, and even at full pelt in his outdoor shoes, Wei Ying falls far behind. The sand is compact, and the tide is going out fast.

Wei Ying recognizes the dragon from his Almanac – she’s an adult female crested blue ocean-stalker. She is the length of a bus, all sleek and streamlined, with sharp talons and a body that tapers into a powerful tail. Her neck is long and elegant, her scales brilliant cobalt blue, making the yellow horns lining her jaw and skull stand out all the more. Her dorsal fin lies limp on her back, which tells Wei Ying that she’s been on land for at least an hour. 

Ocean-stalkers are amphibious, but they cannot survive very long out of the water. She’s running out of time. 

As Wei Ying skids to a halt by the dragon. Lan Zhan is already kneeling beside her, murmuring in a language that sounds more like birdsong than human speech. Wei Ying scans the dragon quickly. It appears unharmed – all fins and limbs intact. Her eyes are still a rich ochre, which means that she isn’t malnourished or diseased. 

‘We have to get her into the water,’ Lan Zhan says, looking up at Wei Ying.

‘Yes,’ gasps Wei Ying. 

His lungs burn from the run across the beach, but he doesn’t hesitate. He tucks his hands beneath the dragon’s collarbones, and tries to lift. The ocean-stalker does not move even an inch. It is as heavy as a car full of rocks. Wei Ying hurries to the water, trying to see if he can dig a channel behind the dragon. As he does, Lan Zhan bends and takes over Wei Ying’s previous position.

The dragon’s chest and neck lift a foot off the ground. Veins pulse on Lan Zhan’s forehead as he puffs and drags the dragon around. He makes it only a few steps before the strain is too much, and the ocean-stalker falls from his hands into the shallow water.

Lan Zhan, red-faced and panting, throws his hands in the air and growls out a curse. The sound echoes off the cliffs, startling a flock of seagulls into flight.

Wei Ying watches their escape as he tries to catch his breath. 

They have to get the ocean-stalker into deeper water, or she will die. Something deep within Wei Ying knows that the Unknown will be irrevocably damaged by her loss. A line of dragon hatchlings, an entire gene pool – gone, forever, in a world where dragons are already becoming rare. 

There are unshod tears bright in Lan Zhan’s eyes as he kneels by the dragon again. He cups saltwater into his hands and drips it on her head. His breathing is ragged. He is strong, so impossibly strong, but even he cannot move her.

Wei Ying recalls the chapter on lifting heavy things. He has used it so often these past months, he still carries twine and beeswax around with him everywhere. He has some in his jacket. He pulls out the roll of twine and the tin of wax, and holds them both in his hands.

Follow the steps precisely, and you shall arrive at the desired outcome. 

The Treatise is very clear about the applications of the ritual. It will only work for inanimate, non-magical things.

But there is another ritual, in the Treatise of the In-Between – Chapter III, Article 1a, To Locate a Magical Item Lost in the Unknown. It also requires beeswax and twine, only the twine is wrapped around the middle finger of your left hand, and the beeswax goes under your tongue.

Do not comply strictly with the instructions, and you risk death or dismemberment.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lan Zhan whispers to the dragon. 

The creature rumbles gently to him. It is a sound as deep and resonant as ice breaking from a melting glacier, and as sweet and clear as crystal bells. Lan Zhan’s face is an open wound.

Wei Ying opens the jar of beeswax and smears it beneath his tongue. He wraps his twine thrice around his middle finger, then thrice around his palm. He knots it tight, and then hurries to the dragon. He should not do this, this is not in any Treatise, but it feels right. It follows the channels of magic that he has come to know like second kin, the harmony that echoes through the halls of the Hawthorn Institute. 

He places his arms beneath the ocean-stalker’s abdomen, and lifts. She comes as easy as a duck-feather pillow. However, the dragon is large and awkward out of the water, and Lan Zhan has to hurry to Wei Ying’s side to help guide her the right way round. Together they carry the creature into the water, gently, carefully, with great reverence. 

The sea lifts the ocean-stalker’s body out of their hands, and buoys her gently over the soft sand. Soon they are chest-deep in the ocean, and the creature finally uncoils, stretching her neck out. She turns her head, regarding the two of them with one yellow eye, and then she rolls. Her scales are the truest blue Wei Ying has ever seen. 

The waves roll in, splashing brine into Wei Ying’s face. His mouth is already salty with tears. The Unknown almost lost a great treasure here.

Wei Ying could have died. He knows that now. He played with things he should not have played with – Treatises are not meant to be rewritten. But Wei Ying cannot regret it. He will never regret it.

The dragon’s dorsal fin is illuminated by sunlight, catching the light like the depths of a sapphire, before she dips and disappears beneath the surf. 

Lan Zhan’s hands appear at Wei Ying’s side. He guides Wei Ying out of the water. Wei Ying is cold, but Lan Zhan warms the water around him like a furnace. How can someone look as though they are made of ice, and yet be so warm? 

As soon as they are on the beach, Wei Ying collapses. His phone is likely broken, entirely waterlogged and clogged with sand and salt. He drags his hands through his hair and squeezes the damp out of it.

Lan Zhan lowers himself onto the sand next to Wei Ying. ‘Thank you,’ he says quietly. 

Wei Ying rubs his hand over his face. He thinks he can stop crying. It’s so hard to stop crying.

‘I broke a rule, didn’t I?’ he croaks.

Lan Zhan’s eyes are luminous as he regards Wei Ying gravely. ‘Yes.’

Wei Ying’s stomach is a series of knots. ‘Am I going to be kicked out of the Institute?’ he asks. 

‘No,’ Lan Zhan replies. ‘But you should refrain from doing this in the future.’

The relief crashes over Wei Ying first like a sunbeam breaking free of a cloudbank. Then comes the fear, the sharp-toothed anxiety. 

‘What did I do that was wrong?’ Wei Ying asks. He exhales, and then inhales, and exhales again, long and tremulous. ‘Was it combining treatises?’

A groove appears to the side of Lan Zhan’s mouth. He leans his elbows on his knees. His turtleneck is soaked through, and Wei Ying can see the shape of his body beneath the now-translucent material. 

‘That is allowed,’ Lan Zhan says, ‘although you should have probably applied through the correct processes and then waited for peer review. It is the way you combined them. Only your kind have that ability.’

‘My kind?’ Wei Ying frowns. 

Lan Zhan looks at him steadily in lieu of a reply. Perhaps this is one of those things that sais-pas cannot talk about.

Wei Ying tilts his head. ‘Aren’t I human?’ he asks.

‘You are human for now, yes.’ Lan Zhan gets up and extends his hand. ‘Come. You are getting cold. I have a change of clothes in the car.’

They change in the nearby toilets. Wei Ying dries his hair as best as he can beneath the hand dryers. It will frizz to hell later, but honestly, he’s just glad to be warm. 

Lan Zhan drives them to a café at the top of a nearby bay, beside the ruins of an old castle. He buys Wei Ying a hot chocolate – the fancy type that comes as a mug of hot milk and a bar of chocolate that can be stirred in. Lan Zhan drinks earl gray without the milk, his legs crossed pristinely at the knee. In a dry sweater vest and button-up, he looks like a public school-educated academic enjoying an afternoon away from his dusty books. 

Meanwhile, Wei Ying looks like a drowned rat in clothes too big for him. Lan Zhan’s sweater on him is just a bit too big, the sleeves falling just to the first knuckle of his thumb, instead of the wrist. 

It smells like sandalwood and seasalt.

Wei Ying takes his pins out of his pocket and pins them back to the sweater. Lan Zhan tracks his motions with his gaze, even as the rest of him remains perfectly still. Wei Ying is reminded, suddenly, of the way Lan Xichen never blinks.

‘That was a crested blue ocean-stalker, right?’ Wei Ying asks, once he’s had half of his hot chocolate.

Lan Zhan nods. ‘Correct.’ 

‘I thought dragon beachings were rare,’ Wei Ying says, shaking his head. He cups his chocolate in his hands, letting the hot ceramic warm his cold hands.

Lan Zhan turns his head, looking out the café windows down at the faraway beach. The water here is dark and choppy. ‘Not so rare anymore,’ he says quietly.

Wei Ying feels sick. Something is awfully wrong. This is not how things should be.

‘Can’t we do anything about it?’ he asks, blinking away tears. He’s cried enough for a week.

Lan Zhan leans forward, lifting his teacup from its saucer. He takes a sip, and leans back in his chair. ‘I cannot return the balance of the Unknown world to what it once was,’ he says quietly, almost mournfully. ‘I can only prevent it from eroding further.’

For a while Wei Ying stares at him. Lan Zhan stares back.

Wei Ying wishes he could recognize the emotion hiding there, beneath that unmoving face and within those golden eyes. 

‘Dr. Wen says that sais-pas is our word for you,’ Wei Ying says. ‘What word would you call yourself?’

Lan Zhan stares at Wei Ying for a moment, then looks beyond the glass panes of the café’s floor-to-ceiling windows, out over the ocean. His brow furrows deeply. Wei Ying follows the rise and fall of his breathing.

‘Sorry, is that rude to ask?’ Wei Ying asks hurriedly, suddenly nervous.

Lan Zhan turns, facing Wei Ying once more. ‘It is not rude to ask,’ he says. ‘I simply do not have a suitable answer for you. We have been given many names in our time, by others, by different groups of humans, but none of them have been accurate. And we do not refer to ourselves by any particular name, no more than the dragons we study have a particular name for themselves, although they are more than capable of critical thought.’

Sometimes Lan Zhan is so very silent. Sometimes he communicates with Wei Ying only with the movement of his brows. But when he does speak for more than a few sentences at a time, the poetry of it makes Wei Ying’s stomach flip like a fish on a boat’s deck. 

‘What do you want me to call you?’ Wei Ying asks.

Lan Zhan narrows his eyes. ‘Dr. Lan Jr.’

‘Ugh, that’s so formal,’ Wei Ying complains. ‘Maybe I just keep calling you Lan Er-gege.’

Lan Zhan’s frown deepens. He shakes his head. ‘That is too informal.’

Wei Ying’s laughter is a thing sprung from him, a hare slipping away from its hunters. It is a joyful thing that grows from his weeping, and as he laughs, Lan Zhan’s face softens and opens, a flower turning to the sunrise. And Wei Ying laughs, and laughs, and laughs. 

Chapter Text

Treatise of Ailments: Chapter II - Diagnosis; Article 1a.

To Identify a Broken Bone

i. Locate the shedding of a venomous snake. Note: the snake does not have to be wild. A shedding from a snake in captivity will do.

ii. Cut precisely two square inches of the snake shedding.

iii. Collect three branches from a bramble bush.

iv. Wrap your cutting around the branches, and secure in place with thirteen inches of twine.

v. Place this charm above the injured limb. Note: the charm does not have to touch skin. A distance of less than three feet will suffice. 

vi. If only one branch snaps, the injury is a broken bone. If all three branches snap, refer to Article 5b. 

~

It is a rare warm day, and the wind that blows in from the ocean has the last notes of the generous summer in it. To welcome it, Lan Zhan opens up all the windows in the cottage. Wei Ying keeps the loose papers safe from the thieving fingers of the breeze by using jars and books and seashells as paperweights. 

Though the day is lovely (and many of the Institute’s residents are taking the afternoon off to sit on the green) there is much for Wei Ying and Lan Zhan to do. Lan Zhan is completing some much-needed financial book-keeping. The Board remains unconvinced that Marine Biology requires funding, even though they are running extremely low on certain supplies. 

Wei Ying, meanwhile, looks up the department’s recently recorded migratory patterns of the crested blue ocean-stalker and cross-references that with Almanac records. All three published copies of The Aquatic Dragon Almanac are out on loan, so Wei Ying uses Lan Zhan’s working copy.

It’s so strikingly different from any Almanac he’s used before. (Those, while not cheaply produced, are not too different in shape or form from the many textbooks Wei Ying’s come across in his education: leather-bound, with text printed in serif font on coated paper, with clearly marked page numbers.)

Lan Zhan’s working Almanac is both ancient and new. There are pages and pages of painstakingly hand-written descriptions, painted diagrams. The paper feels old, even if it is well preserved. Chapters are separated by pages decorated by intricately illustrated borders of blue and gold. 

It belongs in a museum, safe behind glass and lit with warm light – not here in this cottage under Wei Ying’s grubby paws. 

Some chapters weren’t in any copy Wei Ying’s seen before, but they’ve been sown in here with pale thread. There are diagrams with carefully annotated notes in Lan Zhan’s slanted cursive. Drawings of a dragon’s webbed wing stretched out in flight. 

Wei Ying turns a page over and frowns at it, studying the delicate lettering subtly woven into the turquoise-and-emerald bordering. 

‘ Chapter X - Major Dragons ,’ he reads, wrinkling his nose. ‘Well, that can’t be right, can it, Lan Er-gege? Shouldn’t that say greater dragons?’

Lan Zhan, ever-suffering, looks to the ceiling, and sets down his pen ‘Wei Ying,’ he says, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. ‘I ask you this, in genuine honesty, were you born with bricks for a brain?’

‘No, my brain is full of marshmallows,’ corrects Wei Ying with a grin. ‘But the Almanac only ever lists greater dragons, not major dragons.’

Lan Zhan looks at Wei Ying as though he is considering the merits of suffocating the other man with stacks of papers and leather bound books. 

He gets up and strides toward Wei Ying. He’s dressed, uncharacteristically, head-to-toe in sky blue, and in well-polished oxford shoes. His sword has been unbuckled from its usual place at his hip, and now leans against the back wall of the cottage, shining slightly in the late morning sun.

Lan Zhan takes the book out of Wei Ying’s hands. ‘This is a private Almanac, Wei Ying,’ he says, closing it. ‘One reserved for Marine Biology only. It has not been approved for publishing.’

‘So there are major dragons?’ Wei Ying asks, curiously. ‘Or I can fix it, if it’s a mistake.’

‘You are meant to be assessing the migratory patterns of the crested blue ocean-stalker.’ He taps the map sprawled out over Wei Ying’s desk, now half-covered in scribbled notes and reference books. ‘Not reviewing my Almanac for accuracy.’

Wei Ying pushes his lower lip out in a pout, but he leans over the map and tracks his line of sight along the carefully plotted lines. ‘Can I use tacks on this or will I get yelled at?’ he asks.

A groove appears besides Lan Zhan’s mouth. He shakes his head in fondness, or perhaps frustration.

‘This is a field copy,’ he tells Wei Ying. ‘You can put tacks in it.’

Wei Ying grins. ‘Awesome,’ he says, standing up. ‘I’m going to mark old lines in red pen, then tack on recorded sightings, and then I’ll put the beachings as outliers in black.’

Lan Zhan takes a step away from the desk, clasping his hands behind his back as he politely observes. Wei Ying half clambers over the map, hastily clearing any unwanted books and notes away. He’s got a steady hand, so it takes very little effort to draw out the migratory lines as recorded in the Almanac. 

Greenland. Southwest England. Then the great stalker migration across the North Atlantic to the Caribbean sea for the winter. 

These dragons have been following this ancient pathway for longer than humans have existed. If they don’t all die out, they will continue to do so long after humans are gone, year after year after year.

Lan Zhan’s recorded sightings are recorded in neat writing within the department’s records, and Wei Ying’s chicken scratches follow shortly after. Wei Ying marks them all out on the map with red tacks. They follow the red lines of predicted migration almost perfectly. 

As Wei Ying works, black dots begin to break up the red. Most of them cluster in the same area, bunching in and around the West coast of England. 

‘Lan Zhan, look,’ he says, pointing at the cluster. ‘The beachings aren’t outliers.’

Shit , he realizes, expecting the usual reprimand for using Lan Zhan’s real name. But there is no irritation in Lan Zhan’s face – instead, he seems completely focused on the black tacks on the map. 

‘What do you think this means?’ Wei Ying asks, dragging his finger in a circle around the cluster of black tacks.

Lan Zhan’s lips thin to a pale line. ‘I do not know,’ he says quietly. 

Wei Ying rubs his eyes. He looks up at Lan Zhan. He cannot shake the memory of the dragon on the beach, of Lan Zhan’s grief cracking open, his ragged breathing, the birds cutting across the air, the ocean pulling out and drying the dragon up.

‘Okay,’ Wei Ying says. ‘Okay, Lan Zhan. That’s okay. I’m going to find out for you.’

~

There are many reasons that marine animals beach themselves. Tide cycles, illnesses, injuries, ship strikes, sonar testing, bad weather, navigation errors – the list goes on. 

But dragons don’t really operate like non-magical marine animals.

They don’t usually beach themselves, and even if they do, they have access to magic. They can change the tides. They can call the rain, bring down storms, pull in the wind to churn up loose sand. They can evade sonar and dodge ships – or sink them completely, if the mood strikes them.

And in centuries of migration, the crested blue ocean-stalker never goes off course.

Wei Ying’s black tacks don’t veer from that path by more than a nautical mile. They’re in the right place – it’s just that, when they get to England, they just seem to go charging straight to the beaches, and then get stuck… and die. 

It doesn’t make any sense.

Apart from the ocean-stalker mystery, Wei Ying still has field research to do, sometimes ridiculously early in the morning. He also has plenty of paperwork – but in any spare moment, he studies the beached ocean-stalkers. Wei Ying pours over his copied charts in his room, way into the wee hours of the night, his head thrumming. He can almost see the pattern, but it remains half-shrouded to him, hidden behind some veil in his mind that will not lift. 

But Wei Ying is a scientist. If he exhausts a hypothesis, he simply conjures up a new one and beats that horse to death, and then starts over.

Cartography records more than borders and beaches and mountains. Dr. Faust’s department holds knowledge of magical ley lines, of the push and pull of all magical creatures and domains, of the pockets of reality where the deep Unknown is folded in, like fruit hidden into pastry dough. 

Wei Ying is decent at map-reading, but he’s no cartographer. Luckily, Dr. Faust has a soft spot for him, so he starts attending her office hours regularly.

She unfolds maps of silver and burgundy and emerald green, each marking unfamiliar borders and names that Wei Ying has never seen before. She shows Wei Ying ley lines marked in gold print that shift, looping and interlacing with one another. 

‘Magic moves,’ she explains. ‘It follows the tide, the moon, the Old Folk who shape the Unknown.’

The Old Folk, Dr. Faust explains, refers to the creatures who came before sais-pas . Creatures like the dragons and mountain trolls and ice giants. Creatures that have started dying out in the past few centuries, causing the Unknown to unravel and grow sparse, like a thinning forest hit with blight. 

She shows him her maps of where the Unknown was once vibrant – the coasts of California, the wilds of Appalachia, the deserts and seas that separate Asia and Africa, the mountain peaks in Uganda and the southern islands of Japan. A hundred different places around the world now well-documented by human knowledge, and yet now lost forever to the Unknown and its magical inhabitants.

‘As humans evolve, we fade away,’ Dr. Faust tells him. ‘It’s not their fault, though. It’s not their pollution and deforestation that chases us away – it’s our weakness that lets them into our forests and lakes and rivers and seas.’

Wei Ying is a marine biologist. He knows that the truth probably looks less kindly on humans. Humans are destructive and greedy and violent.

‘You don’t agree,’ says Dr. Faust, peering up at him over the map. ‘I understand. But you see, Mr. Wei, I am not actually an old lady in a suit, nor is your Dr. Lan Jr. a handsome man in a cottage by the sea. At the Institute, we take on forms that will not frighten you, but we are frightening.’

Wei Ying looks at her then, really looks . He sees the pale blue of her eyes, like shards of winter sky, the silver thread of her hair, the wrinkles at her eyes and at her mouth. The blue of her eyes and the silver in her hair, these are real. But her wrinkles are too symmetrical, and they lack depth, as though they’ve been painted on just a few shades darker than her skin. 

It reminds him of Lan Zhan’s brother and his polite blinking.

Dr. Faust grins, baring her wolf’s teeth. ‘Yes,’ she says, nodding. ‘Precisely.’

Wei Ying stares at this woman (who is not a woman at all) and understands at last that she could rip out his throat if she wanted to. That she does occasionally want to, the way a cat wants to rip out a bird’s throat, but chooses not to.

Dr. Faust gives a soft snort of laughter. She sits back in her chair, planting her hands on the armrests. Her nails are white and manicured into pointed tips. They remind Wei Ying of a cat’s claws. 

‘Ah,’ says Wei Ying, his voice strangled in his throat. ‘Okay. So humans aren’t killing off the dragons.’

‘Humans are not killing off the dragons,’ she says, nodding. 

Wei Ying sighs. He slumps back in his chair. The lines and loops on Dr. Faust’s maps shimmer. He does not know if he needs a new hypothesis or not.

‘You must be tired of all these maps,’ says Dr. Faust, taking pity on him. ‘I’ll take a look, and if I find anything useful, I’ll send it to Marine Biology.’

Wei Ying nods. ‘Okay,’ he sighs. ‘Thank you, Dr. Faust.’ 

He gets up, putting away his notebook and pen, zipping up his bag. As he stands, he finds the sais-pas leaning over her table and her maps, holding out a chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a paper napkin.

‘Here,’ she says, smiling at him warmly. ‘Take a cookie. And maybe try talking to the archivists in History. They might have something for you.’

~

History has nothing for him. 

In fact, the Head Archivist sends him away with a curl of the lip and a dismissive, dragon migratory patterns are not a matter of historical importance, nor are they worth marking our records with . 

Wei Ying has never wanted to punch anyone so much. 

Wei Ying knows that he could prove to them that dragons do matter in history, except he isn’t a member of staff in the History department, so he doesn’t have the right approvals to access the archives that would prove it. All he has are the books he’s already read from cover to cover, and those are too general.

Wei Ying tries Horticulture for answers next. Perhaps there’s something in the soil, or in the water, or in the plants. 

For the most part, the head of department tries his best to help Wei Ying, but they are overwhelmed with the approach of harvest season, and nearly everyone who might be helpful is out doing field work in Scotland. And also, Evans Sr. (who is in charge of soil readings) is out on maternity leave and won’t be back until November. 

Wei Ying gets handed a neat file of photocopied reports and sent on his way with a, we’ll get back to your department at our next availability, which means Wei Ying will have to come back to follow up in a few months.

He’s spent a large part of the week on a wild goose chase, and he’s swapped out a day off so he can help Lan Zhan out with deepwater dragon-watching on Saturday. He is so, so, so fucking tired, but he’ll have to wait until Sunday to get any proper sleep. 

On his way back through the enormous greenhouse, he finds a nook behind an array of palms and birds of paradise. He squats down, pushes his face into his hands, and yells. 

There’s a little squeak from behind him.

Sitting on the edge of the carp pond, between two bending palm fronds, is a rather pale young man with a shock of dark hair that comes down to his shoulder. A silver flower gleams from the edge of his sweater, beneath the rumpled collar of his cherry-red shirt.  

There is a notebook open on his lap, a rather serious-looking Treatise next to him perched precariously on the edge of the carp pond. A number of reference books stacked at his feet, and even more spilling out of a worn-looking messenger bag that was probably once green but is now a dismal shade of greige. 

‘Ah,’ says Wei Ying, brushing his hair out of face. ‘Woops. Sorry. Mental breakdown.’

The young man nods. ‘Oh, same,’ he offers, pointing at the books on the floor.

Wei Ying laughs. He extends a hand. ‘Wei, Marine Biology.’

The man’s eyebrows climb his face. ‘ Oh ,’ he says, nodding. ‘You’re Wei.’

He folds his notebook, sets it down beside him, and rises to his feet.

And keeps on rising.

At full height, the man is a good two heads taller than Wei Ying. The kid could play basketball, if he had the coordination for it, but from the way he stands, with his toes pointed slightly inwards, he probably trips over himself three times a day.

‘Wen. Wen Ning. Medicines, Biochemistry. It is such a pleasure to meet you.’ 

As he shakes Wei Ying’s hand, his grip is strong. His hand is as cold as ice. 

Wei Ying can’t help but smile. Wens are meant to be spooky, but there’s nothing spooky about this kid. His laces are poorly tied, his trousers just don’t come down far enough to cover his socks, which have tiny pink mushrooms printed on them. 

‘What’s the cause of your mental breakdown?’ Wei Ying asks Wen Ning. ‘Mine’s beached dragons. And unhelpful department heads.’

‘That sounds very stressful,’ says Wen Ning, nodding sympathetically. ‘I’m trying to figure out this section of my reading, but I can’t seem to understand it, and if I don’t understand it, I can’t complete my research.’

Wei Ying arches an eyebrow. He takes a quick scan of the titles of the books Wen Ning’s got piled on the floor. Bridgston’s Bones: An Official Categorisation of Magical Anatomy. A Thorough Introduction to Human Musculature. Woolworth’s Simplified Plants for Potions.

The Treatise seems to have absolutely nothing to do with the texts below. Although Wei Ying is certain this poor man’s advisor has convinced him they are essential to his understanding of the Treatise. In a way, he’s grateful for his labor-intensive role at Marine Biology, and Lan Zhan’s no-nonsense approach to their work.

Wei Ying peers at the open book. ‘Shall I take a crack at it?’ he offers, gesturing with a free hand.

‘Oh, uh, sure,’ says Wen Ning. ‘Yes please. I’m so stuck,’ he adds miserably. 

Wei Ying picks up the Treatise. Wen Ning leans over slightly to point out the particular passage. 

‘I’m supposed to figure out how this ritual for checking for broken bones matches up to wings and webbings,’ Wen Ning explains, ‘so I can tell my advisor whether we need a different form of magic to regrow either. But I can’t figure out the connection.’

The instructions are straight forward, but the way that the Institution teaches rituals is anything but straight forward. It is one thing to perform a ritual – it is another thing entirely to study it and break it down into its parts. Every ritual ties into the rules of the universe: a single Treatise can be a doorway into magic itself. 

The passage Wen Ning is working on is tricky. But Wei Ying can recognize the logic of it from his own books – the ones that allow him to identify injuries in smaller dragons, even from a distance. 

Wei Ying picks up Bridgston’s Bones and scans through the index. He’s a real pro at textbook indexes, because he’s a master procrastinator who never allocates appropriate time for reading and research. 

‘Right, so,’ he says, flipping the book open to Wings, Cartilage, and Webbing. ‘This claims they’re made of different material.’

‘Yes,’ says Wen Ning, lighting up. He takes the book from Wei Ying’s hand. ‘Yes, exactly. I don’t get the connection.’

‘Because it’s so misleading,’ Wei Ying says, grinning. ‘It’s not about whether bones and magical wings and webbing are made of the same substance. It’s about how they react, magically. Here, what’s the ritual for seeing if wings or webbing are seriously injured?’

Wen Ning doesn’t even look at his Treatise. ‘ Locate an abandoned wasp’s nest in your nearest forest or copse of trees ,’ he recites from memory. ‘ Extract a section of the nest exactly three square inches in size.’

There is a moment’s pause, and then he seems to have an epiphany, breaking into a brilliant grin, his brow no longer furrowed. ‘ Oh! Oh! I see now. It’s artifice, by a creature small and venomous.’

‘Cool! So what does that mean?’ Wei Ying asks, because he’s a curious little creature. 

‘It means my advisor has been using our budget for the wrong thing,’ Wen Ning says.  ‘She’s been buying slugs. Slugs . We don’t need slugs to regrow bones, we need snakes.’

‘Um,’ says Wei Ying, smiling back in bemusement. ‘Slugs are bad?’

‘You have no idea,’ Wen Ning says emphatically. He scribbles something in his notebook, closes his Treatise and retrieves his copy of Bridgston’s Bones. ‘Well,’ he sighs, ‘that could have been a complete disaster for our next meeting with the department head. Can you imagine? Slugs. ’

Wei Ying can’t really imagine, but he’s happy to have been useful. He tells the tall man as much.

‘Well,’ says Wen Ning, tucking his books against his chest as he peers down at Wei Ying. ‘I can’t thank you enough, really. I am quite content to owe you a favor.’

Wei Ying notices that his teeth are perfectly straight and not at all sharp, and there is even the tiniest scar beneath his chin. Wen Ning looks, for all intents and purposes, just like an average boy.

Wei Ying wonders if perhaps he’s met more sais-pas than he first realized. He wonders if there is anything at all that separates humans from sais-pas physically. If it is their substance that separates them, like webbing and bone. Or maybe it is the way they react to magic – one grows truer to their nature, and one warps away from their nature. 

~

The Hawthorn Institute has several formal dinners, though the most popular one is the Scholar’s Feast, held on the first Friday of October. 

As an adjunct professor of Music, Lan Zhan always gets invited. This time, he brings Wei Ying as a plus-one. He even gives Wei Ying a new suit and coattails to wear beneath, which he’s had lined with dragon feathers to keep the October chill out. 

(Wei Ying promises himself he won’t read into the gesture. He’s just an assistant, after all.)

The feast is held in the Scholar’s Courtyard, housed between the gathered structures of Music, Psychology, Medicine, Education, and Laws and Politics. Lights from the surrounding buildings spill out over the paved courtyard, and all the doors and windows are open. Long tables are set up perpendicular to the lower staircase leading up from the ground floor, piled high with food. Instead of fancy chairs, the guests all sit elbow-to-elbow on benches, squashed up in their formal wear beneath the stars.

A string quartet plays from a vine-strangled balcony above. Someone sings the words to the unknown song from an open window in the Music department, and a few of the sais-pas clap along. Lan Zhan takes great care to place one of everything into Wei Ying’s plate, although he doesn’t serve anything for himself if it has meat.

Towards the end of the dinner, Dr. Wen climbs onto her part of the bench and raises her glass of sparkling Whimsy. 

‘To scholars near and scholars far,’ she calls, her voice carrying across the gathered guests. ‘To friends mortal and friends immortal. To searchers of knowledge and apostles of truth. I drink to you each! Will you drink to me?’

‘We drink to you!’ the guests call in response. 

Lan Zhan says nothing, but he, too, raises his glass, so Wei Ying follows suit. Lan Zhan does not drink from his wine, but instead pushes it over to Wei Ying. It is dry and sweet, and tastes of foreign sunshine. 

After dinner some of them go up the stairs to the great balcony, which is lit with a canopy of multi-colored lights on string. The ocean is dark and endless beneath them, and the breeze blowing out from shore steals the music and carries it over the waves.

Lan Zhan points out a distant flock of nocturnal dragons making their first flight of the night, beyond the curve of the cliffs – visible only for the ultraviolet blue of their underbellies. Wei Ying watches, transfixed.

As he turns back around, he spots Lan Zhan’s brother, Lan Xichen, come up the stairs. The sais-pas is deep in conversation with one of the researchers from the Music Department, but as he alights the top step onto the balcony, his eyes trail over to where Wei Ying and Lan Zhan are standing. 

Wei Ying lifts his hand to cover the dragon pin at his collar, but he is probably too late. Lan Xichen’s eyebrows climb his beautiful face, and he starts striding in their direction. 

From across the balcony, a familiar figure in a three-piece suit raises a glass of glowing Whimsy in Lan Zhan’s direction.

Lan Zhan places a hand on Wei Ying’s lower back and pushes him toward the familiar sais-pas , and away from Xichen’s path.

As they draw closer to Lan Zhan’s acquaintance, Wei Ying recognizes him. Jin Zixuan looks the very image of a spoilt prince, leaning against the balcony, Whimsy in his right hand, the other tucked into a trouser pocket. There are peonies pinned to the lapel of his black tuxedo, and everything from his cufflinks to his tie pin are adorned with pale yellow jewels. 

He is beautiful, as many sais-pas are, although in the right light he might pass for a particularly handsome human. His eyes do not glow, and his teeth are not sharp, but there is something in the way he casts his gaze across the gathered guests. It’s not boredom, though, or arrogance. It is the fatigue of a retired soldier, watching fresh recruits line up for the oncoming slaughter.

He must be very old, Wei Ying thinks. But how old is Mianmian, then, if they grew up together?

‘Zixuan,’ Lan Zhan greets, nodding at the other man.

‘Wangji,’ says Zixuan, smiling slightly. ‘Are you rebelling against your brother again?’ 

His accent is almost too crisp to have been polished by the likes of Eton or Harrow. It sounds stolen from another time. 

Lan Zhan frowns slightly. ‘I am not rebelling.’

‘Sure.’ Jin Zixuan’s knowing eyes drop to the place where Lan Zhan’s hand still sits on the small of Wei Ying’s back. ‘With a human, no less.’

Wei Ying’s cheeks burn. He coughs uncomfortably.

Jin Zixuan tilts his head as he looks up at Wei Ying’s face. Deep grooves appear between his brows, and he stands up at his full height. ‘Oh dear,’ he says, softly. ‘ Worse than a human.’

Lan Zhan sighs. ‘Zixuan.’

Zixuan throws back the rest of his whimsy and places his empty glass down on the ground beside him. As he moves, the sweet perfume of his peonies drifts towards Wei Ying, making him slightly dizzy. 

‘Wangji,’ Jin Zixuan says, shaking his head. ‘You know what the Wens think about one of his kind. One must not suffer a- ’

‘Zixuan,’ says Lan Zhan again, but not angrily. He sounds an awful lot like someone enduring an old friend’s teasing. 

Which means that they are friends. Old friends. 

‘This is Wei Ying,’ Lan Zhan continues, shifting his hand from Wei Ying’s back to his shoulder. ‘He is my research assistant. He is very talented at his job.’

His grip is warm and overly familiar, and Wei Ying has had one glass of wine too many to be processing any of this emotionally. Lan Zhan is touching him. Lan Zhan is friends with Jin Zixuan. And who is worse than a human? Surely not Wei Ying – he’s human, isn’t he? Isn’t he?

Zixuan snorts. ‘You have a real talent for getting into situations, Wangji,’ he says with a small smile. He extends a hand to Wei Ying. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wei.’

Wei Ying thinks the correct thing to do is shake Zixuan’s hand, so he does, but he considers Zixuan absolutely unbearable.

‘How are you enjoying the life of an academic?’ Lan Zhan asks.

Zixuan rolls his eyes. He slips his hands into his trouser pockets and leans back against the balcony, crossing one leg over the other at the ankles. 

‘It’s certainly better than living under my father’s thumb,’ he replies. ‘He has expectations for my future, but you and I know that he doesn’t like to share power. He gives me titles so he can move me across the board like a pawn.’

Wei Ying glimpses in him an echo he’s seen before in Jiang Cheng. 

He thinks of the time they snuck out for a smoke break in between shifts at their internship – one that Wei Ying had worked extremely hard to win, but one that Jiang Cheng didn’t even have to interview for. One where every employee already knows the office Jiang Cheng will sit in, once he’s completed his education. 

A kingdom is a great thing to inherit. A kingdom is a terrible thing to inherit.  

‘Well,’ says Zixuan, shrugging. ‘Guangyao is better suited to court games. Meanwhile, I find I am rather more content writing my thesis on Immaterial Physics.’

Lan Zhan’s mouth curves in something almost like a smile. ‘And getting drunk at the pub with Mianmian.’

‘And getting Mianmian out of fights at the pub, you mean,’ Zixuan corrects. ‘She has a terrible temper.’

His gaze travels once again over to Wei Ying. He taps a polished shoe on the stone tiles of the balcony.

‘You should come, sometime,’ he suggests, inclining his head towards Wei Ying. ‘See if you can be a good influence on her.’

Wei Ying feels a strange surge of protectiveness over Mianmian, who has never done a single bad thing ever in her life, and should not have such slander levied against her. He opens his mouth to argue, but he’s immediately cut off by a loud shout from behind him.

‘Oh my god! Zixuan! Hi!’

Both Lan Zhan and Wei Ying turn, then, to see Mianmian charging across the balcony at less-than-safe speeds, holding the skirts of her dress at her knees. She’s in a delightful open-back, butter-yellow piece with lots of string that ties in patterns over her shoulders and back. She has peonies in her hair once more, and there must be some magic involved, because she loses not a single petal as she pelts towards them. 

She brakes by colliding intentionally with Wei Ying, clutching at his waist while he yelps. Her face is pink and she’s got her heels clutched in her left hand. A stiletto digs painfully into Wei Ying’s side as he tries to regain his balance.

‘Hello, Mianmian,’ says Zixuan. He removes his hands from his pockets and folds his arms over his chest. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘ Super drunk,’ Mianmian confirms breathlessly. She pushes off Wei Ying and straightens. Mianmian raises her hand and then immediately loses her footing. Wei Ying grabs her by the waist before she can topple to the ground.

‘Gods beneath,’ Zixuan mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

‘Haha,’ says Mianmian as Wei Ying rights her. ‘So anyways the silver-pinners are saying there’s actually a secret passageway from Scholar’s Courtyard down to the beach there,’ – she points dramatically over the balcony, down at the beach – ‘if you gentlemen would like to join us for a little midnight dip?’

Zixuan looks doubtful.

‘The passageway and beach are perfectly safe,’ says Lan Zhan. 

This seems like adequate approval for Zixuan, so they join the small group of drunken silver-pinners at the entrance of the secret passageway (which isn’t actually secret, just well hidden and tucked on the other side of Education). The passageway leads down a spiral staircase lit by glowing torches. The fire that burns there is pale green and emits no heat, and casts ghostly shadows that ripple and stretch before them.

The steps are unusually dry, and unmarked by the curves normally worn into stairs in old buildings. Eerie though the torchlight may be, the way is clearly made safe for them. 

After an eternal descent, the passageway opens up at last onto the sandy shore. The cliffs loom over them, echoing the whispering sea back down to them. The air smells of brine and flowers.

Mianmian thrusts her shoes at Wei Ying and grabs Zixuan by the hand.

‘First one to the other side wins a bottle of vodka!’ she yells. 

The two go sprinting over the beach, laughing, and the other silver-pinners follow, racing across the width of the beach. Wei Ying starts running after them. Despite his delayed start, he is far faster, his feet dancing over the compacted sand. Soon he overtakes all of them, ignoring Zixuan’s indignant yelling.

The sky is clear and full of stars. Wei Ying has never felt more alive.

In the distance, he spies a dark shape in the sand. At first Wei Ying thinks it might be a beached dragon, or perhaps a whale, so he picks up the pace and runs toward it. If it’s another ocean-stalker – 

He skids in the sand as he comes to a kneeling stop before the dark shape. In his chest is a storm of starlings, the beating of their wings blurring out everything else. He cannot hear. He cannot think. 

It is not a dragon. It is not a whale. 

Lying face up, eyes glazed over like marbles, dressed in a pale lilac suit and soaked to the bone, and awfully still, is Dr. Faust.

Wei Ying finds his voice at last as Zixuan and Mianmian reach him. A girl in the group of silver-pinners lets out a horrible, screaming wail. 

‘Get help!’ Wei Ying calls. ‘Somebody, get help!’ 

Wei Ying thinks he might be sick, or perhaps pass out. There is a strand of kelp on Dr. Faust’s face. He thinks he should reach out and wipe it away.

Lan Zhan is fast behind him, warm hands on his shoulders, lifting him up and away from the body, whispering to him. ‘I have you, Wei Ying, I have you.’

~

All that follows after the discovery of Dr. Faust’s body is a blur. 

The silver-pinners are guided away. Zixuan helps a sobbing Mianmian back up the stairs. Lan Zhan remains, and because he is here, so is Wei Ying. Dr. Lan arrives soon after, along with Dr. Wen, and a tall man with antlers and eyes that glow like embers in the dark.

They do not move Dr. Faust. They do not even bring something to place over her face. Her eyes… her eyes. Wei Ying cannot stand to look at her eyes. 

‘Who was the first to find her?’ Dr. Wen asks, turning around the gathered group.

‘I was,’ says Wei Ying. He is hoarse from shouting. 

‘Did you touch the body?’ Dr. Wen asks. 

Wei Ying shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Okay, good,’ Dr. Wen says, nodding. ‘We need to get her up to my lab. Let’s see if we can find out what did this.’

‘Or who,’ says the tall man with antlers.

He stalks around the body, drawing runes in the sand in a weaving loop that encircles the group. Wei Ying can almost smell the magic as it locks into place, harsh and pungent like sulfur. Dr. Lan and Dr. Wen both step within the circle of runes. 

‘Mr. Wei, please accompany us,’ says Dr. Wen, gesturing at the line of runes in the sand. ‘You will be useful.’ 

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ asks the man with antlers. He draws his last rune and straightens. ‘Doesn’t that go against your uncle’s wishes?’

Dr. Wen turns around. She is as pale as parchment, eyes as red as coals. Her shadows rear out from beneath her, as black as ink, with claws that spear the sand. 

‘I don’t give a flying fuck what my uncle wants.’ Her teeth are very sharp in her mouth, and there is a deep timbre to her voice as she growls. ‘His collar is not yet tight around my neck, and I will not lie down like a little dog and do what he wants.’

The man with the antlers lifts his hands in appeasement. ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘I just thought I’d ask.’

Lan Zhan helps Wei Ying into the ring of runes, and follows him in. The man with the antlers steps into the circle, lifts his hands above his head, and claps.

The universe collapses around them like a balloon popping. Wei Ying’s chest is crushed like a ripe berry. He would scream, only he has no throat to scream with.

And then just as suddenly, they are un-collapsed and whole again, standing in what seems to be a medical office. Dr. Faust’s body is laid out on a mortician’s slab, her hands folded over her chest. 

Dr. Wen peels off her suit and throws it on the nearest bench. She rolls up her sleeves and begins to inspect the body. 

‘Come,’ she commands, beckoning Wei Ying over.

He walks up to the mortician’s slab. The floor beneath them is polished hardwood. There are grains of sand and pools of seawater growing around them, tracked in during their teleportation. 

The man with the antlers stands at the back of the room, his hands folded behind his back. His eyes are still far too bright, even under the medical office’s harsh lights. 

‘Do you see anything?’ Dr. Wen asks him. 

There is nothing to see – not a button torn, not a single wound, nor a single nail missing from her fingers. She might have drowned. 

But how can she be dead? Wei Ying thinks. She was here just yesterday.

He lifts the kelp gently from Dr. Faust’s face, and that is when he sees it – three identical dots at the back of her neck. He bends in for a closer look.

‘What do you see?’ asks Dr. Wen.

Before Wei Ying can answer, the door to the medical office slams open. In the doorway stands a tall, imposing man with a dark beard and gleaming, coal-red eyes. At his right stands a younger man dressed all in black, a silver dagger at this belt. 

‘Wen Qing!’ growls the bearded man, flashing a mouth full of shark’s teeth. ‘Stop this investigation at once!’

Dr. Wen’s entire body freezes. A vein pulses at her forehead. She lifts a hand toward Dr. Faust’s body, but her wrist yanks itself back and away. She tries again and again to touch Dr. Faust, but she cannot. Her body is not her own. 

The man with the antlers retreats further into the corners of the room, his gaze wary, his posture tense.

Dr. Wen turns upon the bearded man furiously. ‘How dare you?’ she hisses, baring her own teeth. ‘How dare you command me in my own office?’ 

‘You will be silent , Wen Qing,’ the tall man growls.

Dr. Wen’s jaw slams shut. Her body trembles with rage. She cannot speak. 

Wei Ying thinks he finally understands why Lan Zhan hates it when Wei Ying says his true name. 

‘Chairman Wen,’ says Dr. Lan, bending his head in respect.  ‘It is good of you to come so quickly.’

The bearded man – Chairman Wen? – glares at Dr. Lan with open contempt. 

‘I have allowed you too much leeway, Lan,’ he growls. ‘I have permitted you your own department with full autonomy. I have even allowed your kin the freedom to work with that abomination .’ At that last word, he points a clawed hand at Wei Ying.

The lights above them flicker.

Wei Ying’s stomach is full of cold stones. 

Lan Zhan steps squarely in front of Wei Ying. ‘Wei Ying is not a threat to you,’ he frowns. 

‘The more you make use of his Gift, the less human he shall be,’ says the man behind Chairman Wen. ‘He uses his Gift now, often and without supervision. We have felt his workings.’

‘Remember, Dr. Lan Jr.,’ says Chairman Wen, taking another step into the medical office. The lights above them flicker again. ‘My family will not suffer a witch to live.’

‘But Wei Ying is not a witch,’ says Lan Zhan.

‘Yet he will become one, inevitably,’ says Chairman Wen’s bodyguard, with cold, unyielding certainty. ‘We can dispose of him now.’

Wei Ying feels as though he has been plunged into cold water. He cannot feel his toes. There is a faint ringing in his right ear. 

Lan Zhan tilts his head then, and narrows his eyes. ‘You can try,’ he says, softly, dangerously. 

‘Lan Wangji, enough,’ says Dr. Lan. He places a hand on Lan Zhan’s arm.

Lan Zhan exchanges a long look with the old man, before nodding once, relenting. 

‘Chairman Wen,’ Dr. Lan says, ‘we meant no insult to you or your family. And we promise not to intrude on this matter further. But please, let Dr. Faust be returned to her kin and respected according to their rites. It is the right thing to do, is it not?’

Dr. Lan is a thin man, of smaller stature than the Wens, but there is steel in the way he looks upon Chairman Wen’s face. Wei Ying recalls the gale Dr. Lan summoned once, in his lecture.

Chairman Wen keeps his eyes upon Dr. Lan as he lifts his chin. ‘Hm,’ he says. ‘Very well.’

Dr. Lan inclines his head with a smile.

‘But get that abomination out of here,’ says Chairman Wen, pointing at Wei Ying, ‘before I tear out his throat myself.’

Wei Ying cannot meet Dr. Wen’s eye as he lets Lan Zhan usher him out. He does not dare to look at any of them. But he feels the bodyguard’s eyes on him, trained on the vulnerable expanse of his neck. 

My family will not suffer a witch to live.

He could have died. They would have killed him.

We can dispose of him now.

He isn’t sure how he ends up on the grass in the shadow of his dormitory. All he knows is that he is suddenly there, and Lan Zhan is standing beside him. For a moment, he stares up at the dark shape of his window.

He feels cut adrift.

Wei Ying is not a witch.

‘Wei Ying.’

He startles, and turns. 

Lan Zhan is watching him carefully. ‘You do not seem well,’ he says.

Wei Ying gives a small laugh. He does not know if he has the words to reply. He cannot deny it – he is very unwell. He nearly died tonight. He has seen the body of a professor on the beach, wrapped in kelp and soaked in brine and cold and her eyes, her eyes, her eyes.

‘Would it suit you better to stay with me for the night,’ asks Lan Zhan, ‘until you are more yourself again?’

Wei Ying stares at him for a moment, thinking perhaps he heard wrong. ‘Isn’t your home not meant for me?’ he asks.

‘I am offering,’ replies Lan Zhan, ‘so it is meant for you.’

‘I. Uh.’ Wei Ying blinks. 

He looks up at this room. He thinks of the climb up all those flights of stairs. He thinks of being alone. He thinks of Dr. Faust’s eyes, glassy like marbles, reflecting an abundance of stars.

‘Yeah okay,’ says Wei Ying to Lan Zhan. ‘Okay. Please let me stay with you.’

Relief washes over Lan Zhan’s face. Wei Ying had not noticed how tense he was.

He takes Wei Ying by the hand. They walk down the path to the cottage, but instead of turning in past the gate, they go further. There is another path that winds downward along the cliff face.

The path is narrow, the rocks slippery underfoot, but Lan Zhan’s hand holds Wei Ying steady, guiding him ahead. The moon is bright, and the crash of the waves grows louder the further down they go. The path tucks into an opening – an entrance to the first chamber of a cave, as small as a mudroom. This narrows into a winding tunnel.

There are no lights, and after a sharp bend, they lose the moon and are plunged into darkness. 

Something bends within Wei Ying, and suddenly he and Lan Zhan are walking down a carpeted corridor lit with hundreds of sparkling lights that shine from above. The walls are a translucent blue, like the inside of a glacier at noon.

This is deep in the Unknown. Deeper than a human should ever go.

But Wei Ying isn’t human, is he?

They make a turn in the corridor, and emerge into a sprawling living room. There is a strangely modern kitchen in the far left corner. A large hearth stands at the center, and within it, roaring blue flame. In front of the fireplace is an enormous rug of white fur, and beyond that, comfortable pillows of palest blue. Three archways border the walls of the room, framed with intricate carvings of dragons in flight.

Lan Zhan guides Wei Ying to sit before the fire. He wraps Wei Ying in blankets of soft wool, and tucks pillows beneath Wei Ying’s legs.

‘I will be back presently,’ he promises, and walks through a nearby archway into another room. 

Wei Ying stares into the fire. He can feel the warmth of it radiate over his face. This place is not meant for me , he thinks, wrapped in warmth and settled upon this beautiful rug. He is deeper than he should ever be allowed to go. He can feel the density of magic in this place. Every inhale drags it into his lungs and makes his head spin.

Lan Zhan does return shortly. He helps Wei Ying to his feet and takes Wei Ying through the same archway. There is a bath here, sunken in the floor and laid with turquoise tiling. Silver taps shaped like roaring dragons face inward, pouring hot water and perfumed oils into the bath. 

Lan Zhan leaves him alone for a moment of privacy. Wei Ying sits in the warm water for a moment. Above him, crystalline stalactites hang downward, glittering as though crafted from diamonds. This place is so deeply un-human.  

I am not human , Wei Ying tells himself. I am not not-human, either.

He finishes his bath, dries off on fluffy towels, and gets dressed in the clothes Lan Zhan has left him. They are very well-made, and they smell of sandalwood.

Wei Ying finds Lan Zhan drinking tea in his living room, staring deeply into the fire as he sits cross-legged on a pillow. Wei Ying joins Lan Zhan on the floor, who spreads a blanket over Wei Ying’s legs.

‘Lan Zhan, please be honest with me,’ Wei Ying says, tiredly. ‘I’m not supposed to be here, am I? You’re not supposed to have me here at all.’

Lan Zhan looks down at the tea cupped in his hands. He glances into the fire, and then back at Wei Ying. His expression is impossible to read.

‘My family asked a heavy duty of you, at great price to you and your safety,’ he says at last. ‘The debt must be repaid in kind. This,’ he says, gesturing around them, ‘is all I can offer you in return.’

Wei Ying shakes his head. ‘No, no,’ he whispers. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not- I shouldn’t have looked. It wasn’t my job to check Dr. Faust’s-’

He cannot finish the sentence. He cannot say it. But she is gone. Dr. Faust is gone.

And suddenly, suddenly, he is crying. Lan Zhan leans towards him, and Wei Ying should not let the sais-pas touch him, he should not be more of a burden, he should stop crying, but he cannot stop crying, because Dr. Faust is dead, Dr. Faust is gone, and she won’t listen to his dumb jokes anymore or give him chocolate cookies or help him find books or smile at him the way she always used to.

She wasn’t even in his department. She was kind. She was funny.

And she is gone. 

Wei Ying cries, and Lan Zhan holds him, and it is almost enough, even though Wei Ying feels as though he is so far from shore, he will never find his way back.

Chapter Text

A Brief History of Fey Courts: Introductory Text to the Royal Northern Fey Historical Almanac; Author’s Notes; pp 411

Power in the Courts does not transfer from one being to another in an orderly fashion, nor is it a fixed force that remains tethered to one bloodline. The power transfer from one creature to another happens in one of two ways: coaxed away through a careful web of currency, contracts, and debts; or seized forcibly through murder, treachery, and bloodshed. 

To this author’s knowledge, war is the most effective catalyst for power shifts in the Courts.  

~

Wei Ying wakes enveloped in warmth.

His head feels stuffed full of cotton balls, his eyes sore and swollen from crying. His face is half-buried in a pillow too soft to be his own. He lifts his head and sees, for the first time, his surroundings, lit by a low blue light that emits from the walls. The air is cold and still, like the hollow of an ice cave – but not so much that it’s unbearable. 

And then he remembers.

He is in Lan Zhan’s home. His home, deep in the Unknown. He is in Lan Zhan’s bed and Lan Zhan’s arms are around him.

It’s unclear what time it is. There are no windows, and no source of natural light but the glowing of the walls. Wei Ying tries to extract himself from the sais-pas ’s grasp as carefully as he can, but then Lan Zhan’s eyes open.

‘Wei Ying,’ he says, his voice still rough with sleep. ‘Are you well-rested?’

As Lan Zhan sits up, the blanket shifts off of him, and Wei Ying notices that he is bare-chested. Wei Ying turns away, his cheeks warming. He’s not sure why, but he feels like he definitely crossed a line last night. 

‘Um. Yes, I think,’ he says, dragging his gaze around the room in an attempt not to stare at Lan Zhan’s body. 

Translucent tiling spreads over the floor, the same uneven, polished material as the walls. Wei Ying can’t tell if it’s ice or quartz or something else entirely. A woven rug sprawls over the foot of the generously-sized bed, and directly opposite them is a tapestry depicting strange constellations. There are two beautiful guqings mounted to the wall on their right, nearest to the door. Beside them are two swords propped against the wall – the slender one that Lan Zhan often wears, and an enormous broadsword of palest silver, with a sapphire twinkling in its pommel. 

‘You seem tired,’ Lan Zhan says. He leans over, places his hands on Wei Ying’s shoulders, and slowly eases him back against the pillows. ‘Rest a little more. I will be back.’

As Lan Zhan walks away from the bed, Wei Ying catches sight of a thick netting of silver scars on his back. They seem very old, from wounds that might have killed a normal human. 

Wei Ying dozes for a moment in the safety of the bed, his hands buried in the lingering warmth that Lan Zhan’s body leaves behind. His mind reaches for what happened last night, a tongue worrying the place that a tooth once occupied. He remembers crying himself hoarse, shivering like a leaf in a storm. He doesn’t recall going to bed.

Lan Zhan returns with tea. He sits at the edge of the bed and watches Wei Ying as he sips carefully. Jasmine petals float in his cup, and the air around them blossoms with its delicate perfume.

‘What happened last night?’ Wei Ying asks. ‘I don’t mean with Dr. Faust, I mean, with Chairman Wen and you.’

Lan Zhan leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees. It’s impossible not to notice how he’s built – like a fighter, all lean, corded muscle. He isn’t shaped like an academic at all. 

‘I believe that you are an invaluable asset to Marine Biology,’ Lan Zhan says, raising his gaze to meet Wei Ying’s. ‘I have always believed this.’

‘Okay,’ says Wei Ying. He pushes his hair out of his face and drags it back. ‘Okay, um. But the Wens want me dead. Because I’m a witch.’

‘The Wens will not suffer a witch to live,’ Lan Zhan repeats. ‘This is true. But you are not a witch.’

He gestures for Wei Ying to drink the tea, so Wei Ying does. 

‘Your Gift is multi-faceted,’ he continues. ‘All who become witches have this Gift. But not all with this Gift become witches. Some say it is an act of willpower. Others say it is merely natural evolution.’

Wei Ying stares at Lan Zhan for a moment. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘Am I a witch, or not?’

‘A witch always knows what they are,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘They are not like sais-pas . Magic is not built into their being. It is a thing that they claim, like hermit crabs selecting empty shells.’

‘So I’m a hermit crab?’ grins Wei Ying. The metaphor merits some humor, even if the situation does not. 

Lan Zhan’s mouth curves ever-so-slightly upwards.

‘You are not a witch,’ he says. ‘Perhaps you will never be one. And while you are human, they have no right to touch you.’

‘And what if becoming a hermit crab is my only evolutionary path?’ Wei Ying asks. ‘What if I don’t have a choice? What if becoming a witch is the only way this story ends? What will happen to me then?’

Lan Zhan sits up straight. ‘I will keep you safe,’ he says. ‘Witch, or not.’

‘No,’ Wei Ying says, shaking his head. 

If it comes to that, Wei Ying can leave. He can leave the Institute and go home. He can go and do his MBA somewhere else, and disappear from this world, and never be a bother to anyone again. He’d rather never practice magic again than risk the department. He’d rather lose this all than risk Lan Zhan’s life. 

‘Lan Zhan,’ he sighs, ‘Let’s be real. I’m just your research assistant, you’re under no obligation to-’

‘Wei Ying,’ says Lan Zhan, cutting him off. He leans forward and places his hand on Wei Ying’s knee. ‘I will keep you safe.’

‘And what if something bad happens to you?’ Wei Ying argues. ‘What if you end up like Dr. Faust?’

Lan Zhan’s eyes narrow slightly. ‘You do not think it was a natural death,’ he says. ‘What did you see, Wei Ying?’ 

‘I don’t know, really,’ Wei Ying replies. ‘Three dots at the back of her neck.’ He presses his forefinger to the base of his skull, in the same place that he saw the strange markings on Dr. Faust’s neck, and turns his head so that Lan Zhan can see. ‘There.’

‘Hm,’ says Lan Zhan, once Wei Ying turns back around. His expression is unreadable. ‘I will inform my uncle.’

‘What does it mean?’ Wei Ying asks. 

Lan Zhan shakes his head. ‘Nothing good,’ he says gravely. ‘And therefore nothing we should involve ourselves in further. Our duty is to dragons, not to the politics of the courts and Institute.’

Wei Ying nods slowly. ‘I’m not going to argue with that,’ he says. ‘Dragons over murder, any day.’

The tension in Lan Zhan’s face bleeds out, and a small curve appears beside his mouth. He squeezes Wei Ying’s thigh once, pats it, and stands. ‘Come,’ he says, jerking his chin toward the doorway. ‘I will make you breakfast.’

Wei Ying tries not to stare too much at the bare expanse of Lan Zhan’s chest. He thinks he will get used to it eventually, the way you get used to the shock of nakedness in a changing room, but he cannot. Get a grip, he thinks, as he gets out of bed.

The floor is very cold. Almost cold enough to sober Wei Ying and his wandering thoughts. 

Lan Zhan makes them both grilled cheese sandwiches in his weird modern kitchen, and they eat at the marble-countertop island with their hands on white-and-blue porcelain plates. It feels weirdly intimate and completely alien against the blue fire burning in the ornate fireplace. 

‘Would you like to use the bath again?’ Lan Zhan offers, as he cleans up and takes the dishes to the sink. 

‘Um,’ says Wei Ying. 

He watches Lan Zhan gesture at the tap, at the water running clear down over the dishes, summoned with such casual magic. This is not the ritual for creating drinkable water. It is not even the ritual for calling rain in a humid place. It is just magic, called like a well-trained dog with a casual whistle. 

Dish soap gathers in white bubbles over Lan Zhan’s knuckles, which grow pink beneath the warm water. The scars on his back gleam criss-cross over each other in a morbid lattice, some reaching over his shoulders like ugly hands. Were they made by a sword or a whip or perhaps something worse? Wei Ying wonders how long it took for them to heal. He wonders if Lan Zhan has nightmares about them.

The Unknown is a violent place. He has been warned about this, multiple times, but he has never quite swallowed it as a truth. It’s the same as seeing real snow for the first time – someone can warn you about the sky falling in feathery, wet white, but you will never be prepared for it, for having to wade through something so unforgiving yet beautiful, nor the sharp slap of it hitting your face when you fall into it.

Lan Zhan’s scars are a reminder: snow is real. Sais-pas are capable of horrible things.

Lan Zhan turns his head slightly, giving Wei Ying a look over his shoulder. There is still soap on his hands, tracking up to his wrists. He is still waiting for Wei Ying’s response. 

‘If it’s no trouble,’ Wei Ying says, ‘then yeah, a bath would be nice.’

Lan Zhan makes another gesture with his hand. Wei Ying feels it this time, a strange hum in the air, like lightning about to strike. 

Is it that they are in his home, that his magic comes so easily? Wei Ying thinks, looking at the joints in Lan Zhan’s fingers, that so carelessly pulled at the strings of power. Or is it that academia is the same everywhere, distilling the chaos and freedom of the universe into neat lines of peer-reviewed literature? 

‘The bath should be filled when you get there,’ Lan Zhan tells Wei Ying.

~

After the bath (which is glorious) Lan Zhan gives Wei Ying a new set of clothing to wear – a pressed cotton shirt, gray pants, a pale sweater that looks almost blue, or perhaps purple. After Wei Ying gets dressed, Lan Zhan produces Wei Ying’s pins – the silver flower, and the tiny dragon. He fastens each carefully to the sweater, and adjusts Wei Ying’s collar with a familiarity that makes Wei Ying’s stomach flip over.

The way out from the den is even stranger than the way in. The corridor seems to undulate, blue and frozen one moment, and dark and rocky the next. The ever-present hum of magic disappears, and with it, the strange quiet chill of Lan Zhan’s world.

Wei Ying wonders why he didn’t notice the magic, and he feels strangely lost without its presence.

It rained at some point in the early morning. The rocks are slippery underfoot as they take the path back up the side of the cliffs, but Wei Ying masters them with unusual grace. He wonders if this is a side effect of being too long, too deep in the Unknown – if this is his mutation. But he thinks it is probably the long, uninterrupted sleep, the warm bath, the good food in his belly, and the calming presence of Lan Zhan at his back, waiting to catch him if he falls.

The sky is gray above the dark sea, which comes rolling in on frothy waves, buffeted by a wind that smells of a far-off-storm. The water is wild but beautiful, and in the distance, Wei Ying sees the flash of pale bodies breaching the surface. He recognizes his dragons even at a distance now – he knows these are medium dragons starting their migration, knows their diet, knows their mating and breeding habits by heart.

He cannot believe he volunteered to leave this place. He could never leave this place. He could never leave Lan Zhan.

They reach the fork in the path.Right from here goes toward the cottage, standing pale as a beacon on the edge of the cliffs, bordered by purple bursts of heather. Left goes to the main campus.

‘Come,’ says Lan Zhan, gesturing towards the Institute. ‘You should go for lunch, and I should go speak to my uncle.’

Wei Ying follows Lan Zhan along the path part of the way, his hands tucked into his pockets. The wind whips his hair into his face. It’s long now, perhaps too long, nearly brushing his shoulders. He needs to cut it.

‘Will you be okay?’ he asks Lan Zhan. 

‘I am protected by my tenure,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘And even then, I am hardly helpless.’ He pats the sword at his side. 

He’d taken great care to strap it to his belt earlier before they left the den, wearing it above his clothing and in plain sight. Wei Ying wonders at the meaning of it. 

‘Well, I managed to disarm you,’ Wei Ying says, shrugging. 

Lan Zhan throws him a disgruntled look, which makes Wei Ying laugh, despite everything. 

~

Wei Ying expects sober silence in the dining hall. He expects the suffocating weight that settles on a community after tragedy strikes suddenly. He has seen it before – he experienced it as a child, sitting on the floor in front of his parents’ matching coffins. He will always live with the discomfort in the eyes of the people who came up to offer condolences. But grief will not attach itself to people who do not love enough for the loss to be felt, so in its absence there remains only guilt and sympathy. 

Everything is as it always is in the dining hall of the Hawthorn Institute. It is half-past noon, and the seats are nearly all taken. Chatter is at a high, voices echoing off the wooden eaves above. There are people laughing. Eating. Sharing drinks and exchanging fruit for pudding. 

Wei Ying cannot understand it, though perhaps everyone is used to the death and violence of sais-pas dealings. 

He finds Huaisang in the back corner of the room and joins him. Huaisang looks up, flashing a smile, only for it to freeze on his face. Red flushes on his cheeks. He drops his fork onto his tray.

‘What in the Jesus fuck are you wearing?’ Huaisang asks. 

Wei Ying pats down the front of his sweater. ‘Clothes?’

Huaisang grabs Wei Ying by the front of his sweater and hauls him nearly over the dining table. 

‘This is Lan clothing,’ he hisses. ‘ Lan clothing. Explain. ’

‘Um,’ says Wei Ying. ‘Can you let me go please? I’m about to fall into your cottage pie and ruin this nice sweater.’

Huaisang relinquishes his hold. ‘Talk,’ he snaps, pointing his fork very threateningly at Wei Ying. ‘Quickly.’

Wei Ying takes a deep breath, takes a quick sip of his water, and tries to explain the events of last night as best as he can – finding the body on the beach, the aborted investigation and Chairman Wen’s interruption, the threats, then staying the night at Lan Zhan’s. He remembers Dr. Wen’s face when her uncle controlled her using only her name, and makes sure to only refer to Lan Zhan using his proper title, because he will never, never let anyone do that to Lan Zhan. 

Huaisang listens, a small frown forming on his face. Once Wei Ying is done, he sighs heavily, sets his fork down, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

‘You have an actual considerable talent for getting into knee-depth shit,’ he says, squeezing his eyes shut. He sets his hands down on his lap, sits up to his full height, and shakes his head. ‘Well. We heard about Dr. Faust this morning.’

‘Everyone seems so…’ Wei Ying trails off. Unbothered seems a cruel thing to say, but, well.

Two meters from them, a Legacy tips her head back and laughs at something her sais-pas companion has said.

‘I’m not going to say this happens every year,’ says Huaisang, digging back into his cottage pie, ‘but it happens. The gossip mill is running, and we all have our theories. If I had to guess, personally, I would say it has something to do with the fact that Dr. Faust is one of the board members who vouched for the Jins.’

Wei Ying can’t quite stomach his own lunch, so he settles for staring at Huaisang’s rapidly emptying bowl. 

‘What does that mean?’ he asks. 

‘It means the Wens are trying to stop the Board takeover from happening,’ Huaisang says. ‘Eat your lunch.’

Wei Ying puts his fork down and sits back, balancing himself by gripping onto the front of the bench. ‘But Dr. Wen ordered the autopsy.’

‘Dr. Wen’s a rogue player,’ Huaisang says with a half-shrug. ‘Her direct family came here long after the Wen clan settled here. Just because they’re kin doesn’t mean they’re kindred.’

Wei Ying casts his eye across the hall. There are so many lives in the Institute, so many humans that could get caught in the crossfire.

‘What will this mean for us?’ he asks warily. 

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ Huaisang replies. ‘But the Jins aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. The Courts are a bloodbath.’

Wei Ying spots Mianmian at the far end of the dining hall, looking pale and red-eyed, poking listlessly at her salad while opposite her, Jin Zixuan glares at anyone who dares come too close. He wonders what kind of a childhood she might have had, living in a home full of monsters, learning to fit in, to bend herself into the right shape. He’d never thought of her as a violent thing, but then again, he’d never thought of himself as anything but harmless and human.

‘I don’t want anything more to do with it,’ Wei Ying says, tearing his gaze away from the yellow-clad pair. He meets Huaisang’s eye and manages a thin smile. ‘I just want to study my dragons.’

Huaisang snorts. He taps his fork on the edge of Wei Ying’s plate. ‘Eat,’ he says. ‘And you’re already knee-deep in it, mate. Look at the pin on your collar, for fuck’s sake.’

‘I don’t know what the pin means,’ Wei Ying replies.

‘I know you don’t know what the damn pin means,’ Huaisang gripes. He whacks out his fan and starts fanning himself. ‘You have the mental capacity of a dormouse and the observation skills of a rock. Now eat your lunch. You’re giving me anxiety.’ 

~

The afternoon Almanac workshop ends up getting canceled that day, as do the following lectures and classes. Wei Ying is suddenly free. 

He has some work to do down at the cottage (he always has work to do at the cottage), but he drops by to see Mianmian in her room on the way there. She’s in one of the newer buildings, with a small balcony that overlooks the thick forest north of the Institute. It’s very dark and cold in her room, despite the scented candle on her bedside table, the mushroom-shaped lamp on her desk, and the fairy lights stuck on her wall. 

They sit together on the carpeted floor next to her bed as he recounts the night’s events to her. She listens silently, tears tracking their way down her ruddy cheeks. 

‘Being a part of their world is so exhausting,’ she sighs, once he’s done talking. 

She dabs at her eyes with a paper napkin and looks at her desk. There is a bouquet of peonies and yellow roses there, wrapped with a ribbon. The roses have been shorn of all thorns. 

‘Are you going to be okay?’ Wei Ying asks gently. 

‘Yeah,’ says Mianmian. She wrinkles her nose and sniffs. ‘Yeah, of course I will. I’ve seen way worse than this in the Courts. I’ve done worse. It’s just.’ She lets out a shuddering sigh and dabs at her eyes again. ‘I liked Dr. Faust, you know?’

Wei Ying nods. He looks out at the feathery tips of the pines, beyond Mianmian’s window, brushing against the marbled gray of the sky. He thinks of maps and pastries and the wry smile that Dr. Faust always used to give him when he asked a difficult question.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Me too.’

~

A new sais-pas professor replaces Dr. Faust’s position in cartography, and for the most part, the Hawthorn Institute continues uninterrupted. 

Wei Ying tries not to feel a pit in his stomach as he goes past the closed door of Dr. Faust’s office. Her placard is gone, but the new head of department seems reluctant to lay claim to it so soon.

Wei Ying’s investigation on the beachings continues. Lan Zhan says that he’s received reports from holidaying Institute alumni that there have been beachings elsewhere, on the North Sea and along the Channel, too close to the busier shores of Calais. By all accounts, the beachings are growing more frequent, and no one can offer an explanation as to why. The behavior is all the same, though – the sudden veering towards the coast, only to be trapped at low tide. 

Dr. Faust’s death, the realization that he might be a witch, the strange tension that seems to grow amongst the Jins – these all fill Wei Ying with anxious energy, so he expends it as much as he can on coming up with new hypotheses to pursue. If it’s not in the water, and it’s not in the soil, and it’s not in the currents or magical ley lines, then maybe it’s in the nature of the beast itself. 

‘What makes crested blue ocean-stalkers different from other ocean-stalkers?’ he asks Lan Zhan one late evening, as they wait for their night-time observation of crested firebreathers. 

Lan Zhan casts his gaze pointedly at the Almanac open in front of Wei Ying.

Wei Ying closes the book, planting his palm on it. ‘Other than what’s in this book,’ he clarifies. ‘And what’s in yours, because I’ve read that cover to cover too.’

Lan Zhan furrows his brow and sits back in his chair, thinking. He glances out the window at the waves as they roll into shore, silver-tipped under starlight. The moon is waxing full. They will have plenty of light by which to catalog firebreathers, though the little creatures often light up the night with tiny puffs of bright, orange flame as they chase after tiny fish that come to the water’s surface.

‘They are one of the few dragons who hunt and eat lesser dragons,’ Lan Zhan says, turning back to Wei Ying. 

‘Is it uncommon for dragons to eat other dragons?’ Wei Ying asks.

Marine biology is a very, very complex pyramid of predator and prey, stretching across oceans and reaching through time. Wei Ying’s spent many years trying to wrap his mind around it – the fact that his favorite sharks once relied on eating creatures that have not existed for millions of years. Creatures that have become fossil and chalk. 

To think that dragons don’t follow the same laws is unthinkable.

‘Dragons do not normally eat each other,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘They all interact. Each species leads to each other and relies on one another in a delicate symbiosis. They communicate. They have laws and rules and societies and communities.’

‘But the crested blue ocean-stalker eats other dragons,’ Wei Ying frowns.

‘Yes.’ Lan Zhan signs a form and places it in a folder on his outbox pile. ‘Unique and strange behavior, but not singular to their species. My parents disagreed on why this happens. My father believed that it was to cull populations. An evolutionary drive necessary to keep numbers of certain lesser dragons in check, to balance out the ecosystem.’

‘And your mother?’ Wei Ying asks, leaning forward and resting his chin on his fists. 

There is a slight shift in Lan Zhan’s expression – not necessarily a smile, but a softening around the eyes and at his unsmiling mouth.

‘My mother believed it was the pull of magic,’ he says, lifting his golden gaze to meet Wei Ying’s. ‘Freshwater to saltwater, rainfall to currents, tides shifting to the moon’s waltz. One must be consumed to transmute and recreate the other. We understand dragons as magical creatures, but they are a bit more complex than other animals studied in cryptozoology. In many ways, they are unknowable even to my kind.’

‘What do you believe?’ asks Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan picks up another form. He skims it briefly, his fingers traveling down the page as he reads. He signs at the bottom, flips it over, and checks something off. He sets this in a different pile on his desk.

‘I am not certain what I believe,’ he says, once he is done. ‘And without anything concrete, I cannot add it to the Almanac. We must not add anything to these pages unless they are true.’

Wei Ying tilts his head, rolling his cheekbone over the knuckles of his left hand. ‘Can’t something be both unknowable and true?’ he asks. 

Lan Zhan glances up from his forms. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Are you going to put that in the working Almanac, then?’ Wei Ying asks.

‘I will consider it.’

Wei Ying allows himself a small triumphant smile. It’s as close to a yes as he’s going to get from Lan Zhan.

‘So what do crested blue ocean-stalkers eat?’he asks.

Lan Zhan puts away his forms, places them in his outbox, and opens up a new folder full of forms. ‘Blue rockhoppers,’ he says as he picks up his pen. ‘It gives them their magnificent color.’ He gestures with his free hand, as though stroking an invisible crest down the back of his neck.

Wei Ying allows himself three seconds precisely to mull over how adorable that was. The three seconds pass, and his mind shifts back into gear. 

Blue rockhoppers. Found in abundance along the Institute’s beaches.

Wei Ying has a new hypothesis. 

~

Wei Ying goes down to the beach in the early morning, in the blue hours before late Autumn dawn. The tide has just gone out, and the rockpools are full of crystalline water. He collects blue rockhoppers in a bucket, taking care not to damage their trailing fins and delicate bones. He’s good at handling tiny creatures – he’s been responsible for seahorses before and those are tricky little fuckers. 

Dawn comes over the ocean, turning feathery clouds gold and apricot with its rays. The rocks glisten like dark pearls. The ocean sighs as it pulls out, out, and away. He cannot see the Institute from here, and in a way, its politics are also out of sight. There is nothing in the world but Wei Ying and his bucket of tiny aquatic dragons.  

As he picks his way back over the slippery rocks, he sees two figures tracing the shoreline – one dressed in the same yellow color as the wings of a swallowtail butterfly, the other in gray.

Once he gets a bit closer he can make out their faces. The one in yellow is a slender, almost petite man with a pretty face, dimpled cheeks, and eyebrows that look permanently fixed in mild surprise. His clothes seem as light as seafoam, his shirt a dreamy thing with flowing sleeves. His feet are bare on the sand, but he leaves no trace upon the beach behind him. 

Sais-pas , Wei Ying thinks.

The man in gray is tall, broad-chested, with a well-groomed beard and piercing eyes. His boots  shine even in the sand, lined up the sides with silver buckles. 

The smaller man turns as their paths begin to intersect with Wei Ying. ‘Oh, hello!’ he calls, raising a hand. 

Wei Ying diverts from his walk towards the cliff and heads towards the two men. ‘Hi,’ he calls back.

‘Mr. Wei, is it?’ says the sais-pas . He extends his hand. ‘The Almanac writer?’

Wei Ying swaps his hold on the bucket and shakes the other man’s hand. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘I’m Guangyao,’ the sais-pas introduces with a dimpled smile. ‘I hear you’re well acquainted with my brother, Zixuan?’

Wei Ying recalls the name now.

Guangyao is better suited to court games. 

He wonders what Jin Zixuan meant by that. 

‘This is Mingjue,’ says Guangyao, gesturing at the man in gray. ‘Nie Mingjue.’

Wei Ying gasps. ‘Oh. Oh. You’re Huaisang’s brother.’

Mingjue flashes a smile full of straight, white teeth. He reaches out to grasp Wei Ying’s hand. His grip is firm, but warm. There’s a dragon pinned to the top of his jacket – a horned creature with barbed, flinty wings and six double-jointed limbs, and a tail barbed like a scorpion’s. 

‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Huaisang,’ he tells Wei Ying. 

‘All terrible things, I hope,’ Wei Ying responds. 

This makes Mingjue laugh – a warm, booming sound. Wei Ying isn’t sure how this man and Huaisang could even be slightly related. There’s nothing similar in the way they hold themselves. 

He’s also not sure how Guangyao could be even remotely related to Jin Zixuan. He’s so polite. So nice. 

‘Are we interrupting your work?’ Guangyao asks, indicating Wei Ying’s bucket.

‘Oh, no,’ says Wei Ying. ‘I was just heading up. It’s very nice to meet both of you.’ 

‘Likewise, Mr. Wei,’ says Guangyao, flashing another dimpled smile.

Wei Ying gives them both one last wave over his shoulder as he makes his way back up to the cottage. By the time he gets to the front door, the mismatched pair have already made it nearly to the other end of the beach. 

Briefly, he allows himself to wonder if Dr. Faust’s untimely death brought them here, but then he opens the door and goes inside. Dragons, not death, he reminds himself. 

He sets up on the long table, adjusting lighting and fetching calipers for measuring. He transfers the dragons and all the seawater into a small tank, triple-checks the water temperature to make sure that the dragons will be comfortable, and then starts with the smallest female. He takes her measurements, checks her color, her fins, the shine of her scales.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary. She’s a perfectly healthy adult female.

Wei Ying checks the four other rockhoppers he collected. There’s nothing wrong with any of them, including the out-of-season adolescent, who’s doing remarkably well for a rockhopper that’s hatched way too late. 

He can keep the rockhoppers overnight for observation, just in case something develops, which means he’ll probably just camp out on the cottage floor and pull an all-nighter. It’s one of the tricky things about creatures that don’t like to be on digital film – you have to keep an eye on them in a very literal sense, instead of happily sleeping and reviewing the footage in the morning. 

A disproved hypothesis is still good science, Wei Ying tells himself. He goes to wash his hands in the sink. 

The door opens and Lan Zhan steps in through the archway, bringing with him a gust of sea air. He’s wearing gloves, and a rather ostentatious looking coat, suit and tie. He’s been on campus, most likely, in another meeting. 

‘What do you have there?’ he asks, noticing the tank.  

‘Blue rockhoppers,’ Wei Ying replies, drying his hand on the gingham towel hanging above the sink. ‘I wanted to do a sample survey from our beach in case they were diseased or malnourished, and if that was maybe affecting the ocean-stalkers. But they look perfectly healthy.’

Lan Zhan frowns slightly. He takes off his coat and hangs it by the door, then crosses the cottage to the table. He bends slightly, peering at the miniature dragons as they circle each other lazily. He unpeels his gloves, tucks them into the back pocket of his pants, and trails his right hand through the water. The female Wei Ying measured first takes a particular interest in his fingers.

Lan Zhan twists his hand out of her reach, and whistles low. The sound echoes eerily through the cottage, like a note ringing out in a large cavern. Above, the chimes clink together, though the air is still and the windows are closed.

White light dances from Lan Zhan’s fingertips, filling the bucket. The female rockhopper glows as though lit from within, shimmering like a cluster of diamonds and sapphires. The other dragons, however, remain the same.

Lan Zhan’s expression grows grim. He lifts his hand out of the water, and the light disappears. 

‘They are not healthy, Wei Ying,’ he says. ‘These rockhoppers are losing their connection to magic.’

Wei Ying’s stomach drops into his feet. ‘How is that even possible?’ he asks. 

‘I do not know,’ says Lan Zhan with a curt shake of his head. ‘I must speak to my family about this. We shall delay our afternoon study to tomorrow. You are free for the rest of the day.’

‘But, there’s cataloging left and I need to run the data on-’

Lan Zhan lifts a hand, silencing him. 

‘Take the afternoon off, Wei Ying,’ he instructs. His gaze drops to the pin on Wei Ying’s pullover, and a small curve appears by the corner of his mouth. ‘You are as worthy of that dragon as I had hoped.’ 

Before Wei Ying can process what that might mean, Lan Zhan has already put on his coat and left the cottage.

~

Wei Ying’s not a barbarian. He’s not going to take the afternoon off until he’s taken care of his little blue babies, so he sets the tank up with a pump, some spare rocks and coral that he’s got from some earlier habitat studies. He’ll have to figure out feed tomorrow – thankfully rockhoppers don’t require that much in the way of nourishment, though he’s no longer sure if that will be affected by their loss of magic. 

One of the males takes a particular fancy to Wei Ying, and performs fancy loops around his hands as Wei Ying sets up the pump and filtration system. It’s very flattering to be courted by a tiny dragon, so Wei Ying responds by singing fragments of Celine Dion songs to the rockhopper. 

He finishes within the hour, says goodbye to the rockhoppers, and heads back into campus for late-ish lunch.

The dining hall is starting to empty out by the time Wei Ying gets there, but luckily he spots Huaisang sitting at their usual spot with Mianmian, who is too busy pouring over her notes to pay attention to her half-eaten sandwich.

Wei Ying places his tray down and climbs onto the bench opposite her. ‘Hi,’ he greets.

‘You’re late,’ Huaisang sniffs. ‘They ran out of bread and butter pudding already, but I am a very good friend and have saved you some.’

Wei Ying grins as Huaisang slides over the small bowl. ‘Aw, you’re the best.’

‘And don’t you forget it.’

‘Anyways,’ says Wei Ying, digging into his dessert first, ‘what does it mean when a Lan says you’re worthy of a dragon pin?’ 

Huaisang blinks. ‘It means you’re going to grow a third eye.’

Mianmian looks up sharply from her notes. ‘ What?’ 

‘Wei Ying’s going to mutate,’ says Huaisang. ‘He’s swimming in sais-pas radiation. He’s drinking magic soup for breakfast.’

‘What do you mean, mutate?’ Mianmian frowns. ‘That’s a ridiculous thing to say. I’ve lived with sais-pas for ages. Nothing’s happened to me.’

‘Oh, nothing?’ Huaisang rolls his eyes. ‘Darling, you’re as old as Zixuan is, which means you’re older than my great-grandmother, and you can drink Whimsy without liver failure. I can’t even look at Whimsy without feeling funny.’

‘Wei Ying drank Whimsy on commencement night!’ Mianmian argues.

‘No he didn’t, that’s ridiculous,’ huffs Huaisang.

Wei Ying thinks about maybe explaining the whole witch thing, but then there’s a polite cough behind them.

‘Um, hi,’ says a familiar voice. ‘Would it be alright if I sat with you for lunch?’

Huaisang yelps. Mianmian’s mouth drops open, and her face goes a little ashen. Wei Ying turns around to find Wen Ning standing behind him, a nervous smile on his face, his cheeks still pink from the crisp air outside.

‘Oh, hey!’ Wei Ying greets. ‘Sure, you can sit by me.’

Huaisang stares at Wen Ning like he’s a tiger wearing coattails. 

Wen Ning has got a very rare steak on his plate – which Wei Ying doesn’t recall seeing on the menu – and a small helping of potatoes and broccoli.

‘Um, hi,’ says Wen Ning, smiling nervously. ‘I’m Wen Ning.’

‘We know who you are,’ Mianmian says wryly. She closes her notebooks and textbooks, and piles them to the side. ‘You’re Dr. Wen’s baby brother.’

Wen Ning winces. 

‘I’m surprised you’re allowed to socialize with us common folk,’ says Huaisang, almost a bit too sharply. 

Wei Ying throws him a look, which Huaisang pointedly ignores.

‘Oh, um,’ says Wen Ning. ‘Well, I’m not considered one of the inner family, you know, since I can’t take on the Change.’

‘What’s the Change?’ asks Wei Ying.

‘I can’t tell you,’ says Wen Ning with an apologetic smile. He starts to cut his steak into small, bite-sized pieces. The red of it bleeds out over his plate like paint in water. 

‘Right, sais-pas rules,’ Wei Ying says, nodding.

‘It just means that he’s basically human,’ Mianmian interrupts. She reaches across the table and passes Wen Ning a few tiny sachets of salt. ‘Here. You’ll need them to keep away whatever the Jins have planned for you.’

‘Thank you,’ says Wen Ning, pocketing the salt. ‘But I would hope they realize that targeting me upsets absolutely nobody but my sister.’

‘Because you can’t take the Change?’ Wei Ying asks, frowning. 

Wen Ning shrugs. ‘Honestly, my uncle just thinks I’m too soft.’

Huaisang crosses his arms and gives Wen Ning a long, careful look. ‘Ugh, very well then,’ he sighs. ‘I guess you can sit with us. Even if it’s a Wednesday and you’re not wearing pink.’

‘I need to wear pink?’ Wen Ning asks.

‘Stop making pop cultural references,’ Wei Ying says, flicking a pea at Huaisang.

Huaisang transforms the pea into a tiny butterfly and sticks his tongue out at Wei Ying. Mianmian, looking vaguely pained, leans over the table and makes direct eye contact with Wen Ning.

‘Ignore them,’ she advises. ‘So, why can’t you take on the Change?’

Wen Ning smiles lopsidedly. ‘It’s a funny story actually. I got kidnapped by a pixie when I was a kid.’

‘A what?’ Huaisang utters. ‘Who even gets kidnapped by a fairy. Oh my god. You’re a Wen!’ 

‘Ignore him,’ Mianmian says. ‘He’s never had to fight a pixie.’

Wen Ning nods solemnly. ‘She wanted me dance with her in the great banquets of the Courts, but I wouldn’t, so she said something like, if you won’t be a man now, then you’ll never be a man. Or something. So anyways, I’m stuck in pre-Change hell for eternity.’

‘Hm,’ says Mianmian, narrowing her eyes. ‘But your steak looks pretty bloody to me.’

‘Ah, yeah.’ Wen Ning moves a piece of steak around his plate with a fork awkwardly. ‘Um, my dietary requirements are still the same. I’m not human.’

‘No one at this table is properly human,’ says Huaisang, almost resignedly. ‘Mianmian is a court knight, I’ve had Jins and Lans going in and out of my house since I was in primary school, and this idiot-’ he waves a hand at Wei Ying, ‘- is being wined and dined by the incandescent and incomparable Dr. Lan Jr.’

Wen Ning’s eyes are as round as saucers. ‘ Oh ,’ he says. ‘Ohhhhh. Oh. Wow. Okay. That makes sense.’

‘What makes sense,’ says Wei Ying, feeling a little more than a little lost.

‘That he’s, you know,’ Wen Ning gestures vaguely, ‘ territorial .’

Mianmian lets out a snort of surprised laughter. 

‘Did you know Wei Ying wore Lan clothes the other day?’ Huaisang offers conversationally.

‘ Oh .’ Wen Ning claps a hand to his cheek. ‘Oh, that’s very forward.’

‘Oh my god, it’s just because I slept over,’ Wei Ying interrupts, throwing his hand out as though he might be able to physically intervene this conversation before it goes completely off the rails. ‘Post dead body discovery, by the way, so nothing funny happened. Or would ever happen. He’s my supervisor, for fuck’s sake. Surely that’s against the rules or whatever.’ 

Mianmian gives a snort of laughter. She lifts her can of Sprite. ‘To the rules that bind us and the rules that we break.’

Huaisang looks frustrated. ‘I’m not toasting to that.’

Wen Ning taps his water bottle to Mianmian’s can. ‘Cheers!’

‘You’re so cute I could eat you,’ Mianmian says to Wen Ning, who blushes. 

Huaisang laughs, and Mianmian asks Wen Ning something about his course, which he answers in a flustered rush, and Wei Ying looks out over the dining hall, and in this short reprieve the dam he built around his mind cracks just a little.

He’s never seen a dead person before. 

He recalls looking at his parents’ wooden coffins, and then holding their ashes close on the way to the columbarium. He remembers looking at their portraits, so stilted and strange, the colors all over-saturated. His mother’s unsmiling mouth, so different from what it had been in life, his father’s eyes too dark, too solemn. But those were refractions of the death itself. 

He doesn’t remember being in the car with their lifeless bodies. Can’t recall the stink of spilt gasoline and burnt rubber. He doesn’t remember much at all from the accident. There’s nothing but strange fogginess, just them getting into the car, and his father behind the wheel, turning to his mother, and her laughing, locking eyes with Wei Ying in the rearview mirror so that he’d be included in the joke. 

But if he closes his eyes, he can still see Dr. Faust’s eyes, glassy like polished marbles in her skull, and he can hear the sound of the sea crashing in the dark.

Chapter Text

Treatise of Rest: Chapter II - Dreams; Article 3e 

To Ward off Bad Dreams

i. Collect lavender and rosemary from your garden. Note: The garden does not need to have been planted or maintained by you, but it should at least be in an area owned by you. A rental garden will not suffice.

ii. Make a bouquet with 3 branches of lavender and 6 sprigs of rosemary. 

iii. Use brown twine to tie the bouquet together, knotting precisely 3 times.

iv. Leave the bouquet to dry in a sunny place from morning until sunset. 

v. Place the bouquet within your pillowcase. 

~

Wei Ying doesn’t text his brother much. He gets easily distracted by work, and even if he wanted to text his brother, what could he possibly say?

hi work is good and top secret also someone died woops couldn’t tell you that either

His texts are lukewarm and vague at best, which only serves to irritate Jiang Cheng, who sends him tirades and then insults and then just vague memes. Wei Ying sends pictures of coastlines and tidepools and sunsets and sunrises, and occasionally, a selfie of him with bloodshot eyes at a petrol station at 3am with the caption: lol midnight census taking

To which Jiang Cheng eloquently replies: mate its 3am for the love of jseus 

Jiang Cheng is too deep in his assignments and studies and invitation-only seminars to drive down to see Wei Ying or Jiang Yanli for that matter, which makes him extremely upset and lonely (though he’d never admit to it) and so one afternoon he texts: wy pls can u visit yanli i wanna vicariously eat her cakes thru u

Wei Ying decides to kill several birds with one stone, and lets Yanli know that he and his supervisor (he doesn’t even know how to explain who Lan Zhan is) will be in Newquay in mid-October for work. Yanli insists that they both come over for tea in the afternoon. 

‘Of course we will have tea,’ says Lan Zhan, when Wei Ying asks. 

‘You don’t mind that she’s human?’ Wei Ying asks him as they pack the car for the day.

‘She is your sister,’ Lan Zhan replies as he reorganizes their bags. He indicates for Wei Ying to step back, and shuts the boot. ‘I would expect her to be human.’

‘That’s not what I was trying to say,’ Wei Ying sighs. ‘I mean-’

‘Your sister has shown great kindness inviting us into her home,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘Do not be rude to your sister, Wei Ying.’  

Lan Zhan doesn’t smirk, exactly, but there’s this crease that appears next to his left eye when he says something particularly snarky. 

‘Wow,’ says Wei Ying. ‘You’re such a smarmy bastard. And nobody knows.’

Lan Zhan huffs a laugh under his breath and opens the car door, sliding gracefully into the driver’s seat. Wei Ying allows himself the tiniest smile and climbs into the car just as Lan Zhan starts the ignition. 

The sky is tinged gray, and the sea is swathed in early morning mist. The water seems calm, though, and Wei Ying mentally sifts through his rituals for better visibility. They’re both quite good at spotting fins in the fog, but it will be easier to get accurate data if they can clear the mist somewhat – and he’s got the beginnings of what might be a tension headache building. 

‘I have secured funding for us to study sunspot ocean-stalkers in Greenland,’ Lan Zhan tells him as they pull onto the road. 

‘Really?’ Wei Ying gasps. ‘Sunspot ocean-stalkers? Holy shit. When?’

‘In the coming winter and through to the spring,’ Lan Zhan replies. ‘Which will make it difficult to live there. I will make arrangements, if you would like to go?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Wei Ying says. ‘I don’t care if I have to dig my own toilet. I’m going with you. Anyways, it’s probably best if we’re both as far away from the Wens and the Jins as possible, right?’

Lan Zhan nods. ‘That was the intention, yes.’

‘Sunspot ocean-stalkers,’ Wei Ying sighs happily. ‘Holy shit.’

He’s only ever seen diagrams of sunspot ocean-stalkers – they don’t come this far south, they rely on the icy waters of the arctic to stay cool, and they usually lay their eggs in glaciers. 

‘Have you ever studied them before?’ he asks, turning to watch the hedgerows roll past them. 

‘Yes, on a self-funded expedition,’ Lan Zhan replies. He drops his left hand onto the shift lever and eases the Honda into fifth gear. ‘But that was nearly eighty years ago. I built a den in the cliffs and studied them for a whole season.’

‘Eighty-’ Wei Ying twists around in his seat, fighting against the seatbelt. ‘ Eighty? Lan Er-gege, are you a grandpa?’

Lan Zhan gives him a scathing look. ‘Wei Ying,’ he says. ‘I will remind you that I am still young for my kind.’

‘Hm,’ says Wei Ying, studying the curve of Lan Zhan’s perfect jaw. ‘What was it like being around for the invention of electricity?’ 

Lan Zhan reaches out with his hand and pushes Wei Ying’s face gently so that Wei Ying is forced to look at hedgerows once more. ‘I am not that old.’

Wei Ying laughs.

~

It is a long, tiring, yet exhilaratingly productive morning out on the boat chasing a giant school of dwarf traversers, Wei Ying hanging off the bow frantically trying to count the dragons with a click counter while Lan Zhan powers the ship on through the mist. He’s never seen anything like it before – hundreds of turquoise bodies shining beneath the glassy sheen of the waves, flipping occasionally to reveal their white bellies. The water is churned by their bodies as the enormous group brackets the ship out to sea.

Wei Ying grew up diving on long summer holidays. He’s seen towering schools of fish before, and bait balls. And he’s seen videos of a cyclone of manta rays, so many of them that they form a perfect carpet of life within the brilliant blue of the sea – but he’s never seen this . This is like seeing a pod of a hundred dolphins – no, better, because these are dragons, long-snouted and yellow-eyed, chirping out in what sounds like birdsong as they break the surface. 

‘It’s the mist,’ Lan Zhan tells him, raising his voice to be heard over the crash of the ocean. ‘They call it, and it calls them.’

They part ways as the school heads out into the open ocean. Wei Ying grabs onto the edge of the boat as he watches them disappear into the silver mist, flashes of brilliant green-blue rearing against the dark water. The grain of the wood is coarse against his palms, grounding him in the moment, reminding him that this beauty, this wonder is real.

Who thinks of petty power and politics when there are dragons to be seen? Wei Ying can’t understand it.

On the way back to shore, Lan Zhan points out a lone rainbow traverser making her slow way around the deeper waters in the cliffs.

‘She’s hunting for seals,’ he says, like it’s a secret only they know. ‘That means her calf is nearby.’

Wei Ying’s chest is so full and warm, he doesn’t even feel the bite of the cold sea wind on his cheeks. 

~

It’s a short drive from the beach to Yanli’s place, during which Wei Ying excitedly looks up things to do in Greenland and chatters on and on about them, and Lan Zhan, in his infinite patience, listens and provides thoughtful feedback. Wei Ying wants to do all the hikes – those trails are not walkable in the winter, Wei Ying – and kayaking – the ice, Wei Ying – and go to the museums – I have some contacts, we might be able to see some of the archives if they’re not on exhibit.

It’s going to be wonderful. Wei Ying can’t wait.

They pull into Yanli’s driveway and slot neatly beside her small blue Kia. Lan Zhan, as always, makes sure that there is enough space on the passenger side for Wei Ying to get out comfortably.

Yanli is already waiting on her front steps by the time they get out, wrapping her cardigan tightly around herself. Mist hangs in the air, making the shapes of the houses further down the cul-de-sac seem like vague ships drifting through the night. The branches of a tree loom dark and many-fingered above the blue smudge of a far-off roof. 

‘Come in!’ Yanli calls to them, waving. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on.’

It is warm inside Yanli’s house, and it smells of lemon and sugar. She ushers them into the conservatory, insists that Dr. Lan Jr. make himself at home , and disappears back into the golden glow of the house. She reappears with a tray of fragrant tea in a butter-yellow pot, matching cups in brilliant primary colors, and a lemon pound cake wrapped in brown paper. There’s lavender and a candied orange carefully arranged on top of the lemon pound cake, and Wei Ying is secretly pleased when Lan Zhan’s slice is the one that ends up with the decorations.

‘I saved my best Earl Grey for this,’ Yanli tells Lan Zhan with a wink as she pours him a glass. ‘Milk?’

‘No thank you,’ says Lan Zhan.

‘Lemon slice, then?’ Yanli offers. ‘I have half a lemon that I was going to use for a salad dressing.’

‘The tea on its own will be fine,’ says Lan Zhan, inclining his head politely. ‘And the cake is excellent.’

‘Oh,’ says Yanli, lifting her hand to touch her cheek. ‘Why, that’s very kind.’ 

Wei Ying snorts. ‘As if you don’t already know,’ he mutters, rolling his eyes.

He earns a slap on the thigh, and a hissed, A-Ying! When he looks up, Lan Zhan’s eyes have this light to them that suggests he’s laughing, even though his mouth remains in a straight, unsmiling line. 

‘Were you out on the water today?’ Yanli asks. 

‘Yes,’ Lan Zhan replies. He sips at the tea, and glances out through the glass at the lavender and rosemary bushes that line the stone steps leading up Yanli’s terraced garden. The mist clings to the wall at the far side of the garden, draping the world in a silvery veil. ‘Visibility was quite poor, but Wei Ying managed to collect data very well.’

Wei Ying feels his cheeks burn at the sudden compliment. ‘Oh, uh. It was a team effort, really.’

Yanli beams at him. ‘My A-Ying is always so good at your work,’ she praises.

‘Oh my god Yanli,’ Wei Ying says, staring at his sister. ‘This isn’t a PTA conference at a nursery.’

‘But my A-Ying is already three years old,’ Yanli grins. ‘Why can’t I be proud of his accomplishments?’ 

Wei Ying briefly considers flinging open the conservatory doors, running up the stone steps of the garden, then vaulting over the wall and into the wooded area, so that he can sink into the damp soil and never emerge again. 

Lan Zhan makes a small, snorting noise into his cup. He’s definitely laughing now. 

‘Well,’ says Yanli, turning back towards Lan Zhan. 

She waits for him to set down his cup, raises herself out of her wicker chair, and pours him another helping of tea before he can say otherwise. She sets down the teapot, settles back against the pillows, and clasps her hand in her lap. 

‘In all sincerity, Dr. Lan Jr.,’ Yanli says, ‘thank you for taking care of my brother these past few months.’

Lan Zhan sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. ‘Wei Ying is very capable,’ he says. ‘I would say that his work has the potential to be groundbreaking. He is invaluable to my department and to me.’

Wei Ying can hear his pulse in his ears. He couldn’t be more red right now. This is horribly embarrassing. No one should compliment him ever again. Definitely not Lan Zhan. 

‘Of course,’ Yanli nods seriously. ‘He’s wonderful. But he doesn’t always put his own wellbeing first. To be honest, this is the healthiest I have seen my brother in a long time. I want to thank you for making sure he takes care of himself.’

Lan Zhan inclines his head. ‘Wei Ying does work too hard sometimes,’ he concedes. ‘It worries me too.’

Yanli sighs, shaking her head. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Are you two boys staying in the country or going abroad for any research?’

‘We might go to Greenland in the winter,’ Wei Ying says excitedly, then realizes he might have revealed information he wasn’t supposed to. 

He glances guiltily at Lan Zhan, but Lan Zhan smiles at him openly. Encouragingly. 

Oh, thinks Wei Ying, helplessly. Then: I want to be worthy of my pin. Please let me be worthy. 

‘That sounds like an adventure!’ says Yanli. ‘Oh, but it will be very cold there in winter, won’t it? Wei Ying, remind me to take you shopping for proper gear, please. You don’t have enough thermal socks.’

‘The institute has a budget for equipment,’ Lan Zhan supplies helpfully.

‘Yes, but it’s a lot of fun shopping for your younger brother,’ Yanli responds with a grin. ‘Did you know that I bought him his first lace-up shoes for school?’

‘Oh my god,’ says Wei Ying, despairingly. ‘Please not that story.’

Yanli’s grin grows wicked. ‘Are you an older sibling or a younger sibling, Dr. Lan?’ she asks. ‘Do you have any embarrassing stories about them that you love to share?’

Lan Zhan arches an eyebrow. He leans forward, picks up his cup, and sips delicately from his cup. ‘I imagine you would get along very well with my elder brother,’ he says thoughtfully.

Yanli laughs. ‘Would I?’ she says, delighted. 

Lan Zhan nods. 

‘Oh, you must invite him over too, next time,’ Yanli says. She cuts another slice of pound cake and places it in Wei Ying’s plate, even though there’s at least three bites of his previous slice still sitting there at the edge. 

‘That is very kind,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘I will pass along your invitation.’

Wei Ying isn’t sure if Lan Zhan’s brother would accept. He’s not sure if the ever-smiling sais-pas approves of their friendship, or whatever this closeness between them is. And maybe it’s because of what Wei Ying is – or the potential of what Wei Ying might become one day. 

But Wei Ying doesn’t understand it yet. Why witches are a thing to fear. Why his power is so awful that the Wens want him destroyed now, while he’s still human. 

The mist presses thick against the glass panes of the conservatory. All the bright colors normally present are washed thin, and even Yanli looks sickly in this unkind light. It does not feel as though Wei Ying is bringing Lan Zhan out of the Unknown, but strangely, as though he is pulling his sister down into the shadows with him. 

Unease twists in his gut, a fish writhing in a too-shallow pond. 

‘A-Ying,’ says his sister, the tone of her voice suggesting that she’s called him a few times before. She’s on the edge of her chair, one hand resting an inch from Wei Ying’s leg, her forehead creased with worry. ‘A-Ying, are you tired? Do you want to go inside and nap for a bit before you go back?’

Wei Ying shakes his head. There is a mist clinging to his mind, too, hiding dark shapes in the water that he should be looking out for. He was happy a moment ago, wasn’t he? What changed? 

But something has changed. He can feel it. There was a delicately tied thread that held the world upright, now come undone, and everything is spilling after it. 

Yanli’s hand presses against his forehead, testing for his temperature. Over her shoulder, past the falling veil of her dark hair, Wei Ying catches Lan Zhan’s golden eyes fixed up on him. The sais-pas tilts his head, and from the crease at his brow, Wei Ying can hear him silently ask: what do you sense? What is wrong?

The doorbell rings once, then again, but shorter.

‘Oh,’ says Yanli, dropping her hand. ‘I wonder who that is.’

Wei Ying follows her to the front door. Through the windows, gray light falls limply over the rugs in Yanli’s living room. The mist outside has evolved into an impenetrable sea fog. Yanli peers through the keyhole, and as she draws back to open the door, Wei Ying can see the surprise open up her face, widen her large, dark eyes and lift her brows up toward the bottom of her bangs. 

Standing on the front steps of Yanli’s house, dressed in a dark trench coat with the collar propped up against cold, is Jin Zixuan, the bloody yellow peacock himself. 

‘How can I help you?’ Yanli asks, with a bright smile.

‘Why are you here?’ Wei Ying says, stepping into view. ‘How do you know where we were?’

Zixuan frowns deeply at Wei Ying. ‘Must you be so intolerably rude?’ he says. ‘If you must know, Wanji and I share our locations with each other, in case of emergencies.’ 

He lifts a smartphone out of his pocket and shakes it at Wei Ying as if to accentuate his claim. He doesn’t even use a case to protect it. Wei Ying wonders how well sais-pas wealth translates into GBP. 

‘Yes, but why are you here?’ Wei Ying presses.

‘A-Ying,’ sighs Yanli. ‘You’re being rude.’

She opens the door further, steps back to make room, and offers Zixuan a wide smile. He stares down at her for a moment, seemingly disconcerted by the gesture, and nearly misses his coat pocket when he tries to put his phone away.

‘Come on in,’ Yanli tells Jin Zixuan. ‘It’s awfully cold outside. We’ve got hot tea and some leftover pound cake.’

‘Oh,’ says Zixuan, shuffling his feet on the welcome mat. He glances back over his shoulder, at Lan Zhan’s car in her driveway, then towards the road, swallowed in the thick fog. ‘It’s really alright, we should be going.’

‘I insist,’ Yanli says brightly, nodding her head in towards the inviting warmth of the house. ‘Just for a few minutes.’

Zixuan relents. As he steps into the house, Yanli leans forward to shut the door behind him, and he quickly sidesteps her so that she does not touch him. 

Surely he isn’t so disgusted by humans , Wei Ying thinks with a frown.

‘Ah, Wangji,’ Zixuan says, noticing Lan Zhan standing in the corridor, one hand tucked in his pocket. 

‘Shoes, Zixuan,’ says Lan Zhan, gesturing toward Zixuan’s black oxfords with his free hand. ‘This is not a Western household.’

‘I know the customs,’ grumbles Zixuan, peeling off his coat and hanging from one of the brass coat hooks by the door. He bends down to unlace his shoes and places them carefully next to Lan Zhan’s wellies. ‘You don’t have to be so bossy.’

‘Zixuan,’ repeats Yanli, her face brightening. ‘You have Chinese parents?’

‘I, uh,’ says Zixuan, turning round to look at her with wide eyes. He wipes his hand on the front of his jumper and swallows nervously. ‘In a sense, yes. Grandparents.’

She presses her hand to the crook of his elbow and gently guides him into the house. She’s always so very warm and affectionate, even with strangers – she doesn’t know that sais-pas can be prickly, and Wei Ying readies himself for an outburst, but to his surprise, Zixuan lets himself be led through the warm glow of the house into the enclosed diamond of the conservatory. 

Lan Zhan watches their progress with a strange look. 

‘Why do you think he’s here?’ Wei Ying asks in a lowered voice.

‘It cannot be anything good,’ Lan Zhan replies, shaking his head. ‘But we should honor your sister’s hospitality.’

This time Lan Zhan and Wei Ying sit on the long sofa together, while Zixuan lets himself be sat in the armchair Lan Zhan was in. Yanli brings an extra cup and plate, and serves her new, unexpected guest tea and cake. Zixuan stares at the lemon pound cake with a fascination someone might normally reserve for a particularly vibrant nudibranch. 

Lan Zhan looks like he might actually laugh. 

‘How’s the tea?’ Yanli asks. She takes another sip from her cup, sets it down on the coffee table, and adjusts the pleats of her skirt over the tops of her knees. ‘It’s not too weak, I hope.’

Zixuan holds both the tea and the plate in his hands, frozen like a cat caught slinking in the hallway. After a quick glance at Lan Zhan, whose mouth curls upward just slightly, Zixuan lifts his eyes towards the heavens, takes a sip of the tea, and sighs. 

‘The tea is perfectly brewed,’ he replies. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath, and sets both the plate and the tea down on the coffee table. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss-?’ He tilts his head.

‘Yanli is fine,’ she says.

‘Ahem,’ says Zixuan. ‘Miss Yanli, I do apologize for the intrusion-’

‘A-Ying’s friends and colleagues are always welcome here,’ Yanli interrupts, reaching across to squeeze Wei Ying’s hand. ‘Please don’t apologize.’

Zixuan looks like he might implode. He picks up his tea, takes a rather inelegant gulp, and puts the cup back down. ‘Right,’ he says, with a curt nod. ‘Well, rather, I should thank you for your hospitality. And explain myself, of course. You see, I have been sent to fetch Wangji and Mr. Wei. There’s been an incident at the Institute.’

He delivers the last sentence to Lan Zhan, with a meaningful look. 

An incident. Wei Ying dreads to think what that means.

‘Who is issuing the summons?’ Lan Zhan asks, frowning slightly.

‘Who else?’ Zixuan replies wryly. ‘Our great Chairman is implementing a curfew. We must be back before seven. But my brother has called Mingjue in, which will hopefully mean we will see some professionalism in the coming months.’

‘A curfew?’ says Lan Zhan, arching an eyebrow. ‘That interrupts my work.’

Zixuan sighs and shakes his head. ‘Yes, mine too,’ he says. ‘But we should not discuss such unpleasant things here. It’s not polite.’

Yanli crosses her legs at the ankles and leans on one of the arms of her chair. ‘Are you  boys in any danger?’ she asks. ‘There were muggings near my university when I was in third year. Terrible time, really.’

Wei Ying winces. He remembers that time, the sour frustration and anxiety that curdled in his stomach, knowing that his sister was an ocean away, and that he could do nothing to keep her safe. Nothing but sending her messages every night asking if she’d made it home, staring at the small screen of his phone under his blankets in the wee hours of the morning, waiting to see her message pop up. 

Yanli peers at the face of her watch, which she wears facing the inside of her wrist. ‘Well, it’s gone quarter to five now,’ she says. ‘If you head out now you’ll make it back with plenty of time. But don’t drive too fast. You know how Cornish roads are when the weather’s like this.’

She waves them off as they climb into the car, and watches them from the front steps as they pull out into the street. Wei Ying feels a tug in his chest as he watches her figure disappear into the fog in the side-view mirror.

Lan Zhan is quiet on the drive, but there’s something in the way that he glances at Jin Zixuan in the rearview mirror that makes the latter turn vermillion.

‘Not a fucking word,’ Zixuan warns.

‘I have said nothing,’ says Lan Zhan.

‘You’re a prick,’ grumbles Zixuan, sliding back into his seat. He sighs, drags his fingers through his hair, and casts his gaze out the car window. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt, but it’s an emergency.’

‘What’s happened?’ Wei Ying asks, shifting around in his seat so that he can look at Zixuan.

‘Dr. Blackthorn’s dead,’ the sais-pas says. ‘One of his assistants found him collapsed in his office.’

Wei Ying slides back into his seat, facing the road. The fog presses oppressively into the dark hedgerows. Dark shapes lumber in the distance – whether they are houses, trees, sheep or cows, Wei Ying cannot tell. He closes his eyes and he sees the flash of Dr. Faust’s marble eyes staring. 

He opens his eyes and thinks of Dr. Blackthorn, and the unfortunate person who found him. He’s grateful, in a morbid way, that he wasn’t the one stumbling across the professor’s boyish body. How does anyone stomach it?

Lan Zhan shifts into a lower gear and turns onto a particularly bendy road that weaves its way through a forest. The car’s engine hums soothingly. They push forward, a loan ship winding a treacherous path home through the thick gray fog. Wei Ying can barely make out the trunks of the trees. There is something different about these woods. The weight of it feels far more real than any of the thinned, young forests that cling to England’s coast.

Lan Zhan meets his friend’s eye once more in the narrow rectangle of the rearview mirror. ‘You have a suspect in mind,’ he says.

‘Of course I have a suspect in mind,’ Zixuan says. ‘Father wants a place on the Institute Board. The Wens don’t want him on the Board, so he eliminates the people who vote for us. This is how it’s been for centuries with us. Squabbling over power at the ruination of learning and knowledge.’

Lan Zhan arches an eyebrow at this tirade. ‘That is a very academic thing to say,’ he remarks, glancing at Wei Ying.

They share a brief look, where Lan Zhan seems to tell him: we’ve converted another one. The intimacy of it is delicious.

‘Well, call me an academic then,’ Zixuan huffs, crossing his arms. ‘Because I’m a disappointing prince.’

‘Hm,’ says Lan Zhan.

‘You’re not supposed to agree with me,’ protests Zixuan, and Lan Zhan huffs a laugh beneath his breath.

~

The Institute, usually still bustling with life even at this late hour, is unsettlingly quiet. Everyone’s been gathered in the dining hall while the grounds are searched, Zixuan explains as they walk towards the lone building. The fog has dissolved somewhat, but there is a cloud over the moon tonight. 

The dining hall is stuffed full of people, but there is a strange quiet that hangs over everyone. Instead of the roar of several voices, whispers echo off the stone walls. There are groups of people camped out on the floor, while others huddle together on different corners of the long tables and benches. 

Jin Zixuan makes a sharp turn and starts striding across the hall as soon as they’re through the door, heading towards a group of sais-pas who clearly belong to the Jin family – including the pretty one Wei Ying met the other day down by the beach. 

Lan Zhan places his hand on the small of Wei Ying’s back. He steers them both to the far edge of a table, two rows from the main doors of the dining hall. 

‘Stay here,’ he tells Wei Ying in a lowered voice. ‘I must go speak to my uncle. Please, do not stray out of my line of sight.’

And then he is striding off towards Dr. Lan, who is gesticulating wildly as he talks to the man with antlers who Wei Ying recalls from the beach, where they found Dr. Faust. 

Wei Ying sits down on the bench. He can feel a slight pinch at his temples, like the beginnings of a tension headache. Bending over, he digs his knuckles into his forehead and begins to knead. The pain blooms down over his eyes, spreading sparks over his vision. 

A hand settles on his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

Wei Ying blinks stars away from his vision and looks up at Huaisang, who is in a rather non-dapper sweater, corduroy pants, and house slippers. The silver pin seems to have been hastily fastened to his sweater, as it is upside down with the petals facing the floor.

‘Headache,’ Wei Ying says, wincing.

‘Ah,’ says Huaisang. ‘Hands.’

Wei Ying holds out his hands and watches as Huaisang dutifully presses his fingers in the pattern for To Alleviate a Headache of Unknown Origin over Wei Ying’s palms and forearms.

The headache eases up slightly, but does not leave entirely.

‘Thanks,’ sighs Wei Ying.

‘Don’t mention it,’ chirps Huaisang. He drops onto the seat next to Wei Ying and leans back against the table. ‘What a fucking mess this is turning out to be, hey?’

Wei Ying casts his gaze across the dining hall. He can’t find Dr. Wen, or Wen Ning. 

‘Is this normal?’ he asks. ‘This many murders in one term?’ 

‘No, not like this.’ Huaisang shakes his head. ‘There’s going to be a war, and sooner or later, we’re going to have to pick sides.’

Wei Ying spots Mianmian at Zixuan’s side. She looks different, somehow, like all the softness and light has been scrubbed out of her. There is a sharpness to her gaze. Leather armor is strapped over her buttercup-yellow sweater, and there is a rather wicked-looking scimitar strapped to her belt. 

‘What side are you going to pick?’ Wei Ying asks, his eyes on Mianmian.

Almanac writers. That’s what they were supposed to be. That’s why they’re here, isn’t it?

‘I’m a Legacy,’ says Huaisang. ‘My side has been picked for me.’

Wei Ying doesn’t say anything, but there is a part of him that knows his side has been picked for him too – not as a Pioneer or a Legacy or any other meaningless faction. It’s been picked for him from birth, by his Gift and its devastating potential. The threat that he poses, the danger that he cannot fully comprehend.

Wei Ying and Huaisang sit there for hours, late into the night. Eventually some of the Pioneers meander over to join them. Wei Ying summons up three glasses of hot chocolate using a line from a Treatise he once scanned a long time ago. 

Some of the other Pioneers sitting in their little circle look at him oddly as he repeats the ritual a fourth, then a fifth time. He has no idea why. Magic is meant to be used – and it is used often in the Institute – so why not to provide comfort in a time of anxiety and fear?

Perhaps there’s a rule somewhere about not using it for fun. But this isn’t fun. They’re all hungry, and tired, and Wei Ying just wants to be useful. 

When they are finally released, Wei Ying trudges back in a miserable procession with his other dorm-mates to his room. He climbs up the stairs, sits at the edge of his bed, and stares out the window.

The pale bench glitters in the dark, and beyond, the sea murmurs its apologies. 

A horrible thought crosses his mind. There is a way he can cross rituals, speak to a friend far, and to find a lost gravestone. Isn’t it easier to ask a dead thing what killed it?

He has a piping hot shower and crawls into bed before his brain can give him any more terrible ideas.

~

It is not even a week later when the third murder occurs.

Wei Ying is not on campus when it happens. No, in fact, he and Lan Zhan are in Flamborough, tracking dragons in the North Sea. They have spent a long day on the chalky cliffs, faces pressed up against binoculars, buffeted and bullied by the wind, and are finally taking a well-earned rest by the fireplace. 

(Luckily, they haven’t needed to factor in accommodations as an expense, because a friend of the Institute has kindly lent them his cottage.)

Lan Zhan gets up to fetch more tea when he stops by the window. There is a haze on it, much like frost, only there are scrawlings upon the glass – dark and illegible. 

Lan Zhan turns to face Wei Ying, his face ashen. ‘Dr. Antler has just been found dead,’ he says. ‘In the forest.’

Wei Ying stares at Lan Zhan. Dr. Antler . The third of the group he’d seen Zixuan talking to beneath Architecture and Urban Planning. 

‘We’ve been summoned by Mingjue,’ says Lan Zhan, gesturing to the now-fading frost. 

Lan Zhan drives them back on crowded motorways that grow less crowded as the night ages. They glide past slumbering houses with darkened windows and lively pubs and endless, endless hedgerows and dark fields. 

It is nearly three in the morning when they arrive at the Institute. They go to one of the back buildings, completely unfamiliar to Wei Ying. Fatigue presses in on him as he follows Lan Zhan up a cramped staircase, then out onto a claustrophobic room with whitewashed walls and unforgiving, fluorescent lights.

In the center of the room, on a raised stretcher, lies the very still, very pale body of Dr. Antler. With the white of his hair, he seems almost like a man made from ice. He is dressed in striped pajamas, which seems oddly human and heartbreakingly sad.

Behind him, Nie Mingjue and Guangyao stand about a foot apart from the body. Mingjue’s sleeves are rolled up, his arms are crossed over his chest, revealing the runes tattooed over his forearms. 

Lan Zhan studies the body for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Dr. Lan Jr.,’ says Mingjue gruffly. ‘Please. It will only take a moment.’

‘The Wens have strictly instructed Wei Ying to stay away from this matter,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘And I agree.’ 

A vein pulses in Mingjue’s forehead. ‘The Wens aren’t in charge of security,’ he frowns. ‘It’s my decision, at the end of the day.’

‘I think it should be Mr. Wei’s decision,’ Guanyao corrects. He turns and awards Wei Ying one of his sweet, dimpled smiles. ‘Whatever you’re comfortable with, Mr. Wei.’

Sooner or later, we’re going to have to pick sides, Wei Ying thinks.

‘It’s fine,’ he murmurs to Lan Zhan.

He walks up to Dr. Antler’s body. He puts on the gloves that Mingjue hands him, and then walks around to the head. He already knows where to look. With careful hands, he tilts Dr. Antler’s face to the side and lifts the limp curls away from his neck. 

There, in the same place as Dr. Faust’s markings – and likely in the same place as Dr. Blackthorn’s wounds will be, if anyone bothers to look – are three dots. He presses his fingers around the markings. With some pressure, something comes rising out of the cold flesh – three tiny black thorns. As they fall into Wei Ying’s hand, they gleam like obsidian.

‘Here,’ says Wei Ying, holding them out for Mingjue to see. 

‘Fuck,’ says Mingjue. He turns to Guangyao. ‘How did we miss that? We inspected the last corpse before the Wens could get to it, and we found nothing.’ 

‘It’s heavily glamored,’ Guangyao replies. ‘I can smell it from here. No living thing, human or otherwise, should be able to see through it. And yet you saw the wound, Mr. Wei.’

He lifts his gaze to meet Wei Ying’s, and Wei Ying notices his particular sais-pas quirk, his particular polite mask for soothing humans. It’s not the smile, nor is it the prettiness – no, it’s the demure way he holds himself, so you think he is delicate or petite. Wei Ying can see, for the first time, the terrifying amount of control this creature has over every last muscle in his body, for he now holds himself perfectly, uncannily still.

‘Why did you see through this glamor, Mr. Wei?’ he asks, his voice a soft caress. ‘What sort of creature are you?’

‘A witch,’ says Wei Ying. ‘Maybe.’

‘No, I know my witches,’ says Guangyao, still staring at Wei Ying. ‘They are easily fooled by glamors too.’

‘He has done you a favor,’ Lan Zhan says. His voice sounds strange, almost like a growl. ‘You will leave him be.’

‘He has done Mingjue a favor,’ says Guangyao, tilting his head slightly. ‘Not me.’

‘I don’t really care about favors,’ says Wei Ying. His head is beginning to hurt. Colors break out over his vision. ‘Can I go now, please? I need to go lie down.’

Mingjue clicks his tongue. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I guess it is very late. And you’ve come a long way.’ He gestures toward the door with his hand.

Wei Ying does not allow himself to feel relief until he is in sight of his dorms. The ache has graduated to blinding pain, and his eyes water as he tries to keep them open. He’s never in his life experienced a migraine. Lan Zhan guides him forward with a gentle hand on his elbow, helping him avoid dips and bumps in the ground. 

‘Are you sure you do not wish to stay in my den tonight?’ Lan Zhan asks, even as they approach the entrance of Wei Ying’s dorm.

Wei Ying squeezes his eyes shut as pain blooms up over his scalp, trickling like molten metal down towards his neck. He wobbles, and Lan Zhan catches him, one arm around his waist. After a breath, the pain passes. 

‘I don’t want to complicate things more,’ Wei Ying manages to croak out. 

Lan Zhan considers this a moment. ‘Then I will stay in your room tonight,’ he states in a tone that allows no room for argument. ‘You should not be alone in your condition.’

Wei Ying thinks it’s funny that Lan Zhan refers to it as his condition , like he’s a fainting Victorian heiress stricken by consumption. But he can’t say anything, because he’s hit by another blinding wave of pain. 

Lan Zhan helps him up the stairs and then tucks him into bed. He presses his palm on Wei Ying’s forehead. It feels soothing and cool.

‘Sleep,’ Lan Zhan whispers. ‘I will stay.’

So Wei Ying sleeps.

And he dreams. 

He is sitting in the peak tram with his mother. Light filters through the leaves, sending rushes of dappled light into the carriage. The rails click beneath. The air smells of things growing and green, and oil and metal and wood polish, and the jasmine and orange blossom in his mother’s perfume.

Wei Ying’s mother smiles down at him. The mother-of-pearl half-moons in her ears catch a brief shaft of sunlight.

‘We are going to see your grandmother,’ she tells him.

Wei Ying kicks his feet and giggles. He is very small, and cannot touch the floor, not even with his tippy-toes.

He’s excited for when they get to the top. They’ll meet Popo in the shade, in front of the station, and then they’ll go walk in the gardens, loop back to the restaurant, and even though Popo says she won’t, she’ll buy Wei Ying chocolate-chip ice cream. 

The tram creaks as it pulls to a stop. 

The doors open and Wei Ying’s mother takes him by the hand. Her watch is gold-rimmed, circular, attached to her slender wrist by a dark leather strap. There is a tiny, smiling sun that hides behind the dial. 

Wei Ying stares, transfixed. As his mother helps him down onto the platform, the sun flips, and a grimacing moon appears, its eyes pale and sightless. 

He is afraid, so he looks away, and he is even more afraid.

They are not at the Peak. 

The sun is gone. A dark and strange forest closes in, tall and full of gnarled trees that are all wrong, none of them the familiar species that Wei Ying knows by name. Above them stands a hut, balanced upon enormous, black chicken legs. Its windows burn with unearthly light. The door to this hut swings open, and down rolls a rope ladder.

Wei Ying turns to his mother. She is now a head below her, looking up at him with large, sad eyes. She is as pale as morning frost.

‘Go in,’ she tells him. Her voice is an echo on the radio. ‘Your grandmother is waiting.’

His heart shuddering in his throat, Wei Ying climbs the rope ladder. At the top, he looks down at his mother. There is blood at her mouth, blood at her throat, and her eyes are milky white. He should be afraid, but all he can feel is a terrible, crushing sadness that constricts his heart. 

He closes the door behind him.

He stands in a long corridor with doors at every side of him, larger and longer than should fit inside such a small hut. At the very end of the corridor stands a woman dressed in a black dress with a high collar, bone-white buttons pressing at her throat. She walks towards him. She does not run, but it takes her only three steps to get to him. It is as though the corridor contracts and flings her at him.

She looks like his mother, if his mother had ever gotten the chance to grow old. Her face is stern and terrible, and her eyes are a pale silver, and very, very clever. 

‘Finally,’ she says. ‘Son of Cangse, what will you be?’

‘Human,’ says Wei Ying.

The old woman laughs. Her teeth are all metal. 

She opens the nearest door. Within, thick gold drips from the walls and pools upon the floor, hissing as it singes the tiles below. 

‘Will you be an alchemist?’ she asks, her voice a whisper and yet a shout at the same time. ‘Will you make miracles?’

Wei Ying stares at the bubbling liquid on the floor in horror. ‘No,’ he says.

She slams it shut, walks three doors down and opens it. Wei Ying, hypnotized, walks up to it. 

Within, the walls are made of knitted bones and cascading rivers of blood. Voices call from within the walls, familiar and unfamiliar.

‘You already speak to dead things,’ says the old woman. ‘Why not command them too?’

He thinks of his mother and her milky eyes. ‘The dead should sleep,’ says Wei Ying. 

The old woman smiles triumphantly at him. She crosses the hallway, touches one door, then the next, then the next. He follows her. His feet feel numb. He feels as though underwater.

She opens another door and points through. In the center of the room, there is a tiny dragon in a gilded cage. It beats its pale, blue wings against the bars, screaming in fear, its cries digging nails into Wei Ying’s heart. Unbidden, he reaches out.

Something horrible and deep and intoxicating reaches from within his chest. The cage unravels into ribbons, and the dragon flies up, crying out in joy for its new freedom. Its body twists, grows, until it is the size of the entire room, and from its mouth falls rivers and rivers of fire, which lick up the walls and eat everything there, the flowers, the curtains, the wallpaper.

He turns in horror, and the fire colors the old woman’s face orange, and she throws her head back and laughs. The fire licks up and into the hallway, and consumes everything around them.

‘Yes!’ she cries. ‘Yes. You will tear down the world, son of Cangse. Set fire to it and make it anew.’

Chapter Text

The Historical Almanac of War and Peace; Chapter 21 - The Tiger Accords; pp 144

Clause 3: Notwithstanding Clause 1 and Clause 2, the Wens retain the absolute right to dispose of threats to their position and rank in the magical world. 

~

As Wei Ying wakes, the first thing he knows is a hand upon his cheek. Then, as he opens his eyes, he sees the wooden eaves that sit perpendicular to the boards of his bedroom ceiling – and to his left, Lan Zhan watching him. The hand on his cheek retracts.

‘You were calling out in your sleep,’ Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying blinks. Then he remembers fire, his mother’s milky eyes, the dragon and the cage and hut with chicken’s feet.

What will you be, son of Cangse?

He sits up, rubbing over his eyes. The headache, thankfully, is gone. 

‘Was it a bad dream?’ Lan Zhan asks.

‘I don’t know if it was a dream,’ Wei Ying murmurs.

Lan Zhan’s hand fits carefully over the bones in Wei Ying’s wrist. He flips Wei Ying’s hand over and presses his fingertips against the pulsepoint, there in the soft skin where Wei Ying’s veins press olive green against his skin. 

‘I wonder if it’s a choice to become a witch,’ Wei Ying says, his gaze locked on the place where he and Lan Zhan touch. ‘Maybe we’re not hermit crabs. Maybe we’re all just animals crawling in and out of the sea, trying to find a way to breathe and eat and survive. Dragons, clawing at cages, knowing we’d be safer inside but unable to do anything but scream for the open ocean and the breeze above.’

Lan Zhan’s hand encircles Wei Ying’s wrist once more. ‘You do not sound like yourself,’ he says.

Wei Ying closes his eyes. He wants to lean into the warmth of Lan Zhan’s weight. Wants to ask for comfort, for safety against the thing that is bearing down upon him with ever-expanding wings. 

But he’s beginning to understand that this is not how the Unknown works. He can’t have things that aren’t meant for him.

‘We can delay our trip to Kynance Cove until next week,’ Lan Zhan offers.

They’ve been planning the trip to Kynance Cove for a while. It’s their last chance to catch red-eyed dwarf wyverns before their mass migration to the Italian Peninsula for the winter. 

‘No,’ says Wei Ying, shaking his head. ‘No, it’s really okay. I’ll take today to rest, and then tomorrow I’ll be fine.’

He can’t bring himself to look up, but he can feel Lan Zhan’s eyes on him. 

‘If you are not,’ says Lan Zhan, ‘then I will move the trip.’

~

They don’t move the trip. 

Wei Ying’s headaches clear up after a day of dozing and chugging water and being watched over by Lan Zhan. He wakes up long before dawn, taking breakfast on the front steps of the cottage as he watches the sky lighten to deep indigo over the open ocean. The briny breeze seems to travel through him, dredging the last of his illnesses and carrying it away.

Lan Zhan tunes the radio to Radio 1, although he’s never one for anything composed after the 19th century, and the car fills with cheerful pop music as they wind their way to Kynance Cove. Wei Ying thinks of penguins and pebbles, and smiles at the hedgerows beyond the passenger window. 

It is long past summer now, and very close to winter, so there are only a few visitors and plenty of space in the car park. It isn’t too long a walk down the path to the cove, and it is a crisp, clear morning, and exceptionally dry for this time of year. The wind is gentle as it kisses the mounds of grass and heath, bushels of light purple blossoms bobbing amongst shrubbery. The sun shines upon the serpentine rock that slides in broken steps into the sparkling sea.

The Institute and its strange killings seem very far away. Wei Ying feels a lightness in his chest as he follows Lan Zhan down to the beach.

The tide is very far out, which is good, since neither of them have brought their waterproofs. It’s heavy to carry along with the camera, binoculars, lunch and adequate water for a full day’s work.

It’s an exceptionally lucky day for observing dragons. Not only do they manage to time it perfectly before the dragons’ migration, but Wei Ying also spots a few rockhoppers down by the rockpools that he and Lan Zhan check out briefly before going back to the cliffs. The tiny aquatic dragons seem very healthy – and interestingly still attached to magic. 

‘Maybe there’s something in the water here,’ Wei Ying says. 

Lan Zhan just nods, though his eyes dart back towards the cliffs and the narrow caves that line the shore. 

Things go a bit south by a sudden change of tide in the late afternoon. They’re a long way from the path that takes them back up to the cliffs, and Lan Zhan cannot bring them both up safely without disturbing the already delicate wildlife. There is a narrow cave just at the far end of the beach, a little higher than the crashing of the waves.

‘We will be safe there,’ Lan Zhan tells Wei Ying, pointing at the opening. ‘The entry point will flood, but it will recede. We will simply have to wait out the tide.’

The situation is less than ideal, but it’s either that or swim and ruin precious camera film. Besides, Wei Ying would follow Lan Zhan anywhere.

It’s a careful but hurried climb into the cave. The sand ends abruptly past the mouth of the cavern, and it’s a little bit of a squeeze through a short tunnel of sharp, slippery rocks, and then they’re through into a cavern that slopes up. Wei Ying secures his camera in his bag and begins the precarious climb after Lan Zhan, hands clinging to the cold rock as he squints for each foothold in the gloom. As the water rises, the cave grows darker, but the slope grows less steep at the top.

There is no way back down. Turquoise water swirls at the entrance, covering half of it. The air smells of wet rock and salt and moss. 

At the top of the slope there is a low arch, like a secret doorway. Lan Zhan pulls out a small crystal from his jacket pocket, and taps it with his forefinger. It begins to glow a white, brilliant light.

Wei Ying feels the magic from the spell wash over his skin. Lan Zhan’s magic cleaner here, somehow, like the breeze might feel on a winter morning by the sea. 

‘Just through here,’ Lan Zhan says, indicating through the arch.

He ducks through, and Wei Ying follows, stepping over a slight rise in the cave floor. The next chamber is enormous, with a domed ceiling that stretches far above them like a cathedral’s ceiling, dripping with stalactites that glitter in the light cast from Lan Zhan’s crystal. The cavern slopes down slightly to the right, before dropping down rather suddenly into a narrow flute of an exit, through which the sea comes whistling in, splashing against the craggy rocks and spraying up. The air is filled with brine, and with the domed roof of the cave, the sound of the waves is almost deafening. 

Lan Zhan walks slowly into the cavern, and the light stretches towards the far corners, casting away shadows and revealing the enormous creature that is lying at the other end.

It is larger than anything Wei Ying has ever seen in his life – larger than the largest sea-dragon he’s chased in a boat, larger than the largest recorded sightings. Its head is the size of Lan Zhan’s car, with white horns that rise in ridges over its eyes and snout, and trace back over an endlessly long neck that might stretch the height of a sequoia. Its body is long, large in the trunk, and in addition to its four taloned legs that are tucked beside its scaly, periwinkle blue body, it has wings. 

Such great wings – perhaps spread fully, their wingspan would encompass the whole of the Institute. An albatross’s wings – enormous, oily with water-repellent, deep indigo at the tips and purest white across the top, and tipped with hard claws.

The dragon opens an eye the color of brightest topaz, and it looks down at Wei Ying.

He feels as though he is but a very short sentence on the page of a very long book.

The eye swivels, moving onto Lan Zhan. The dragon snorts a breath through its nostrils. The room fills with a sudden burst of frigid air.

‘I apologize for the intrusion,’ says Lan Zhan, bending his head. ‘I know it is not yet winter.’

The dragon snorts again, and this time, it sounds like a laugh. It lifts its great wings and shuffles, almost cat-like, further into the cave, revealing a flat space beneath its body where the rocks grow flat and smooth. It lifts its great head, and looks very pointedly at the empty space it has made, then back at the two tiny creatures before it, as though to say: here, sit here.

Wei Ying suddenly thinks of how Lan Zhan too, can be so loud while being so quiet. 

Is it a thing he has learned from these creatures, from being so close to them? It is certainly not a thing his brother obeys, nor Dr. Lan the elder. Does one always become the thing one loves?

Lan Zhan turns back toward Wei Ying, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He extends a hand. ‘Come. I will help you up.’

The space opened by the dragon is very cold, and a strange sort of chill rises from the great beast’s body. Wei Ying shivers as they grow close, and almost dutifully, Lan Zhan sheds his jacket and drapes it around Wei Ying’s shoulders. The dragon watches with its topaz eyes.

It will be a few hours before the water recedes again. Lan Zhan spreads out their picnic blanket over the rocks and sits, cross-legged. Wei Ying does for a while, but quickly grows bored. He gets up and wanders up and down the length of the enormous dragon, fascinated but respectful enough not to get too close. The dragon watches him, chin propped up on a taloned foot, as content as a house cat in the sun. 

Wei Ying spots a flaw in one of the dragon’s smooth, blue scales. There is an outgrowth of barnacles here – a strange thing to grow on a dragon that has wings for the air, not for the sea. He takes his pocket knife out of his back pocket, and out of pure, mindless habit, begins to clean the dragon’s scale, picking off the barnacles with well-practiced ease.

The dragon rumbles deep in its throat. It is the call of far-off thunder. Icicles sprout from the rock floor. 

‘Wei Ying!’ Lan Zhan cries, springing to his feet.

Wei Ying’s heart hammers in his throat. He is frozen in place as the dragon reaches around with an impossibly long, large arm and plucks the cleaned scale from its side. It holds the scale between its talons for a moment, watching Wei Ying with its horrible, beautiful, wonderful eyes – then it gently presents the scale to Wei Ying. 

Lan Zhan stares at the scale balanced in Wei Ying’s hands in utter disbelief. It is as large as two of Wei Ying’s palms cupped together, and it shines like an icicle caught in January sun. 

‘Oh uh.’ Wei Ying looks up at Lan Zhan, who lives and breathes for dragons, whose every waking moment is about these creatures, and feels unworthy. He thrusts the dragon scale toward Lan Zhan. ‘Here. You should have it.’

Lan Zhan’s eyes widen. He looks horrified, and then red climbs his face. He takes a step back, then another. 

‘You cannot give this to me,’ he insists.

‘No, it’s a present,’ says Wei Ying. He shuffles forward, wary on the slippery rocks. He plants the scale in Lan Zhan’s hand, then ducks out of reach before Lan Zhan can pass it back to him.  ‘A gift. Please, take it.’

Next to them, the dragon’s body shimmers as it snort-laughs again.

Lan Zhan looks furious. His face is the color of a tomato. The crystal in his other hand flickers briefly. ‘You do not know what this means.’

‘I know it means more to you than me,’ Wei Ying frowns. ‘And you can’t give it back. It’s a gift, given freely.’

The dragon gives another amused rumble. Pleased with what it has done, it sets its head back down on its front paw and watches them. Lan Zhan, furious, walks back to his picnic blanket. He sets the crystal down carefully so that its light is not obstructed, then he places the scale in his pack. 

Wei Ying takes another look at the dragon, and the place where the scale once was. There is another thinner, lighter one waiting beneath, like the teeth of a shark waiting to roll over and grow into place. A sign of immortality, perhaps. 

He sits down next to Lan Zhan, who is determinedly staring at the wall opposite them and not at Wei Ying. It’s funny. He’s probably not meant to have done that, but Wei Ying isn’t sure he cares very much what’s meant or not meant for him in this secret place. 

The waves crash through the opening. The dragon rumbles deep within its chest in a harmony that rises and falls with the tide. Frost creeps over the cave floor, tracing up its walls and decorating the stalactites with a thin layer of white. 

She’s doing it for you , a quiet voice in Wei Ying’s mind whispers. A show for an audience.

He tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling of the cave. The scale was not as cold as he would think, not in his hands. But it felt full of something. Perhaps not magic, but promise.

‘Wei Ying?’

‘Yes, Lan Zhan?’ Wei Ying says, thoughtlessly. He realizes what he’s done, and he slaps his hand to his mouth as he snaps his gaze down to meet Lan Zhan, thinking of what apology might suffice.

Lan Zhan’s fingers remove Wei Ying’s hand with great care. It is cold in the cave but Wei Ying is suddenly very warm. 

‘Here, it is safe to speak my name,’ Lan Zhan says softly. ‘Say my name, Wei Ying.’

Wei Ying’s heart is a rabbit in his throat, a swallow fluttering against a window. There is a weight to this. A significance. He doesn’t understand the context or the rules but he almost does. 

‘Lan Zhan,’ he whispers, and Lan Zhan’s gaze drops to Wei Ying’s mouth, the shape of Lan Zhan’s true name forming in it.

Behind them, the dragon sings the song of the sea. Wei Ying closes his eyes. He feels close to a thing precious and untouchable. He thinks he will spoil it if he looks at it.

‘Um,’ he says, forcing his eyes open, so he can look at Lan Zhan. ‘What were you going to say?’

Lan Zhan’s hand is still clasped around Wei Ying’s, his body twisted toward Wei Ying’s slightly, one leg bent up, the other tucked beneath. 

‘If I make a den in Greenland,’ he says, ‘will you agree to stay there with me?’

Wei Ying swallows. ‘Would it-’ he falters. ‘Is it meant for me? Can I agree?’

Lan Zhan’s thumb traces over the backs of Wei Ying’s knuckles. ‘You are free to take anything I offer you,’ he says. ‘You are free to reject it, too.’ 

Wei Ying can’t reject anything from Lan Zhan.

‘I would love to, Lan Zhan. That’s such a kind thing to offer. If there’s any way to repay you.’

‘You do not have to.’

‘Yeah, I do.’

Lan Zhan smiles, gentle and small. ‘Then perhaps we shall continue trading favors for the rest of your life.’

It feels like there’s a weight to those words, but he cannot quite grasp it. 

~

The tide goes down. Lan Zhan bids the great dragon farewell, bending formally at the waist. 

They wade into the water at the entrance of the cave – it is not deep now, only calf-depth, but the sea bites at Wei Ying’s skin with its relentless chill. The sun has gone down and the night is full of stars. 

Wei Ying knows better than to come without a change of clothes, but before he can unzip his  bag, Lan Zhan is already handing him warm, pale clothing once they get back to the car park. They take turns changing in the car. Wei Ying does not watch the flash of Lan Zhan’s scarred shoulder through the window. He does not.

They stop by a café on the way back to warm up – tea for Lan Zhan, coffee for Wei Ying. Lan Zhan orders them chips to share. There will be dinner waiting for them at the Institute, of course, but it has been a taxing day and they are both tired.

Wei Ying sips his coffee and wonders how Lan Zhan knows how many sugars he likes in his coffee. He thinks of the dragon, as large as a world, and her shimmering scales. 

‘Was that a major dragon?’ he asks Lan Zhan, quiet against the hubbub of the café. 

Lan Zhan looks up. The rest of him stays perfectly still on the couch, and his expression never changes, and yet he seems to grow crisp, etched from ice and marble. 

‘How did you know?’ he asks, his voice low.

Wei Ying shrugs. ‘Marine biologist logic? I don’t know.’

Lan Zhan exhales, and some of his edges grow a little less sharp. He nods. ‘Yes, that was a major dragon.’

Wei Ying considers this for a moment, peering into his half-consumed cup. ‘I understand why they’re not in the public Almanac.’

Lan Zhan tilts his head, as if to say, you do?

‘You said people- sorry, sais-pas,’ Wei Ying corrects, ‘used to take advantage of dragons. And Dr. Faust mentioned that the Unknown was bigger before. And I can’t help but think these things are linked, you know?’

Lan Zhan watches him quietly, ankles crossed, teacup balanced in its saucer.

‘Major dragons are a secret your family keeps to ensure their safety,’ Wei Ying continues. ‘Because how else can you protect them from people like the Wens and the Jins and honestly even the Institute itself, who would rather catalog a species than let it be wild and magic and free?’ 

Wei Ying takes a deep breath.

‘Anyways,’ he adds. ‘I won’t tell anyone about that dragon. Not as long as I breathe. I promise. I’ll make whatever bargain or spell you want me to.’

Lan Zhan shakes his head. ‘You do not even understand what major dragons do.’

Wei Ying scoffs. ‘I don’t know how electromagnetic fields work, Lan Zhan, but I know they keep us safe and alive on this delicate blue planet.’

Lan Zhan smiles, looks down into his tea. He twists his fingers, and a strange silence falls around them. People are still talking – Wei Ying can see their lips move – but their sound does not enter their little bubble. And he can feel it, Lan Zhan’s magic, a cold press of lips against a feverish forehead.

Lan Zhan sets down his tea, uncrosses his ankles, and leans forward. ‘Major dragons do more than connect to magic,’ he explains. ‘They are the makers and destroyers of the Unknown and the world known to humans.’

Wei Ying feels a strange chill pass down his back.

‘My uncle is very old,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘He tells me of a time when major dragons were plentiful in this world. But they were hunted and murdered and gone. There are so few now. As they have died, so has our world.’

Wei Ying stares at Lan Zhan’s face – impassive, calm, composed.   He thinks about how he still cries about Steller’s sea cow sometimes, and he cries about the dugong, and also blue whales. 

‘Dr. Faust thought they were linked,’ Wei Ying whispers. ‘Dragons going away and magic dying out.’

Lan Zhan inclines his head. ‘She was a very astute observer of the world.’

Wei Ying ignores the twist in his gut. He ignores that now-familiar ache, the grief that occupies the fondness he once had for Dr. Faust. 

‘What major dragons are there left?’ he asks Lan Zhan. 

Lan Zhan lifts a hand and begins to count, and Wei Ying’s stomach twists.

‘Ælith, bringer of winter. Bosmorial, breather of mountain-fire. Ky, singer of storms. Möla, maker of forests. Nryuchi, weaver of water.’

Lan Zhan stops, and closes his hand. 

‘Are there more?’ Wei Ying asks, even though he is nauseous at the thought of hearing Lan Zhan’s reply. 

‘There were more,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘Twenty-three more.’

‘Oh my god. Lan-’ he halts himself before he can say the name. He forgot they aren’t alone. ‘Wangji, that’s. That’s nearly a mass extinction.’

Lan Zhan merely nods. It is the same bald acceptance Wei Ying has seen before in his professors and the researchers at the places he’s volunteered at, the men and women counting baby turtles and matter-of-factly stating that they will never be the same, the coral reefs are dying and that it is all slipping away, that big and beautiful blue wonder. 

But there is objective loss – and there is the loss that the Lans suffer.

Wei Ying blinks. His eyes are stinging. ‘How,’ he whispers. ‘How does your family keep on going? The loss your culture experienced due to this.’

Lan Zhan shrugs. ‘It is a loss to all.’

‘But what dragons mean to you. What they mean to you.’ He digs the heel of his palm into his eye. He won’t cry in public about this. 

‘It was our failure,’ says Lan Zhan. 

‘It’s a failure to trust other people?’ Wei Ying retorts. He shakes his head. ‘That’s stupid. Is it my fault if someone I trust hurts me?’

There’s a hardness that forms in Lan Zhan’s expression. ‘If someone hurts you I will kill them.’

Wei Ying blinks. ‘Whoa, Lan Er-gege,’ he utters, dragon-induced sorrow shocked out of his system. ‘What the fuck?’

‘If someone hurts you,’ Lan Zhan repeats, crossing his leg over, revealing the neat black socks above his wellies, innocuous and not at all threatening, ‘I will kill them.’

‘That’s, uh,’ says Wei Ying, his brain making a slight whining noise, ‘not very vegetarian of you?’

‘Hippos are vegetarian,’ says Lan Zhan, as though that were a reasonable thing to say after threatening violence against hypothetical strangers. 

Wei Ying, startled, laughs, throwing his head back, hand over his mouth, and then suddenly, the noise of the cafe returns, and he looks down at Lan Zhan, who is watching him, pink in his cheeks, eyes wide, his mouth soft at the edges, the rest of him all hard sleek lines, and so very beautiful, beautiful like the singing of a secret dragon in a seaside cave.

Wei Ying understands at last that he is in love. He’s horribly in love and he’ll have to figure that out later. They have to get back in the car and head back home, it’s getting late, and there’s a curfew.

~

The frayed peace between the Wens and the Jins, such that it is, shatters on the 24th of October.

The silver pinners are each extended an invitation from Chairman Wen to attend a dinner in the Heritage Hall – which is situated some twenty feet to the East of Horticulture, and resembles a granite mausoleum with very dramatic stained glass windows that filter only the dimmest light. Lan Zhan, paranoid after the week they’ve both had and very aware of Wei Ying’s now-frequent headaches, insists on walking Wei Ying to the dinner.

There are three chambers to the Heritage Hall – the foyer, then a narrow sort of room with strange-looking armor that is painted ink-black, and then the great hall that sprawls beyond, with a long row of tables placed side by side. Tall wax candles flicker between tall piles of red, uncooked cuts of bleeding meat and peeled pomegranates that spill like dark rubies over the white tablecloth.

It is a warning, of course, or perhaps a taunt – one that Wei Ying does not fully understand until both he and Lan Zhan have crossed the threshold into the hall. 

There is a deep groan from deep beneath them, and then something heavy – like iron, or stone – slides into place behind them.

The hall shakes. Dusty chandeliers swing above them. A Pioneer screams and throws herself beneath a table. A silver-pinned sais-pas throws a haphazard spell at the exit – only to be thrown back several feet by the recoil. Stone tiles shake loose from their hold underfoot. Lan Zhan grabs onto Wei Ying’s arm as the hall plummets down into the dark.

It is not as deep a fall as it could have been. By Wei Ying’s measurements, they’ve maybe dropped about ten feet. It’s not far enough for anyone to be injured, though Huaisang is sporting a nasty bruise on his eye and the poor girl who ducked for cover has torn her nice dress in two. There is a sais-pas comforting a weeping Legacy in the corner. The candles have mostly gone out, but there is enough light from some.

The ceiling and its horrible chandeliers are impossibly far out of reach.

Lan Zhan’s right trouser leg was sliced through by some rock during the fall. His blood, Wei Ying realizes, is as blue as the sea. 

Wei Ying isn’t a nurse, but he knows the basics from lifeguarding. He uses his dress shirt to staunch the bleeding as best he can, before he goes off to see to the other injured. Most are alright, though there’s a Legacy with a broken foot, and a girl whose head was knocked against one of the tables and definitely has a concussion. 

Wen Ning, he notices, is not among the trapped silver pinners.

Mianmian corners him in the middle of the sunken hall. She has knives strapped over the bodice of her canary-yellow dress. 

‘Are you alright?’ she asks him, brow furrowed.

‘Yeah, you?’

She nods. ‘Lucky I told Zixuan not to come,’ she adds. ‘There’s iron in the stones. It’s poisoning some of the sais-pas , making them sluggish.’

Wei Ying turns to glance anxiously back at Lan Zhan, who is using an upturned table as a backrest. His face looks paler than usual. He must be losing a lot of blood. They need to get out of here, if the air is poisoning him. 

‘No, not to his kind,’ Mianmian says, answering Wei Ying’s unasked question. ‘They’re pretty hard to kill.’

Wei Ying doesn’t even hide the sigh of relief. 

Mianmian squints up at the dust and coughs. ‘I think I know what this place is,’ she tells him. ‘I did research on it, for my Almanac. The Wens hosted a banquet here, five hundred years ago, for a family that dared to insult them. They poisoned the food. Of course, that sparked an attack from the family’s retinue, but the Wens were able to escape through secret tunnels.’

Wei Ying looks up sharply at her last words. ‘Secret tunnels?’ he repeats. 

Mianmian grins. There’s some blood in her teeth, and a cut in her lip. ‘Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,’ she says. She turns, and waves a hand at a group of injured Legacies hunched together. ‘Huaisang, come help us with something.’

Huaisang, miserable and covered in dust, his eye now turning an awful purple, rises like a half-successful phoenix from the group. ‘ What? ’ he calls. 

Wei Ying bites back a smile. Trust Huaisang to retain his sass in a near-death experience.  

Mianmian turns back to Wei Ying. ‘Find the door to the tunnel,’ she instructs. 

‘How would I-’

She cuts off Wei Ying’s protest with a swipe of her hand. ‘No time for bullshit,’ she says. ‘You and I both know what your Gift is. Use it, for fuck’s sake, or we’ll all die down here.’

Wei Ying sighs. He casts his gaze over the rubble, the broken tables, the spilled meat beginning to rot, the pomegranates crushed beneath the detritus. The candles flicker in a rolling wave of warm light.

A breeze. Wei Ying turns toward the far end of the hall.

One of the pillars is not a pillar. It is not made of the same stone and brick – he can tell, even from here, that it is simply wood, painted to look like a stone. It is not a very clever trick, to be honest. 

‘It’s there,’ he says, pointing.

Mianmian’s brow unfurrows. ‘Thank fuck ,’ she sighs. 

Huaisang ambles to her side at last. He’s got a bad limp, and there are cuts on his cheeks and forehead. ‘What do you two want? ’ he grumbles. ‘I’m injured.’

Mianmian grabs Huaisang by the wrist, then grabs Wei Ying by his forearm, and starts forcibly marching them both towards the false pillar. Once they’re there, she turns to Huaisang.

‘Touch the pillar,’ she commands.

Huaisang recoils. ‘I’m not touching that thing.’

Puzzled, Wei Ying glances at the pillar, then back at Huaisang. There is a glamor here, or perhaps some sort of spell that he is immune to – but that both Huaisang and Mianmian can see. To break it might trigger another wave of destruction. To erase it entirely might cause an unknown tower of spells to come crashing down on them. But to transform it with chaos–

‘Touch the pillar, Huaisang,’ Wei Ying says.

Huaisang stares at him for a moment. ‘You’d better be fucking right about this,’ he grumbles, and reaches out for the pillar.

There is a pop, and the pillar explodes into a spray of green petals. 

‘Holy fuck!’ shouts Huaisang.

The Legacy who was crying instantly stops, and both he and the sais-pas are drowned in a perfumed shower. Mianmian lets out a sharp bark of surprised laughter. Salty air sweeps past them, clearing away the hanging dust and the stink of rotting food.

Where the pillar once stood is a door, and through the door is a long tunnel with a row of flickering lights. The sound of far-off waves crashing comes through.

‘You absolute wonder,’ Mianmian says, and she grabs Huaisang by the cheeks and plants a kiss on his lips.

‘Oh, ew,’ says Huaisang, half-heartedly.

‘Over here!’ Wei Ying shouts, turning to the silver-pinners. ‘Through here! There’s a way out.’

Mianmian is the first one through, knife in hand, and Huaisang shortly after. Wei Ying, however, continues back across the hall, past the other silver-pinners as they hurry to escape. He picks his way back until he reaches Lan Zhan. He helps Lan Zhan to his feet, guiding Lan Zhan’s arm over his shoulder so that the sais-pas can lean on him. 

Lan Zhan is in pain. Wei Ying can tell, even if his breathing is steady and his expression doesn’t change. It’s the twitch in his jaw, the listlessness of his gaze, the way his hand clenches over Wei Ying’s shoulder.  

Anger, quiet and cold, opens like a flower in Wei Ying’s belly. He is going to kill Chairman Wen. 

The tunnel is long and dark and cold. The torches give off no heat. There is magic in the walls, hiding in the shadows. Wei Ying can feel its sick, oppressive hunger reaching out for them. This place is nothing like the secret pathway down to the beach. 

How many other places does the Institute hide that are gnawed away by the Wen’s insidious rot? How far has the disease spread? Wei Ying is afraid to find out. He is afraid, and angry, and tired, and the tunnel seems to go on forever. 

There is a shriek ahead, and something that sounds like a crunch.

‘A trap!’ yells a voice from someone at the front of the tunnel. ‘It’s a trap!’

Wei Ying can feel it – a thread snapped, and consequences tumbling towards them like rocks. He digs into his left trouser pocket and pulls out his spare roll of twine, spits a mouthful of blood on it, and tosses it into the nearest torch ( the ritual for lifting heavy things; to divert an incoming stream; to destroy a minor magical object) .

The magic skitters off the roof of the tunnel like hailstones on a roof. Wei Ying’s head flares with pain. 

‘Run!’ he calls. ‘Run!’ 

And they run.

The tunnel begins to collapse behind them. Wei Ying’s patchwork spell cannot hold for very long – none of those spells are meant to be permanent. He has another roll of twine, half used, in his suit pocket. He pulls it out and rubs it on his mouth, and throws that into the fire. 

Ahead, he can see the glittering of waves, and a stretch of sand. Mianmian is pelting out over the beach. The last of the silver-pinners are out in the fresh night air. Huaisang turns back, his suit covered in dust, and his eyes widen.

Wei Ying’s second spell is brittle, and badly made. It collapses, and so does the front of the tunnel, cutting off their means of escape.

Wei Ying throws his hands over Lan Zhan’s head in a desperate attempt to keep them safe, but Lan Zhan lifts his head, breaking free of the shield of Wei Ying’s scratched hands, and sings out a single, resonant syllable. The walls echo with it.

The rocks stop falling. The tunnel is still.

They are left with only a few square feet, and a burning torch lying on the ground. Wei Ying picks it up and leans it against a rock. He turns, and finds Lan Zhan sitting, back against the side, his chest heaving. Blue blood stains the pure white of his trousers. 

Fear rises, bitter in Wei Ying’s mouth. They cannot die here. They have Greenland. They still have Greenland.

He kneels in front of Lan Zhan and places his hands on Lan Zhan’s good knee. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers. His head is pounding. He’s done too many bad spells. ‘This is all my fault. This is all my fault.’

Lan Zhan grunts. ‘Idiot,’ he says, and winces. 

Wei Ying shuffles forward. He looks at the awful gash in Lan Zhan’s leg. He thinks of the scars he once saw on Lan Zhan’s back. This will not kill him, but Lan Zhan is in pain, and Wei Ying’s heart is an open wound. 

Wei Ying doesn’t know how to heal wounds. He’s not in Medicine. But he’s flipped through a Treatise. He can remember some if it vaguely. 

There are no supplies in this horrible tunnel. Wei Ying’s head is pounding. But the spell gnaws at him, begging to be made real, begging to be stitched together from parts. 

He improvises. He’s got an item of silver (his pin) and something drawn from an animal that eats no other animals (his woolen waistcoat) and he’s got his own blood from the cut in his mouth. He tears a corner of his waistcoat off, using the pin to cut it, and then he dabs at his cut with it. He presses the scrap of cloth against Lan Zhan’s open wound.

The blue blood crawls back up into the cut. The flesh and skin stitch together. The color returns to Lan Zhan’s face.

Wei Ying’s hands shake. There is another thing he must do. Another thing he has been avoiding, a thing that calls to him. He pulls out his pocketbook, and by the light of the single torch, he begins to scribble down his patchwork spells. As he writes, the throbbing in his head starts to fade. 

‘Wei Ying,’ Lan Zhan says softly. There is something in his eyes, something deeper than concern, stranger than sorrow. 

‘It’s happening, isn’t it?’ Wei Ying asks him shakily. ‘I’m becoming a witch, aren’t I?’

Lan Zhan’s expression answers for him.

Chapter Text

A Council of Tigers: Supplementary Text to The Historical Almanac of War and Peace; Author’s Notes; pp 255

There are still very few sources available that can explain precisely why the Wens hold such animosity towards witches. Even fewer sources remain intact that can outline the nature of witches, or the part they played leading up to the Tiger Accords. 

Any records of witches and their perceived threat likely burned with the pre-Institute Scholar’s Sanctuary, or were buried with the heretic academics in their shallow graves.  

~

In the collapsed tunnel, Wei Ying dozes, and in his sleep he sees once again the hut standing on chicken legs in the middle of an old forest.

Son of Cangse, what will you be?

He wakes to the sound of rocks moving, and shafts of pale indigo light spilling into the darkness. A cool breeze snakes its way in through the new gap. The air, though salty, tastes sweet on Wei Ying’s parched tongue. Lan Zhan is on his feet already, speaking to someone beyond the collapsed entrance. 

‘Are we being rescued?’ Wei Ying asks, getting up slowly. His mouth tastes of iron and his eyes sting.

Lan Zhan turns. The gloom of the early morning brackets his unsmiling mouth. ‘We are being rescued.’

The last of the rocks are cleared away from the tunnel entrance, and they step out onto the beach. There are five people on the beach before them – two Wei Ying does not recognize, and Huaisang’s brother Mingjue, Guangyao, and Lan Zhan’s brother, who is setting down the last of the rocks. His pale clothes are covered in dust. He must have been the one clearing the entryway.

‘A direct attack on everyone who supported the Jins,’ Mingjue rants at the gathered group, pacing back and forth until he wears a line of tracks into the sand. ‘On my brother. On innocent researchers. It’s a threat – stay in line or get killed. It’s barbaric.’

‘It’s war,’ says Guangyao, his large, dark eyes cast upon the ocean. 

Wei Ying feels his stomach sink into his feet. 

‘The last straw was you being caught in that trap, Wangji,’ says Xichen, as he returns to them. He sounds only slightly out of breath. ‘The Board could not ignore that.’

‘And they could ignore the deaths of all the silver pinners?’ Wei Ying demands. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he has come so far past shoulds and should nots that he cannot find a part of him that cares. He almost died in that tunnel. 

‘The Unknown is a dangerous place,’ Xichen says, shaking his head. ‘And the Board cares very little for the untenured. The Wens have always approached problems this way.’

‘Which is why we were trying to replace the Board,’ says Guangyao, turning towards them. He folds his arms over his chest, his flowing sleeves spilling down to his elbows, revealing the delicate chainmail he wears up to his wrists. ‘But the subtle path would never have worked on the Wens. And now we are to war amongst each other, and everything is to burn.’

Lan Zhan places a hand on Wei Ying’s lower back, as though to catch him – but Wei Ying’s feet are steady beneath him for the first time. He is beginning to see the shape of the world, and the strings that hold it in place. 

Sooner or later, we’re going to have to pick sides.

‘And what does that mean for me?’ Wei Ying asks. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘You do not need to fight this war, Mr. Wei,’ says Mingjue, not unkindly. ‘It is not your battle. You have done far more than enough for us. I have sent my brother home, and I will suggest that you do the same – find a safe place in the known world, and wait there until we are able to retrieve you.’

There must be a shard of tunnel in Wei Ying’s throat, otherwise it would not burn so badly. He swallows around its bitter taste.

‘But-’ he protests.

Lan Zhan shifts in the soft sand – a dancer taking the lead – and places himself between the surrounding sais-pas and Wei Ying. His hand remains on Wei Ying’s lower back, the other rising to cup his face. He knows that the others are looking at them, scrutinizing them, judging him for taking what is not meant for him.

This is not meant for him, but Lan Zhan’s eyes are so bright, so impossible to look away from, like amber set aflame in a sunset. They pierce into Wei Ying, asking him to look at me, only at me, not at them, only at me. 

‘Go to your sister’s place,’ Lan Zhan whispers. ‘Wait for me there.’

‘But-’ says Wei Ying again, and there is dust in his eyes too, and he cannot go, he must not go, he must not be separated from Lan Zhan. He cannot protect Lan Zhan if he is so far away.

Wei Ying closes his eyes. It must be raining. That must be why his cheeks are wet.

Lan Zhan’s hand is so tender on his cheek. ‘We will go to Greendland together, Wei Ying,’ he says, low and quiet just for them to hear. ‘I promise you this – I will return to you, and together we will go to Greenland.’

Lan Zhan steps away. Wei Ying has never felt so cold. 

‘Wangji,’ whispers Xichen, his face stricken. He looks at his brother, and then at Wei Ying. ‘Wangji, I am so sorry.’

Lan Zhan does not look at his brother.

‘Mingjue,’ he says, turning instead to Huaisang’s elder brother. ‘Will you ask your attendants to take Wei Ying to his sister’s house?’

Mingjue nods. Wei Ying looks at the two other sais-pas , who look at him expectantly, then at Guangyao, Xichen, and Mingjue, who are also watching them, him and Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan and him, and something has been confessed here, something torn open and made raw, and Wei Ying cannot possibly understand because their world is still so alien to him. But Wei Ying understands Lan Zhan.

‘Okay,’ Wei Ying says. His voice is a strangled thing in his throat. He wipes the wetness from his cheeks. 

He turns on his heel and follows the two strangers up the beach, to the cliffside. As he glances behind, he sees Xichen hand Lan Zhan his sword. In the pale morning light, even with his trousers stained with blue blood, Lan Zhan shines like white jade – pure, untouchable, and made of stone.

Wei Ying and the two sais-pas climb an ancient set of stone steps, through a thin patch of young-growth forest, and appear in an innocuous-looking parking lot. Through the trees, Wei Ying can glimpse the familiar silhouettes of the Institute. He tries not to listen to the horrible sinking feeling in his gut, but a part of him dreads that this is the last he will see of the place he has come to think of as home.

One of Mingjue’s attendants sits in the back, one hand on the back of the driver’s seat. 

‘Where to?’ asks the sais-pas at the wheel. 

Wei Ying takes a moment to look down at his hands, still stained with dirt, and covered in cuts and purpling bruises. How will he explain this to Yanli? 

‘The address,’ the sais-pas prompts.

Wei Ying takes a shuddering breath. ‘Newquay,’ he says. ‘She’s in Newquay.’

The sais-pas turns the ignition. The other one in the back, dressed all in charcoal, takes a bit of twine out of his pocket and begins to weave it in a careful pattern through his fingers. Wei Ying can taste the protection spell in the air.

Morning comes unrelenting. Wei Ying’s eyes sting from a night of poor sleep and rubble dust. He watches the cars behind them, the quiet houses and buildings they roll past. It is the longest drive to Newquay that he’s ever experienced.

He makes the sais-pas drop him off at the bottom of the street. He doesn’t want anyone knowing where Yanli lives – not even Mingjue, who seems trustworthy enough. He stands on the pavement, lip stinging, his suit gray with dust and stained with Lan Zhan’s blood, and watches the car wind its way up the road. The sky is completely overcast, washing out all the quaint houses and making them look tired.

Wei Ying walks up the street, then turns into the cul-de-sac, his legs screaming in protest against the incline of the hill. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to tell her. How is he going to explain this, turning up looking like a roof collapsed on him ( it did, it did ), without any luggage, and no idea when he’ll be able to return to the Institute? What will she say?

He doesn’t care what she says. He just wants to collapse in her arms, to take a long shower, and sleep in her lovely new guest bedroom, and hear her cooking in the kitchen.

There is a car parked half-out the driveway of Yanli’s neighbor. Wei Ying looks back, then forward to check for cars. The street is empty. He steps off the pavement and onto the street, skirting the boot of the parked car carefully, and then turns back toward the pavement and Yanli’s front gates.

The door to Yanli’s house is open. 

There is a lotus flower lying discarded on the step, its stem snapped nearly in two. A single pink petal sits a foot away from its bud, trodden into the mud and grass of the front lawn. It is deathly quiet, and all the windows are dark, the curtains open, and everything so very still inside.

Wei Ying hurries inside. The kitchen is ransacked. Broken plates scatter across the floor, and cutlery is strewn out over the rug. A chair at the island was thrown on its side, and now lies half-blocking the pathway into the living room. Wei Ying picks his way deeper into the house, past the living room, the TV with its screen smashed in, the paintings torn from the wall, scratch marks on the polished wooden floors, so recently and carefully lain down by Yanli herself. Wei Ying can feel a faint rushing in his ears.

The conservatory is a wreck. One of the wicker chairs has been flung up against the glass, leaving behind a long crack that branches up over the panel. The lotus pot is upended. Water and mud pools over the floor and stains the hand-woven rugs Yanli brought here all the way from home. 

And Yanli is not here. 

Wei Ying feels his knees buckle, but he catches himself on time. If he falls now, he’ll never get up, and he has to keep going.

There’s a spell for this , he thinks, turning on his heel and heading towards the door. I can make a spell for this.

He pulls a loose thread from his ruined suit as he goes down the front steps, and then bends to pick up lotus leaf from the mud. He is still getting to his feet as he hears Jiang Cheng’s car pull into the cul-de-sac, the brakes screeching as it stops in front of Yanli’s house.

Jiang Cheng clambers out of the driver’s side, the engine of his car still running. He’s still wearing his pajamas under his trenchcoat, and his hair is still sticking up in all directions. 

‘Where is she?’ he demands. ‘She called this morning, it sounded like someone was breaking in–’

He comes to an abrupt stop. He takes in Wei Ying’s clothes, his bloodied lip, his bruised face, the muddy lotus petal in his left hand. 

‘What the fuck happened to you?’ Jiang Cheng utters, eyes bulging. 

‘Someone tried to kill my cohort,’ Wei Ying says. He blinks, then, and shakes his head. ‘Uh, and my head of department, but that was an accident. Sorry, I need to complete this ritual. I think I can find Yanli.’

‘ What?’ says Jiang Chjeng.

Wei Ying presses the petal against his left pinky, resting slightly on the palm of his hand. He fastens it with the loose thread, winding once, twice, three times. ‘Okay,’ he says, nodding. ‘Back in the car.’

‘ What the fuck,’ says Jiang Cheng, but he backs up and gets into the driver’s seat.

Wei Ying opens the passenger door with one hand, slides in, and pulls it shut with just his left forefinger and thumb. He leans back against the seat, plants a hand over his eyes, and then reaches out with his left hand. 

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘now drive.’

‘What the fuck ,’ wheezes Jiang Cheng, and slams his foot down on the pedal. 

Wei Ying’s head knocks back against the headrest as they lurch forward, rubber squealing against the asphalt. The thread on his pinky tugs.

‘Turn right!’ he shouts. 

‘You have to be fucking shitting me,’ says Jiang Cheng, and the vehicle spins. ‘What sort of MK Ultra shit is this.’ 

Wei Ying can feel a throbbing start at his temples. He ignores it and focuses on the tugging at his finger. It’s a good spell – he can feel the strength of it, fastening his consciousness with Yanli’s presence, and he can feel the borders of the Unknown lapping at him like waves at low tide, coaxing him out, out, out.

He’s not supposed to let humans see this. But it’s all come spilling over his life – the violence, the magic, the death. They’ve taken his sister. They’ve destroyed her home. 

‘Left,’ orders Wei Ying, and Jiang Cheng maneuvers the car with terrifying skill. ‘And now sharp right.’

‘How do you even know there was a turn there?’ Jiang Cheng gripes, more to himself than anything. 

‘Second exit to the left,’ Wei Ying commands.

‘I cannot believe,’ says Jiang Cheng, as he smacks his hand on the turn indicator, ‘that I am taking directions from a psychic GPS.’

Wei Ying can see from his periphery that they are driving deeper into the forest. The car has grown dark, the pale sky blotted out by leaning, gnarled trees. This is not a road he feels familiar with. This is probably not a road in the known world at all. But Jiang Cheng, true, good, angry Jiang Cheng, keeps driving anyways.

The tugging on Wei Ying’s finger pulls him forward. 

‘Who took her?’ Jiang Cheng asks. ‘Is it the same people who tried to kill you? Should we be going for help?’

‘Help is already going there,’ Wei Ying says. He thinks of Lan Zhan holding his sword, as bright as a torch burning on the beach. 

He glances at Jiang Cheng out of the corner of his eye. His brother’s brow is furrowed, and he is completely concentrated on the road ahead of him. He should be afraid, but he is not. Wei Ying wonders at his brother’s strength.

Something hits Wei Ying’s side of the car with a deafening bang. The world turns inside out as the car goes flying off the road. Metal screams and bends and glass smashes. They roll and roll, the world twisting out of shape. Wei Ying is tossed, a limp bag of pennies forgotten in a washing machine. He can hear Jiang Cheng yell – but then Wei Ying hits his head on the dashboard, and everything goes black.

~

Son of Cangse, what will you be?

~

Wei Ying wakes up on his side. As he breathes, he feels an iron hot pain in his side. Broken ribs. He lets out a garbled moan.  

The car is a crumpled wreck of glass and metal and torn foam where the headrests came apart. There is blood on the dashboard. Wei Ying’s forehead is wet, so it’s probably his blood. 

The driver’s seat is empty. Jiang Cheng is gone.

Croaking, Wei Ying drags himself out through the broken passenger window. Glass scrapes across the backs of his hands and across his arms, ripping his suit beyond repair. He peels it off himself. His white dinner shirt is soaked through with dark blood. His head spins. Before him dark asphalt winds into the thick of the woods, and behind him a mist descends. 

‘Jiang Cheng!’ he calls. His voice echoes off the silent trees, up through their dark boughs and amongst their bare branches. 

Somewhere in the gloom, a bird caws. 

‘A-Cheng!’ Wei Ying shouts. His throat is so raw. There is blood in his eye. 

He looks down at his hand. The lotus petal is no longer there. 

Fear presses an icy fist down his throat. He wanders forward into the trees, following the slope down blindly. He will find a river, and from the river he can follow it to… to something. 

He limps forward, clutching at his pinky, the thread still wound there, the spell snapped clean in two – a traveler without a compass, a sailor chasing the fading stars. He hears nothing but the faint call of birds and the carpet of dead leaves shifting beneath his feet, but he keeps walking, because he cannot stay there with the broken car. He thinks he will walk forever, until he has bled out and becomes a lost skeleton in these woods, and no one will be there to save his brother or his sister or the immortal creature that he loves, nor the dragons who are still dying out despite all this stupid fighting and murder. He walks until he cannot feel the cold anymore.

And then he hears it: the distant crashing of the sea.

Wei Ying breaks through the trees. Brown soil drops off into soft sand and craggy stones. Waves roll up into the tiny bay, shielded by an outcrop of sharp slate and igneous rock. 

Wei Ying stumbles down onto the sand. His eyes are stinging. He does not understand why, but the great blue that stretches beyond offers him more relief than the canopy of those woods. 

His mind thrusts at him a long-buried memory of scales beneath his bed, scales cupped in hands, sunlight glinting off the waves, and: the sea will answer you when you call to it, if only you would call to it. 

He wades into the shallow water and kneels. Blood drips from the cut on his forehead into the brine. It is so bitingly cold. 

‘Please,’ Wei Ying whispers. ‘Help me save my brother. My sister. Help me save them both.’ 

The ocean whispers back, waves fanning across the sand and knocking against black rocks half-drowned in the surf. Wei Ying’s heart beats sluggishly in his chest. He looks out at the sky, broken light pushing against the impenetrable ceiling of clouds, refracting over the ocean.

And then, in the shallow water, one of the boulders rises. It is not an inanimate thing of wet slate at all, but an enormous head of deepest onyx. Red eyes snap open, flecked with gold and broken only by black, slitted pupils. Its skin is not scaly at all, but perfectly smooth, and follows its barrel-like chest down to its body. It has no spines or wings to speak of, but its limbs are long and its feet webbed, and an impossibly long, muscular tail moves in the deep water – like a crocodile’s. 

It opens its mouth, revealing jagged, shark-like teeth. Fire drips from its mouth, orange and viscous, and flows in rivulets into the ocean, where it hisses as it cools and solidifies in clumps of new rock. 

Breather of mountain-fire.  

‘Bosmorial,’ Wei Ying gasps. 

The dragon studies Wei Ying, cocking its head. It rumbles deep in its chest, and the unending stream of lava from its mouth ends. 

Wei Ying wades into the deeper water, closer to the major dragon. It is warm, so warm that steam rises around him, but he is not burnt from it. He stops before the dragon, a mere arm’s reach from its head, and its red eyes.

The dragon opens its mouth. Instead of fire, it unrolls a long, blue tongue. Upon the tongue’s tip is a pearl as black as night, reflecting the pale sky with an eerie crimson sheen. The pearl falls, and instinctively, Wei Ying catches it.

Wei Ying cups the pearl in his hand, and looks up at Bosmorial. The major dragon looks down at him expectantly. 

Wei Ying knows enough now to not give back things offered by creatures. He puts it in his pocket, but the dragon growls. Wei Ying freezes. 

The dragon snaps its jaws, then points its muzzle at the pearl. As Wei Ying stares at it uncomprehendingly, it snaps again.

Wei Ying brings the pearl to his mouth. The dragon lifts its head out of the water, towering a whole man’s height above Wei Ying. It makes a soft, chuffing noise. Smoke erupts from its nostrils.  

The pearl is easy to swallow. It slips down Wei Ying’s throat like a droplet of water.

At first nothing happens.

Then, pain. The pearl burns in his stomach, hot and horrible, twisting and reshaping his insides. There is nothing but heat, heat, heat and pressure. He is crushed beneath the earth. He is buried beneath rock and slate and molten stone. The world trembles and spins out into kaleidoscopic colors. 

He falls into the water, the waves closing above his head. He will drown, surely, but his lungs have collapsed in on themselves. All he can do is wait and endure and be thrust through the mantel of the earth, to be undone and unmade and then made again.

When it is done, he rises from the water, gasping for breath. He looks up, past the dragon’s rearing head, past the veil of clouds, past the layers of ozone and the comforting rings of electromagnetic power, and through to the dizzying expanse of dying, burning giants. He can taste the fires of their death. 

He looks down, shaken, and hears Bosmorial’s rumbling laughter in his mind. 

His head is no longer bleeding, and all his cuts have healed, and he can see it all – all the destruction and creation in the world, all that is or ever will be. Everything that once burned at its birth and will burn again, when the wheel crushes down.

He knows that he is no longer human. He knows that he will never be human again, and that there is no treading back. 

~

He finds his way back into the forest. The trees part before him easily, fearful of his new fire.

He does not need a spell to find his sister. He can follow her scent. This, too, Bosmorial gave him.

A dragon’s scale is a beautiful gift. A dragon’s pearl – oh, that is something else. Wei Ying understands now. He can hear his grandmother laughing in her hut, beyond the boundaries of life and death. Time was unknowable to him before. Now he can see the weaving of it, the gold thread and the rotten too.

He can look forward, through fire and ruin and pain. And he looks back, beyond war and poison and the breaking of stones, burning of books. He can see a family’s climb to power by violence and by oppression. He sees an abbey on fire. Scholars, flailing in the flames. Arrows and thorns burning with them, and metal warping so that no one will ever know them as weapons once the destruction is done.

The Wens have beaten this land into submission and have hoped that no one remembers. But the forest remembers. And Wei Ying, too, remembers.

Green pine and cedar and oak peel away, leaving the ancient, decrepit corpses of long-rotten trees. Their bark is bleached by the ages, and yet they stand – pillars erupting from a carpet of amber leaves and wet soil. Wei Ying passes through the wards that protect the Wens’ home as though he were a cormorant splitting water in a nosedive. 

Wei Ying emerges to a clearing. Sais-pas dressed in blood red and jet-black stand in a half-circle, facing him as he comes. At the center is a raised dias of dead wood, upon which a throne of bones is constructed – whether they are human or animal, Wei Ying cannot tell. 

Dr. Wen sits atop the throne, his eyes flashing coal red. He is wearing armor the color of flayed flesh over black robes. In his right hand he holds an enormous broadsword, its edge twisted into barbs. At his feet, Dr. Wen kneels, her hands bound behind her back. She opens her mouth as Wei Ying approaches, as though to call out for him, but quickly stops, wincing in pain.

It takes a moment for Wei Ying to realize why.

Dr. Wen’s teeth – her dangerous teeth, her sharp, beautiful teeth – they’ve been pulled out. 

To the left of the throne, some of the gathered crowd parts, revealing a cage made of twisting gold. Jiang Yanli sits within, her hair falling out of its knot in strands, a bruise on her forehead. Jiang Cheng is curled in a tight ball, his head on her lap. Yanli turns towards Wei Ying, her eyes wide as she recognizes him – and then she lifts a hand to her mouth in horror.

How bad do I look? Wei Ying thinks distantly. 

‘Witches,’ says Chairman Wen, grinning at Wei Ying. ‘You are so easily trapped when you are young. That is why we kill you early.’

One of the Wens’ soldiers approaches him, sword drawn.

Wei Ying is in two places at once: a hut with chicken’s feet, and the walls are burning - and here, in this dark forest. 

Son of Cangse, what will you be?

He takes a step toward the soldier. The world is spinning in a terrifying free fall, pulled inward by the burning of the sun. The entire universe is dying. Why should Wei Ying be afraid to die, too? 

Suddnely, an army breaks through the trees behind the throne – soldiers in daisy-yellow and white armor, led at the front by Mianmian, riding a horse made of thistles and brambles – and to her right, Zixuan, swinging a cutlass made of moonlight. And Lan Zhan, sprinting from the dark like an arrow loosened from a bow, his sword flashing as he fells three of the Wens at once. He moves like a dancer. His skin shimmers like new frost. His eyes are so bright and so very gold.

Wei Ying hurries through the chaos toward the cage. Yanli reaches out toward him through the bars.

‘A-Ying!’ she calls, her voice broken. 

To his right, Wei Ying sees the first soldier follow after. He thinks he recognizes the sais-pas . It’s the man from Dr. Wen’s office, the bodyguard. 

The bodyguard lifts his free hand, flicking his wrist. Something whistles through the air towards him – tiny and deadly. Wei Ying ducks out of the way just in time, but the motion leaves him vulnerable, and when he straightens up, the bodyguard’s is already bringing the hilt of his sword down on Wei Ying’s face.

Wei Ying goes tumbling backward. 

The pain in his nose is blinding, and the iron taste of new blood fills his mouth. Before him, the bodyguard lifts his palm toward Wei Ying. The soft skin there opens like a mouth, revealing a flower that holds a cluster of thorns at the center. 

Wei Ying recalls the thorns found in each murder victim’s neck. It is strange how little he cares to be right.

Swords clash. Someone screams behind Wei Ying and falls to the ground, lifeless. Hooves thunder and spells crack like lightning crying across the sky. 

He cannot run. He will die here. In his ear, he can hear the old woman laughing softly. Son of Cangse, what will you be?

It is too late for him to be anything else. Wei Ying closes his eyes and gives in. 

Chapter Text

Grimoire of the Witch Ying Wei; To Summon Dragonfire

• Fill your mouth with your own blood.
• Imagine a dragon trapped in a cage.
• Let the dragon out.

~

The bodyguard explodes into fire. 

Fire, white as phosphorus flame, rising in great pillars that taper into red tongues, singing the air until it is dryer than bone. Within the heart of the flame, the bodyguard’s scream is cut in a horrible, awful snap as the vocal cords in his throat snap from the impossible heat. He is gone in seconds – nothing left but crumbling ash and bone. 

Wei Ying takes a step back. The pain is a blossom growing from him, a heat that spreads. He walks up to the cage imprisoning his siblings.

‘Stay away from the bars,’ he tells his sister. ‘It will be over soon.’

‘A-Ying,’ Yanli breathes. ‘What have you done?’

Wei Ying does not reply. He turns and faces the wooden dias and its throne of bleached bone, and the king that sits atop it, shark’s teeth still bared in a smile as he watches the chaos unfold. 

Wei Ying walks towards the steps. His mind is quiet at last. Magic drifts over his skin, like music sung from the ocean. He gathers it up – all its music and patterns – and wraps it around him, threads it through his fingers. He makes a home in its hollow, like a hermit crab burrowing into an empty seashell. 

Chairman Wen rises out of his seat. He grips his great broadsword. ‘I have slaughtered so many of your kind,’ he boasts. ‘I will add your bones to my throne, as I have done with so many little witches like you.’

Wei Ying smiles, his mouth reddened with his own blood. ‘There are no witches like me,’ he says, and he pours dragonfire from his hands.

The bright death eats up Chairman Wen so fast he cannot even scream before he is turned to cinder and ash. The fire spreads, licking down the broadsword, turning it to liquid. The throne, too, burns, and the flame crawls down in rolling waves of roaring white, fattened by all the dead wood and leaves. Tongues of orange and yellow snap hungrily as they draw ever closer to the fighting. 

The heat must be unbearable. Wei Ying cannot feel it.

All he can feel are the beating of a tiny dragon’s wings against his sternum, and the pearl in his chest burning burning burning . 

Wei Ying raises his hand and clenches it in a fist. The fire extinguishes with a gasp. It is suddenly very silent. The fighting has stopped entirely.

Wei Ying helps Dr. Wen to her feet. She trembles in his grasp, and he can tell from the way she looks at him – she is afraid.

Wei Ying turns away, and finds that they have an audience. Wens and Jins and sais-pas all stand, transfixed by the half-moon of scorched earth. There is nothing left – nothing but the cage and the humans within it. Mingjue’s sword falls from his fingertips as he stares, open-mouthed.

Wei Ying knows he has done something unforgivable. He has murdered one of them.  

Mingjue retrieves his fallen sword, and Lan Zhan is instantly in front of Wei Ying, blocking anyone’s path of attack.

‘Calmly, Wangji,’ Xichen calls, stepping forth from the throng of stunned soldiers. ‘We will not harm him.’

Lan Zhan raises his sword a little higher. 

‘Easy,’ says Mingjue, lifting his free hand. He sheathes his sword. ‘Easy.’

Wei Ying steps forward, setting a hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay,’ he says softly. ‘It’s done. It’s over.’

Lan Zhan exhales in a long, shaky breath. He turns around to Wei Ying. His eyes are as bright as dragonfire. 

‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘It is over.’ 

~

It is a slow, careful procession back to the Institute through the trees, with Zixuan at the front, marking out the way. Mianmian puts an unconscious Jiang Cheng on her thistle-horse, and walks alongside. 

Yanli walks alongside Wei Ying at the back of the group

‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on here?’ she asks him, her eyes trained on Jiang Cheng.

‘Fairies are real,’ says Wei Ying. ‘And dragons. And witches.’

Yanli takes a moment to consider this, her gaze sweeping the trees around them. She settles on a sais-pas ahead of them, his skin the color of lichen, dark horns sprouting from his head. 

‘I see,’ she says. ‘And what did they make you do for them?’

Wei Ying doesn’t know how to reply. He wipes at the dried blood on his face. It will take forever to wash out.

‘I was meant to study dragons,’ he says. ‘But close proximity to magic – it changes me.’

Yanli’s eyebrow arches.

‘Not mutated,’ Wei Ying clarifies. ‘More like, revealed what was already there. I think – I think it’s inherited. Like, from my mother.’

‘And your Dr. Lan Jr?’ Yanli asks. She nods towards Lan Zhan’s back, as he walks ahead with his brother. ‘What is his role in this?’

‘He also studies dragons,’ Wei Ying explains. ‘And he’s not human.’

‘Hm,’ says Yanli. 

Wei Ying scrubs at his face with the back of his dirty sleeve. ‘I really am sorry that you got dragged into this,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Yanli shakes her head. ‘A-Ying,’ she says quietly, swapping her English with Cantonese, ‘I do not know why you continue to say and do foolish things. It disappoints me that you think so little of yourself.’

It sometimes disturbs Wei Ying how much like her mother Yanli is, especially when it’s time for a good telling off. He shrinks into himself. Witch or not, there are still things he fears. 

‘Never apologize for violence inflicted on you by others,’ his sister continues. ‘And never take the blame for the harm others do to you.’

Wei Ying shrugs. ‘But it was my fault,’ he says in English.

Yanli clicks her tongue. ‘A-Ying,’ she sighs, and from her tone Wei Ying knows better to argue any further. 

The trees thin out, and they reach a grassy area behind the tall walls of the Hawthorn Institute. At the front of the group, Zixuan places his hand on the wall. The stones tuck themselves inward, revealing an archway. Zixuan steps aside and watches as the first few members of the tired procession step through.

Yanli stares at the careless display of magic, her lips slightly parted, her head tilted. ‘That’s fascinating,’ she says softly. She turns to Wei Ying. ‘Can you do that too?’

‘Yeah,’ says Wei Ying. ‘But not quite the same.’

They are guided to the dining hall. The wounded are triaged and tended to with alarming efficiency. Golden armor is removed and placed in orderly piles. Wei Ying recognizes some of the people flitting between the Jin’s army – he’s seen them in Botany and at the Scholar’s Feast.

How often does this happen? Wei Ying wonders. How often do they fight wars?

He tries not to think too long on his part in all of this. He can feel the dragonfire lingering in his veins, the last of his spell fading like alcohol at the tail end of a night of heavy drinking. The pearl – the change that it forced upon him – that remains. He can feel the difference in the air.

No, not in the air. It’s how he can feel the air now, the magic that threads through it, the potential of spells to be cast, the possibility of bending a ritual to his desire. It is an incredible, terrifying power.

He’s killed creatures. Immortal, powerful creatures. That should weigh on him more, but Wei Ying feels too raw, humming like a live wire. 

Mianmian helps Wei Ying lay Jiang Cheng out over the top of one of the tables. His bruises and swelling are finally beginning to show, and it makes Wei Ying sick in the stomach to see his brother’s handsome face so contorted out of shape. 

‘I can’t tell how badly he’s been hurt,’ Mianmian tells Wei Ying. She shrugs off her jacket, balls it up, and places it under Jiang Cheng’s neck. ‘But I’ll see if I can find a healer.’

‘Thank you,’ says Wei Ying. 

 She narrows her eyes, taking in Wei Ying’s blood-soaked, dust-covered body. She folds her arms over her chest. 

‘And one for you.’

‘I’m fine,’ says Wei Ying. ‘I barely feel it.’

Mianmian snorts. ‘You will once the adrenaline wears off.’ 

Yanli sits down at the bench, and takes Jiang Cheng’s hand in hers. Mianmian leans over and places her hand on Yanli’s shoulder. 

‘You gonna be okay?’ she asks, her tone softening. 

Yanli looks up at the other woman. ‘I’m not hurt,’ she replies, despite the bruise on her forehead. Wei Ying tries not to notice how Yanli’s hand tightens around Jiang Cheng’s. 

‘Yeah, but.’ Mianmian gestures vaguely around the dining hall, at the creatures who look not quite human enough and the ones that don’t look human at all. ‘This can be a lot to process.’ 

Yanli smiles a small, half-smile. ‘It is,’ she admits. ‘But my A-Ying and A-Cheng are safe. That’s good enough.’

Mianmian shakes her head, smiling wryly. She opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off by a voice calling her name. Both she and Wei Ying turn, looking for the source. 

Zixuan strides across the dining hall towards them. His cutlass is still strapped to his side, blade sparkling and unsheathed, and his armor gleams beneath the warm lights of the hall. There is some of the battle on him still – singe-marks on his breastplate, a few frayed edges to the butter-yellow of his shirt, some mud on his boots. The rest of him looks perfect, untouched. 

Wei Ying kind of hates him. At least Mianmian has the decency to retain her black eye from the incident last night. 

‘Mr. Wei,’ Zixuan greets. ‘Do you need a healer’s attention?’

‘My brother does,’ Yanli interjects. ‘I know they must be busy taking care of everyone else, but if you could find someone, I would be so grateful.’

Zixuan’s gaze shifts to her, and then performs a bizarre tripping side-step, half-colliding with a nearby table. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Well, rather, it might take a moment to summon one. We have a number of serious injuries.’

Yanli’s lips tremble, but she bites down on them. Wei Ying watches as her grip on Jiang Cheng’s hand grows white-knuckled. ‘I understand,’ she says quietly.

‘But,’ says Zixuan hurriedly, ‘I am familiar with rudimentary healing magic. Perhaps I can help.’

And then, with alarming agility and speed, Zixuan unbuckles his cutlass from his side, sets it down on the table, and unclips his armor. He slides onto the bench next to Jiang Yanli, and places his palm over Jiang Cheng’s forehead. Warm light glows from beneath his hand, dancing between his fingertips like golden hour refracting off a stream’s rippling surface.

‘O- kay ,’ says Mianmian, her eyebrows climbing her face. She turns smartly on her heel and fastens her hand on Wei Ying’s elbow. ‘Healer time.’

‘But, Jiang Cheng-’

‘Is going to be fine,’ says Mianmian. She drags Wei Ying along with considerable force for such a small woman. ‘Honestly, I know Zixuan seems like an over privileged brat, but he’s a skilled healer.’

This distracts Wei Ying for long enough for Mianmian to pick up speed. ‘He is?’ 

‘He’s had several private tutors,’ Mianmian tells him, a small smile growing on her face. ‘He was raised to be a king. He knows all the ways of the fey courts, and the ways of his ancestors. This whole academia thing-’ she nods her chin towards the open door to the dining hall, where a soldier is leaning and drinking deep from a flask, ‘- is a protest against his father.’

‘But he’ll go back to the fey courts eventually,’ Wei Ying frowns.

Mianmian shrugs. She glances back over her shoulder, but the way she’s twisted Wei Ying’s arm means he can’t follow her gaze. ‘I don’t know if he will anymore,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Now that all that is over, the Institute can go back to normal, and we can all go back to being academics.’

Wei Ying isn’t sure that there is still space in the Institute for a creature like him. But he doesn’t say it out loud, he just lets Mianmian dump him in front of one of the healers like a misbehaving pet.

‘Here,’ she tells the startled sais-pas , who nearly drops the bandages he’s holding. ‘Haven’t the faintest what’s wrong with him, but I’m going to bet it’s a long list.’

‘Is that all your blood?’ asks the healer, looking a bit greener than he already is. 

Wei Ying shrugs noncommittedly. ‘I’m honestly not sure,’ he replies. 

‘Oh,’ says the healer faintly. ‘That’s nice.’

Wei Ying is surprisingly free of all injuries except for a broken nose and a split lip – which the healer mends very quickly with a few rituals. The healer reports that he did also have a fractured skull, slipped disc, three broken ribs, and a punctured lung, although those have been patched up with some kind of magic that the healer really doesn’t want to talk about. 

‘Wouldn’t those injuries have killed me?’ Wei Ying asks the green-skinned sais-pas.

‘I honestly don’t know what your kind can survive,’ is the frank reply. ‘But yes, you should be dead.’

Wei Ying’s not quite sure how to digest that information, but he tries to put it from his mind as he meanders back across the hall to his siblings. The fatigue is beginning to settle in, and the adrenaline is fully wearing off. His limbs feel lead-heavy and his mouth parchment dry. 

He glimpses Jiang Cheng on the table. His brother looks peaceful, as though he might just be asleep. Yanli and Zixuan are still sat side-by-side, and Yanli is beaming up at the sais-pas in a way that fills Wei Ying with a surge of relief.

His knees seem to run out of steam, so Wei Ying sits down for a moment at one of the tables. He closes his eyes and rubs at them with his knuckles. He is caked in grime and he is so, so fucking tired, he could crawl into his shower and nap under the stream for an hour. But he needs to make sure Jiang Cheng and Yanli are taken care of first. He needs to make sure-

‘Wei Ying,’ says a low voice.

Wei Ying’s heart twists in his chest.

‘Hi, Lan Er-gege,’ Wei Ying murmurs. He lowers his hands and peers up at Lan Zhan. 

‘You saw a healer,’ says Lan Zhan.

‘I’m fine,’ says Wei Ying. ‘Just a broken nose. Nothing serious.’

Lan Zhan shakes his head, his brow knotting. He sinks to his knees in front of Wei Ying and takes his grubby hands in Lan Zhan’s beautiful, clean hands. ‘Do not lie to me,’ he says quietly. ‘I can hear your heart.’

Wei Ying blinks. There it is again, that rock in his throat. ‘I, I’m fine now,’ he says. ‘I fixed it. I had-’

He wants to tell Lan Zhan about Bosmorial, about the pearl, about what it did to him – but he can’t. Not here. Not like this.

‘I had help ,’ Wei Ying finishes. 

Lan Zhan’s eyes widen fractionally, and then he nods. How strange that they should know each other for so little time, and yet Lan Zhan can understand Wei Ying so easily, so deeply. Wei Ying loves him. He loves him. 

‘I’m all healed now,’ Wei Ying adds. 

‘But you are tired,’ says Lan Zhan. 

Wei Ying nods. ‘I’m fucking exhausted,’ he chuckles wetly. ‘But I need to take care of Jiang Cheng. And Yanli. I dragged them into this mess.’

Lan Zhan’s eyes flash toward the far end of the hall, where Wei Ying’s brother and sister are. He nods. ‘We will make sure they are cared for,’ he says. ‘There are spare rooms in the Institute. They can recover there. I will ask Zixuan to take them.’

‘I should-’

‘You will come with me, Wei Ying,’ Lan Zhan interrupts, his tone stern. ‘And you will rest.’

Wei Ying tries desperately not to let himself go sliding down this avalanche of emotion, but he is very fucking exhausted, and his heart feels too much like an overripe plum, easily moulded and broken under Lan Zhan’s careful hands, and drunk on the relief that Jiang Cheng is alright, and that Yanli will be alright, and that all that horribleness that once hung over them is done.

He can summon dragonfire, and remake magic as his own, but right now he is very weak, and in his weakness Wei Ying eases himself forward and lets himself rest for just a moment, his tired eyes leaving dark stains on the pure white of Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

~

Zixuan, in a bizarre gesture of magnanimity, gives his very nice, very fancy en-suite to Jiang Cheng and Yanli to rest in . Jiang Cheng looks a bit drunk and disoriented, though he gives Wei Ying a tight hug and a mumbled, thank fuck you’re not dead mate , before he is frog-marched away by Yanli and Mianiman. 

Wei Ying is going to have to have a conversation with his brother at some point. A proper conversation where they both don’t start shouting or swearing too much. 

But first he follows Lan Zhan to his den, down the path and in through the shifting cave tunnels, into the familiar cold, still air. He lets Lan Zhan run the bath for him, sheds his ruined clothes, and crawls into the bath and scrubs the blood and soot off his skin until he feels almost himself again. He watches the murky water drain away with the rest of the bathwater, leaving trails of red and black on the turquoise tiles. 

Wei Ying dresses in Lan Zhan’s clothes. He doesn’t question it – hasn’t got the heart to think about it, not with Bosmorial’s pearl simmering in his chest. There are mirrors in the bathroom, but when Wei Ying observes his reflection in the mirror, he cannot discern if anything about him has changed. 

When Wei Ying makes his way out to the living room, Lan Zhan is already cooking in the kitchen. The smell of garlic and chopped onions fills the room. Wei Ying’s stomach growls. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate.

Lan Zhan moves easily around his kitchen, but Wei Ying can’t help but stare at the leg that was injured in the tunnel, not entirely certain if his spell will suddenly come unwound at the seams. 

‘I am fine,’ says Lan Zhan, as though he can hear Wei Ying’s thoughts. ‘My leg is fine.’

‘Ah,’ says Wei Ying. 

Lan Zhan finishes slicing vegetables on the cutting board and transfers them into the pan. ‘You said you received help?’

Wei Ying takes careful steps to Lan Zhan’s side, making sure not to stand in the way of Lan Zhan’s elbows or his cooking. 

‘Will you give me your hand?’ Wei Ying asks.

For a moment, Lan Zhan loses his grip on the spatula. He rescues it with a quick flick of his wrist, and balances it on the handle of the frying pan. He turns, and holds out his right hand.

Wei Ying closes his fingers around Lan Zhan’s wrist, and brings Lan Zhan’s hand to his chest so that his palm presses flat against Wei Ying’s sternum.

‘Bosmorial,’ Lan Zhan whispers, his eyes widening. ‘Bosmorial came to you.’

‘I asked for help,’ Wei Ying replies, releasing Lan Zhan’s hand. ‘I didn’t know if anyone, if anything would come – but he came to me. And he gave me a pearl, asked me to eat it, and it-’

‘It revealed the truth beneath your surface,’ Lan Zhan finishes. ‘Bosmorial commands metamorphosis, of transformation. Whatever you are now, you would have always become. He simply hastened the process – and perhaps made you stronger for it.’

Wei Ying digests this. He steps back, and leans against the kitchen counter. Lan Zhan glances at the contents of the frying pan and stirs once.

‘I was always going to be a witch,’ Wei Ying says to his feet, bare upon the tiled floor. ‘There was never a choice.’

Lan Zhan sighs. ‘Do not say it as though it were a curse, Wei Ying.’

Wei Ying shakes his head. ‘Your kind do not trust my kind.’

‘No,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘That is an inaccurate statement, Wei Ying. Sais-pas are reluctant to owe favors to anyone. We are bound to return any favor in similar value – and the gifts that your kind give us are very valuable.’

‘How valuable was killing Chairman Wen?’ Wei Ying asks.

‘Dangerously so,’ replies Lan Zhan, his eyes locked on his cooking. ‘I worry for you.’

‘Why?’ Wei Ying shakes his head. ‘I have no intention of calling in any favors. I just want- I just want to study dragons.’

It sounds like a silly dream, when Wei Ying says it out loud. Would the Institute even let Wei Ying remain here, now that he is neither sais-pas , nor human? Will he still be trusted among dragons, knowing the violence he can cause when he earns their favor? Nobody wants a weapon in a time of peace. 

‘Then you will study dragons,’ says Lan Zhan, as if it were that simple.

‘But to the Institute, I’m a monster,’ says Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan sets down his spatula. He turns, and takes Wei Ying’s hand. His thumb swipes over the back of Wei Ying’s knuckles. 

‘Anyone who sees you as a monster has no sight at all,’ says Lan Zhan, softly, earnestly. ‘You have such a kindness in you, Wei Ying, that I wish you would offer yourself. You have never overlooked the small and humble creatures of this earth.’

‘But the Wens-’

‘I do not trust any law or creed issued by the Wen family,’ Lan Zhan interrupts, his expression growing hard. ‘It is clear to me that they were motivated only by greed and envy. It would not surprise me if the beachings were somehow their doing too.’

Wei Ying shakes his head, and sighs. He looks up at Lan Zhan, and it is almost too much. It is too much to be here. It is too much that they have narrowly escaped death too many times in the past 24 hours. It is too much how eagerly Lan Zhan will protect Wei Ying, even now, even against himself.

‘I will not let them wear you thin,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘Come Winter, I will take you away, and perhaps I will not let them have you back.’

Wei Ying laughs then. ‘We can’t live forever in Greenland. You can’t get away with just, I don’t know, disappearing.’

‘I am tenured, Wei Ying. I can do whatever I fucking please.’

Wei Ying laughs even more, startled by the sudden obscenity spoken in Lan Zhan’s crisp accent. Then, he grins, and pushes Lan Zhan gently away. ‘The food is burning.’

~

Wei Ying sleeps long and deep, and he does not dream.

In the morning, he and Lan Zhan leave the den, following the path along the cliffs back into the Institute. It is quiet, and the light is weak as it filters past the empty buildings and the trees, but it is as though a shadow has finally been lifted from this place. 

There are people gathered in the dining hall, which has been restored to its prior purpose. There are soldiers in glittering, golden armor sitting at the benches, eating pasta and salad and chips as though it were the most normal thing in the world, sharing cans of coke and coffee in paper cups. Wei Ying spies his siblings at the far corner, by the wall. Mianmian and Zixuan are both with them, Mianmian in a familiar mustard-yellow sweater and Zixuan in his usual fancy three-piece suit. 

Jiang Yanli looks up from her porridge and lifts a hand, her face breaking out into a relieved smile, and Wei Ying goes to them. Lan Zhan follows him like a second shadow, ignoring the pointed stares from his white-clad family from the other side of the hall.

Wei Ying slides into the seat next to Jiang Cheng. Mianmian leans over Jiang Cheng, pushing a plate of toast and marmalade at Wei Ying.

‘Eat,’ she tells Wei Ying.

‘Pushy, this one,’ Jiang Cheng grumbles. He peers at his bowl. ‘Is this magic bacon or normal bacon?’

‘It’s from the local butcher’s,’ Zixuan replies with a frown. ‘Conjuring  bacon is an absolute waste of magic when the Institute employs plenty of staff.’

Jiang Cheng scowls at the sais-pas opposite him. ‘Didn’t ask you,’ he mutters darkly.

Wei Ying can’t help but smile, relief tugging at his cheeks and lifting his lips. If Jiang Cheng is picking fights with his hosts, then he’s definitely better. 

‘Are you okay?’ he asks anyways.

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, fine,’ he says. ‘Except, you know, a complete meltdown or two, because magic exists.’

‘A-Cheng,’ Yanli sighs. She gives Wei Ying a meaningful look. ‘The mirror in Zixuan’s room talks. It gave A-Cheng a bit of a fright.’

‘He screamed,’ says Zixuan, with a little bit of a smirk.

Wei Ying feels a twist of annoyance, because really, no one is allowed to make fun of Jiang Cheng except him, but it is also very funny that a charmed mirror is what freaked Jiang Cheng out, not everything else that’s fucking happened . 

Lan Zhan places his food in front of him and takes a seat directly opposite Wei Ying, next to Yanli. He spoons eggs onto his bread, adds a tomato, and passes the slice of toast over to Wei Ying, who accepts it with a nod.

Zixuan’s eyes dart between the two of them. ‘You know,’ he drawls. ‘Back in my day, you had to do all of this with a chaperone.’

‘Deal only what you can bear to be dealt,’ Lan Zhan says, his expression perfectly blank. He scoops more eggs onto a piece of toast.

Zixuan’s face turns vermillion. Mianmian cackles.

‘Are you okay?’ Wei Ying asks Yanli, ignoring whatever the fuck is going on between the three sais-pas .

‘Yes,’ his sister says, smiling at him. ‘Zixuan’s rooms were very comfortable.’

‘Except the talking mirror,’ Jiang Cheng grumbles. He takes a bite of the non-magical bacon. ‘Okay, fuck you, this is seriously good bacon. Have you just been eating like a king while the rest of us suffer with fatty, over-salted rubber?’

‘Do you want my marmalade toast?’ Wei Ying offers, trying not to laugh.

‘Yes, I want your marmalade toast,’ Jiang Cheng says, and steals it.

‘That wasn’t for you!’ Mianmian protests. ‘Ugh, younger siblings.’

‘Is the magic you do food magic?’ Jiang Cheng asks, spreading marmalade over his appropriated toast. ‘Or is it like, wand spells? Or is it more like Earthsea? Or is it-’

‘We use knowledge and rituals recorded in our main sources of magic,’ Wei Ying says, counting them off on his fingers. ‘Treatises, Almanacs, and Grimoires.’

He freezes then – and so does Zixuan, his coffee halfway to his mouth. 

Grimoires? Where the fuck did that come from?

‘How do you know about Grimoires?’ Jin Zixuan asks, tilting his head. There is something about his eyes that is different now – maybe the color, or perhaps the shape of his pupil. 

‘I-’ Wei Ying frowns. He presses his hand over the left breast pocket of his borrowed jacket, where his pocketbook lives permanently with the small, dried flower charm Lan Zhan gave him. ‘I don’t know how I know.’

‘Perhaps it is a facet of your gift,’ Lan Zhan says, placing a new slice of egg toast on Wei Ying’s plate. ‘Or perhaps it is one of the unknown characteristics of being a witch.’

‘There are witches ?’ asks Jiang Cheng, perking up instantly.

‘Is Wei Ying being a witch a problem for you?’ Yanli asks, her voice cold. ‘If there is a risk of my brother being treated badly, I want to know now.’

She turns her steely gaze first on Mianmian, then on Zixuan, who sets down his coffee and clears his throat awkwardly. Wei Ying doesn’t blame him – Yanli can be scary when she wants to be.

‘Wei Ying will be safe with me,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘I will protect him.’

Yanli twists in her seat and looks up at Lan Zhan. Some of the frost thaws from her face. ‘Oh, I know you will,’ she says, patting his shoulder. ‘It’s just what us elder siblings do. We worry.’

Lan Zhan smiles at her, a small, reserved thing, but it softens the corners of his hard mouth. Wei Ying’s heart performs a complicated twist.

Zixuan clears his throat. Yanli twists back around to look at him questioningly.

‘You said that your house was ruptured during your kidnapping,’ he says. ‘I will have it tidied and set right. And your brother’s car, I will have a replacement found.’

‘That’s not necessary,’ Jiang Cheng interrupts. ‘We can fix it ourselves.’

Yanli holds up a hand. ‘A-Cheng,’ she says, a warning tone in her voice. ‘Let’s be thankful for the help offered. But my brother is right,’ she adds, offering a smile to Zixuan. ‘We can take care of things.’

‘I do insist,’ Zixuan says. ‘It is my family’s war that caused this.’

‘And he has the resources,’ Mianmian adds. ‘Let us help. It’s what is owed to you.’

Yanli’s brow crinkles, but she nods in acceptance. Jiang Cheng just mumbles darkly into his toast.

~

Lan Zhan offers to drive Jiang Cheng and Yanli back to Yanli’s house. Wei Ying accompanies the two of them into the parking lot. He lets Jiang Yanli kiss his cheeks like he’s three years old again, and then Jiang Cheng nearly throttle him in a tight hug.

‘Please try and keep in touch,’ his brother grumbles. ‘Even if you’re a fancy wizard now.’

‘Witch,’ Wei Ying corrects, trying not to laugh. ‘I’ll try. But I do have a job that takes me out of cell service.’

‘Whatever,’ Jiang Cheng says, rolling his eyes. ‘Send me messages by bottlenose dolphin or something.’

Wei Ying just grins. He can probably dream up a spell for that.

‘And please,’ says Wei Ying’s brother, almost as an afterthought, ‘don’t get hurt again.’

Wei Ying thinks it’s a strange thing to say, considering the fact that it was Jiang Cheng who was grievously injured, Jiang Cheng who nearly died in a car crash and got kept in an oversized bird cage. He thinks about it as he watches his siblings climb into the narrow carriage of Lan Zhan’s car. He watches the tiny sedan pull out of the parking lot and onto the street. Watches it as it turns a corner and disappears from view.

Wei Ying walks back through the Institute. It feels strange to see how quiet it is, how lacking in life, even if he knows the dining hall is packed with people. But campus alumni will be returning soon. 

Wei Ying climbs the spiral staircase of his dorm, stepping off onto the landing before his rooms. It feels strange to be here again, as though he has spent a lifetime away instead of just over a day. He stares out the window.

The bench shines in the golden rays of the afternoon, looking out over the calm sea. Wei Ying has never hungered for anything more than the quiet he might find on that bench.

He casts his gaze to his bed. Laid out over the sheets is a beautiful doublet in black silk, embroidered at the neck and sleeves with shimmering thread that seems both red and amber. It comes with matching breeches, polished black boots, and what seems like a necklace of dripping garnets. 

And next to it, there is a small white envelope, with an embossed peony printed on in gold leaf. He sits down on the edge of his bed and flicks the envelope open, drawing from within it a beautifully embossed card. And on it, the following invitation:

Witch Wei Ying,

Join us for a night of revelry at the Courts of Northern Fey, and rejoice at the defeat of the foul Wens. 

Chapter Text

Letters of Discipline for the Watchers of Dragons Majeur: Rule 435 - Courtship; clause 4

A Lan shall neither conduct nor attempt to conduct sexual relations with his partner of choosing until after they are properly wedded by the customs of both partners. 

~

The entrance to the High Court of the Northern Fey is in the middle of a forest, just north of Penryn. It is a long tunnel of bramble, glowing green and heavy with black fruit – entirely out of season. Thorns reach out to Wei Ying as he passes through, eager to tear apart his beautiful clothing and rip the silk doublet apart – but Wei Ying twists his fingers in the pocket of his breeches, and the green wall of thorns retreats. 

Magic was a matter of logic and complex mathematics before. It’s different now, less cerebral, more real and delightful – perhaps a bit like performing a fantastic goose step, or like springing into a perfect backflip, or maybe a jazz solo on the flute, or like quickly sketching the likeness of a rockhopper into a notebook. It’s hard to describe, but still teachable.

But Wei Ying isn’t here to democratize magic. 

He knows that he can’t push the envelope that far. He’s spent enough drunken evenings hiding in the stalls of a toilet while an angry group of uni lads are looking to punch his face in – for being queer or Asian or maybe both. 

The bramble tunnel opens up into a sudden, blinding courtyard of glittering gold and splendor. Leaning trees with ivory branches twist from pillars that glitter like frost, sprouting leaves of pure gold that seem to drift endlessly down over the congregated array of impossible creatures. Wei Ying cannot see whether the ground is stone or soil – the leaves glimmer in a shining carpet. 

At the top of the court, a dias, upon which sits a sais-pas that looks almost like a man, except his face is young, to mismatch against the silver of his hair. He is dressed in dazzling white robes lined with finely spun silver and gold, yellow jewels sewn into his cloak in patterns to replicate the leaves from the canopy of magical trees. The crown on his head is simple – merely a ringlet of fine white-gold. 

He looks like Zixuan – although maybe it is more accurate to say that Zixuan looks like him. The latter stands at the fey king’s right, hand on his cutlass, clad in armor that looks more for ornament than battle – but Wei Ying has seen Zixuan fight now. He knows Zixuan needs no armor to aid him. 

There are tables stowed away behind arches spilling with fruit and wine and food, covered in shining tablecloths. Peonies spill from the tables and over the floor, to be trodden on by hooves and talons, releasing their perfume into the cool air.

Wei Ying moves through the crowd. His clothing is dazzling but he feels as dull as an unpolished stone next to these courtiers, who are as terrifying as they are beautiful. Here, a towering thing shining black like an obelisk of onyx, with eyes like starfire and horns framing its feminine face, conversing with two women with green skin and a cascade of moss and wildflowers for hair. There, a sweet boy with the ears of a fox and feet like a crow’s. Wei Ying takes a tripping sidestep to avoid being trod on by what he can only describe as a cave troll, arm-in-arm with a man who looks spun from sunshine, dressed in nothing but semi-opaque chiffon and dripping strands of pearls. 

Across the hall, Wei Ying spots a flash of white. As a moth to flame, he goes.

Lan Zhan stands with his back to Wei Ying, one hand clasped behind him, the other politely balancing an untouched crystal goblet of mead. Strangely, wonderfully, he’s dressed in a neat three-piece suit of white, his jet-black hair carefully parted and slicked back. He looks like he belongs in the smoky lounge of some speakeasy, not here amidst all this magic.

His brother, who he is speaking to as Wei Ying approaches, is dressed in clothes that look as though they are made from the waters of a glacial spring. Folds of his robes shift and dance as fabric should not, frothing at his sleeves and gathering at his waist. He looks nothing like the gathered fey around them, but he looks very far from human.

Mingjue, dressed in a stunning doublet of charcoal and threaded through with silver, is very close to Lan Xichen’s side. There is silver at his ears, on his fingers, and at the buckles of his very shiny boots. His gaze darts toward Wei Ying, and his brows climb his face. 

Lan Zhan turns, and the frown pinching his forehead melts away.

‘You are here,’ he says softly, taking a single step toward Wei Ying.

‘I was invited,’ Wei Ying replies, managing not to make it sound like a question. ‘They gave me clothes and everything.’

A groove appears at the side of Lan Zhan’s unsmiling mouth. ‘They suit you well,’ he says. His gaze moves to the collar of Wei Ying’s doublet, where the silver flower and miniature dragon are dutifully fastened. ‘Very well.’

‘It is good to see you, Mr. Wei,’ interjects Xichen, with a smile that seems almost genuine. ‘I see you are still wearing my brother’s favor. I do not blame you for preferring it to mine.’

Irritation flashes through Lan Zhan’s face. ‘Must you?’ 

Lan Zhan’s brother lifts both hands in a gesture of platitude. His robe of dreams glides around him as he moves. ‘I am making peace, Wangji.’ 

‘You disapprove,’ Lan Zhan frowns. He places a hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder, the grip firm but not restrictive.

Wei Ying ignores whatever his stomach is doing. 

Xichen looks toward the glimmering branches above for a moment. ‘Wangji,’ he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘I don’t disapprove.’

‘Wei Ying is special,’ Lan Zhan says, repeating with the heavy emphasis of old arguments.

‘Of course he is,’ Xichen says, dropping his hand and leveling a look at his brother. ‘I just want to understand why you think so. I know you very well, but I don’t read minds.’

‘If you cannot see his worth-’ Lan Zhan starts.

‘Wangji,’ says Lan Xichen, looking pained. ‘That is not the point.’

Mingjue jerks his chin at Wei Ying. ‘Come on,’ he says, giving Wei Ying a quick wink. ‘Best get away from them when they start arguing.’

He moves away from the brothers, into the crowd, and Wei Ying follows. ‘Do they argue a lot?’ he asks Mingjue.

‘Yes,’ says Mingjue, grinning. ‘But not like humans would. It’s all symbols and gifts and clever turns of phrase, until they start having it out in public.’

Wei Ying glances back. Xichen is again, looking skyward as though he might find patience there, and Lan Zhan now has his arms folded over his chest, the crystal somehow extinguished from existence. He thinks he and his siblings have recreated the same scene in the past.

‘Do they argue about me a lot?’ he asks.

Mingjue halts his progress, turns on his heel, and catches Wei Ying before they collide. ‘Yes,’ he replies with blunt honesty. ‘They do.’

Wei Ying’s stomach is suddenly lead.

‘You can’t help what you are,’  says Mingjue, not unkindly. ‘And what you are helps us. Helps the cause.’

There’s something not quite right about the way Mingjue says this – though Wei Ying can’t quite figure out why it sits uncomfortably beneath his skin, burrowing like insects and making him want to scratch. His memory feels fragmented. Some of him is still clinging to the last vestiges of his humanity, the linear nature of his life and how he moves through time. He tries not to see books burning, scholars swallowed in flame. Tries not to know the things he knows. 

Another part places a hand on the curtain, and tells him: look. Here there is a truth. Do you not wish to know it? 

‘Wangji will keep you straight,’ says Mingjue. He claps a hand on Wei Ying’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you worry. Maybe you’ll be the first good witch.’

He means well, but he misunderstands Wei Ying’s discomfort.

‘Yeah,’ says Wei Ying, smiling up at the larger man. ‘Yeah.’

The crowd parts at Mingjue’s side, producing Guangyao in a jerkin embroidered with golden peonies, matching breeches tucked into creamy boots, and flowing sleeves of frothy white. He has gold in his ears and flowers in his hair. 

‘Hello!’ he says, beaming at Wei Ying and flashing his dimples charmingly. ‘You came!’

‘I did,’ says Wei Ying, finding himself smiling to match Guangyao’s cheer. 

‘Our hero,’ Guangyao gushes, pushing a crystal of golden wine into Wei Ying’s hand. ‘Man of the hour. Savior of all that is good.’

‘I only contributed a little,’ Wei Ying stammers, feeling his cheeks grow warm. 

Guangyao scoffs. He hands Mingjue a crystal and leans into the man’s expanse, his delicate fingers splaying over his chest affectionately, rather than protectively. ‘You set fire to our enemy, Mr. Wei,’ he tuts. ‘Now is not the time for humility!’

‘I agree with that,’ nods Mingjue. His arm fits very comfortably around Guangyao’s waist.

Wei Ying did not notice this before, but it makes sense. They appear often together, even though it is Xichen’s pin at Mingjeu’s neck. (This, Wei Ying can now see through the veil of time – Xichen’s fingers fastening the delicate dragon to the lapel of a shirt, blood on his knuckles, and a scab at Mingjue’s forehead.)

‘To slayer of monsters,’ Guangyao cheers. He wraps his hand around the glass in Mingjue’s hand and lifts it delicately. ‘And categorizer of dragons.’ 

‘Academic and assassin,’ Mingjue adds, eyes shining with mischief.

Perhaps this is not the time nor the place for heavy thoughts at all. It is a time for celebration. Wei Ying raises his own glass.

‘And to your court, Guangyao,’ he says, ‘for being brave enough to fight for the Institute.’

And he drinks.

‘The whole cup!’ shouts Mingjue. 

‘Mingjue,’ Guangyao’s voice sighs. ‘It’s a ball, not a beerhall.’

But Wei Ying, never to turn a challenge down, has already drunk the crystal dry. The wine is sweet and spicy, and slips down as easily as honey. Mingjue, too, has finished his drink and smiles victorious.

‘I swear,’ Guangyao sighs, tapping his fingertips first on his lover’s cup, then Wei Ying’s. The crystal fills back up. 

Mingjue laughs from the bellows of his belly, and plants a kiss on Guangyao’s cheek. ‘To ever-suffering lovers,’ he teases, lifting his goblet to the light that hovers above.  

‘To your aching head in the morning,’ says Guangyao, but his cheeks are dimpling with another smile. 

Mingjue drains his goblet, and Wei Ying throws back his drink too, slightly uncomfortable with third-wheeling. The wine is no less sweet this time, but feels far stronger. The room seems to spin, as though each creature in court has broken into wild dancing. Wei Ying places a hand on his stomach. The wine is warm, and it turns his blood to treacle.

He’s never been a lightweight, but he suspects this is a little stronger than what he’s used to.

Mingjue catches Wei Ying’s wrist and pulls it forward, and with it, the crystal goblet. He asks Guangyao to fill it once more, and obligingly, the sais-pas does. He toasts to Wei Ying’s bravery and stupidity, and to the sheer veracity of a creature to survive four murder attempts in less than 24 hours. They both drink.

When Wei Ying was younger, his instructors would teach him to find balance by looking out to a middle distance. Something not too close, not too far away, but enough that his chin was lifted. 

The world slips beneath his wine-addled feet, and Wei Ying searches for something in the middle distance. He finds a face pink as rose petals, smiling at him with needle-point teeth. He searches again – a man with curved horns at his head dressed in spider-thread, who offers him a lascivious wink. And again – this time he meets the eye of the king of the Northern fey, who is watching him closely with cold, dark eyes. 

Wei Ying presses a hand to the back of his neck. His fingertips feel icy, his skin feverishly hot. His head spins.

‘I’m sorry,’ he tells Mingjue, who is in the middle of telling a joke. ‘I think I need to go sit down.’

‘Oh no,’ says Guangyao, his hands reaching as though he might be able to catch Wei Ying if he falls now. ‘That was too much wine, I knew it, Mingjue! ’

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ says Wei Ying. ‘I just need to sit down for a moment.’

‘At least let one of us take you,’ insists Guangyao, but Wei Ying turns and stumbles back into the fray.

He was not imagining it. The court is dancing.  

They push and pull at him, not to shove him away but to fold him into the waltz. Hands covered in fur and scales slip into his, bracket his waist and spin him round and round. His feet find the steps somehow. Hands grasp his and whirl him, releasing him, and someone else catches him. Music rises, wondrous and manic. Fingers caress the bare patch of skin behind his ears. A pair of lips press against his, and in blind panic he pushes someone – something – away.

A pixie with skin the color of a robin’s egg presses her palms against his cheeks. Wei Ying remembers, with violent clarity, Wen Ning’s tale. His curse.

‘Come lie with me in ivy and moss,’ the pixie purrs, leaning close to Wei Ying. ‘Come taste the sweetness of my court and forget your world of iron and smoke.’

Wei Ying looks around in a panic. He is out of the dancing now, the pixie’s right hand plucking at his doublet, unfastening the buttons, pushing him into an alcove with surprising strength. Jin Guangyao catches his eye from across the crowd, one hand on Lan Xichen’s chest, only that isn’t right, is it, because he’s meant to be with Nie Mingjue, isn’t he?

He searches again, this time seeking out white in a flood of color. Lan Zhan is at the other side of the hall, and Wei Ying must call out to catch his attention.

But Wei Ying cannot remember the right thing to call Lan Zhan. There are other names, safer names, but he can remember nothing but whispering Lan Zhan’s true name in the cave.

‘Come with me,’ whispers the pixie, her hand slipping within Wei Ying’s doublet, over the thin fabric of his shirt. 

‘I, uh, I can’t,’ gasps Wei Ying. The music swells. He does not know if he should dance or cry. 

The creatures twirl in dancing, their feet thundering on the floor and sending golden leaves flying around them. The ground shakes with the court’s merriment. The world spins. The pixie’s slender fingers are freezing on Wei Ying’s hot skin. The inside of her mouth is sap-green, her tongue the color of a snake hiding between the tallest branches of a tree in high summer. 

‘Why not?’ the pixie asks. She is close enough for Wei Ying to drown in the perfume of all the roses woven into her hair. ‘You do not belong to anyone here. Pretty as the pin at your lapel is, it is only a gift. It means nothing by our laws.’

Wei Ying twists away, slipping like a slippery fish desperate for the sea. Her fingernails are sharpened to points, and they scratch at his wrists, but he is out of her grasp. He stumbles backward from the momentum and finds himself colliding with something hard. Something warm. Something that smells like the ocean, like sandalwood.

He tilts his chin up.

He almost says the name, but he swallows his voice in time, using that relief instead to turn, dancing again in rhythm with the fey, and fists his hands in Lan Zhan’s suit.

‘Him,’ he gasps, glancing over his shoulder at the furious pixie. ‘I’m his, his.’

The pixie narrows her eyes in suspicion. Lan Zhan’s hand settles on Wei Ying’s lower back – possessive and not at all subtle – and drags Wei Ying flat against him.

‘Ah,’ says the pixie, lifting her hands. ‘Forgive me, Jade. I had not known.’

‘You did,’ says Lan Zhan. His voice is ice. He is the glacier that stands guard of the north, unmoving and stained black with mineral and time. ‘Lucky that my kind do not share your love of curses.’

The pixie squeaks, her blue face growing pale, and she darts away with a whirring of her dragon-fly wings. 

Lan Zhan’s other hand comes to Wei Ying’s waist. His grip tightens, and he half-carries Wei Ying through into the dark alcove the pixie was originally aiming for. Vines of climbing flowers bloom around them, shrouding them from sight of the hall and its dancing. There are pillows scattered beneath, soft and inviting. It is obvious what this place is meant for. 

Wei Ying should be afraid.

Lan Zhan is not a handsome man in a smoky bar. He is not a beautiful professor in a good suit. He is ice and power and song and the tide and the rain and the stars as they tear through the great dark above. He is ancient magic. He is not to be worn like a hermit crab’s shell.

Wei Ying’s hands come up to card through Lan Zhan’s perfect hair, as the sais-pas pushes him into the vines and their flowers, and devours him with a kiss. His lips are searing hot, and his teeth, Wei Ying realizes, are as sharp as a cat’s. Lan Zhan’s hand spreads over the band of muscle that connects Wei Ying’s waist to his leg, tipped now with claws. If Wei Ying whimpers, the sound is quickly muffled with Lan Zhan’s lips, his tongue, the heat of his hunger – and Wei Ying can only let himself be folded into it.

The sais-pas withdraws a little. There is a sharpness in his face that is new, one that Wei Ying has never been allowed to see – or perhaps the Institute never allows its residents to reveal. His eyes are bright, more amber than gold, the curves of his unsmiling mouth harsher now that it must fit more teeth. He is beautiful and Wei Ying loves him so much, the force of it scorches his chest.

Wei Ying’s cups Lan Zhan’s face. The world trembles around him, and with it, he shakes and his knees give in. Lan Zhan catches him before he falls into the wall. He sets Wei Ying down carefully among the pillows.

‘Are you unwell, Wei Ying?’ he asks, all concern now, gentle and tender.

Wei Ying will love Lan Zhan through this life and into the next. 

‘Do you want to leave?’ asks Lan Zhan, who is perfect.

Wei Ying’s tongue feels fuzzy and heavy in his mouth. ‘I want to stay-’ he fumbles the next words. There is a thrumming in his head. He might be sick here in this beautiful alcove.

‘Wei Ying, it is not safe-’

‘-with you. I want to stay with you.’ 

Lan Zhan’s eyebrows climb his face. ‘Wei Ying,’ he says softly. ‘I would not leave your side even if you asked it of me.’

Wei Ying finds purchase in the world by placing his hands on Lan Zhan’s shoulders. How strong and broad and steady they are.

‘Do not ask it of me,’ Lan Zhan murmurs.

‘Hm,’ says Wei Ying. He is not sure what he is meant to ask or not ask. He would rip his heart out for Lan Zhan, though, if the other asked. 

Lan Zhan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a flask. Wei Ying shakes his head – no, no more wine, please – but finds that it is water. He drinks for longer than such a small flask should hold, but then finds the world a little less wobbly. Lan Zhan helps Wei Ying up, and leads him out of the alcove. As they appear, Wei Ying catches sight of Mingjue, who is topping up a tall canteen of beer. The man gives Wei Ying a wink, as though he’s caught them doing something naughty.

Nothing to be done about that, the last sober shred of Wei Ying thinks resignedly. 

Lan Zhan’s body is steady at Wei Ying’s side as they go back through the bramble archway, and appear not in the forest but onto a familiar country road. Wei Ying recalls being here before, the cottage they stayed in together facing the North Sea, the haze like frost on the window.

They do not go to the cottage. They turn, instead, left on the country road, and go up the steps of a quaint little hotel with a hanging, hand-painted sign. The man dozing at the lobby just smiles at the two of them, likely thinking of them coming home from a costume party or such sort, and watches them stumble upstairs with something almost like fondness.

Lan Zhan helps Wei Ying get out of his doublet and his boots and breeches, and the glittering strand of rubies off his neck. He removes the pins from the doublet, and then promptly tosses all the clothes out the window into the night. He slips off his jacket and spreads it over Wei Ying’s bare legs, all propriety now that they are no longer in that alcove and its cushions. 

‘Would you like more water?’ Lan Zhan offers, holding out his magic flask.

Wei Ying shakes his head. It is not water he needs. He feels an almost-familiar rushing in his ears, a pushing that comes from within his throat and rises up through his nostrils. His hands tangle in Lan Zhan’s shirt. 

The Unknown cracks open before him. He can see time tangle like a thread. They have done this all before. They will do this again. Their lives twist with blood, rain, brine, death, desire. 

He thinks of the dragon in his dreaming, and the fire eating the witch’s house.

‘I will ruin you,’ Wei Ying whispers. His face is damp with tears he does not remember shedding. ‘I will ruin everything . ’

Lan Zhan leans his forehead against Wei Ying’s, and he whispers something in a language Wei Ying cannot recognize. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Wei Ying sobs. ‘I’m sorry for touching things I shouldn’t.’

Lan Zhan’s hand braces Wei Ying’s face. ‘Soft now,’ he murmurs, his accent curling into something older. ‘Come. There was poison in your wine.’

‘I’m sorry,’ whimpers Wei Ying, and he is pulled down onto the bed, tucked against Lan Zhan’s chest, where he does not deserve to be.

‘Gently, baobei ,’ says Lan Zhan – or he has not said it yet, but will, in a time and distance away, where they are different people who have never known of magic, or masters of casting, or enemies, or lovers. 

Wei Ying closes his eyes and feels Lan Zhan’s lips on his forehead. The world spins, cocooned within other worlds where Wei Ying always loves Lan Zhan like the wolf loves the moon.

~

Wei Ying wakes up with a blinding headache and a mouth that tastes like ash. He sits up. He is in an unfamiliar room, with lovely white sheets and embroidered pillows. There are windows facing the ocean, the curtains drawn and a cool wind billowing in – and Lan Zhan, in a pale gray sweater and comfortable chinos. He turns, and smiles at Wei Ying with just the corner of his mouth.

He goes to the counter of the hotel room, by the TV, and pours something into one of the hotel’s mugs. He brings over the mug and hands it over to Wei Ying, who sips gingerly. There is tea in the mug that tastes like salt and sea kelp, but chases the headache away with great efficiency.

Wei Ying recalls only fragments – gold leaves swirling, wine in crystal goblets, Mingjue laughing, a pixie’s hands on his skin.

‘What happened?’ he groans. 

Lan Zhan inhales, and sits down at the edge of the bed. He exhales carefully through his lips, then: ‘You were poisoned.’

‘I was- what?’ Wei Ying presses his hand to his chest. ‘How the fuck- was I supposed to die?’

‘A human should have died, yes,’ Lan Zhan nods. ‘I would have suffered its effects more than you did. It was why I did not know at first, why I thought you merely drunk.’

Wei Ying remembers then, with horrible clarity, being shoved against a wall of vines and dry-humping the love of his life. ‘Oh my god,’ he says, his face burning. ‘Oh my god I am sorry.’

Lan Zhan laughs then. ‘Why are you sorry?’ he asks, tilting his head. ‘I was the one who kissed you, who-’

‘Oh my god please do not describe it to me right now,’ Wei Ying stammers. ‘I am going to die if you describe it oh my god. Lan Zhan are you an exhibitionist oh my god?’

Lan Zhan smiles again. ‘We were well hidden,’ he replies. ‘But that is not how I would have hoped it would first happen between us. I am glad we stopped.’

Wei Ying’s heart is a bird in his throat. ‘Sorry,’ he squeaks, ‘when you hoped what?’ He puts down the tea and rubs his face in his hands. ‘Oh wow. This is. We’ll figure it out, right? Right, Lan Zhan?’

Lan Zhan smiles again. He reaches out and traces a thumb alongside Wei Ying’s cheek. ‘Mn,’ he hums, and the sound is a lovely rumble in his chest. ‘We will have Greenland. We will have time, Wei Ying, to agree on whichever terms suit you best.’ 

Before Wei Ying can fully process that, Lan Zhan is moving away, off the bed, leaving Wei Ying much colder than moments before.

‘Drink your tea,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘Strong as you are, my little witch, I do not like the idea of poison in your veins. Then you can shower, and we can drive back to the Institute.’

Wei Ying nods. There are, after all, still dragons to see.

~

This is, of course, before Wei Ying follows the winding rock path in the forest. Before he treads through the ruins of his ancestors’ legacy – the ruins that will become his legacy. Before he sees Wen Qing there standing the rain, wet and frightened like a cat.

Before Greenland becomes nothing more than a dream.

Chapter Text

Grimoire of the Witch Ying Wei; To Break a Pixie’s Curse

• Destroy a symbol of love.
• Press your thumb and forefinger into the cursed person’s chest. Twist counter-clockwise.
• Spread the ashes of your heartbreak on the cursed person’s face. 

~

To be an academic – in the known world or in the Unknown – is to live with a burning desire to learn. To follow a thread to its logical conclusion, or at least the next set of questions you might ask. To understand . 

Wei Ying feels the itch as he scrubs the Marine Biology cottage clean, as he catalogs their equipment, as he takes his lunch break on the cliffs with Lan Zhan before they go down to count empty nests in the cliffs, and fins breaking the surface of the water. He feels it burn in the back of his skull.

It is the mystery that compels you, Dr. Wen had said, that night outside the marquee, a thousand lifetimes ago. 

Lan Zhan excuses himself to go sort funding with the Board for Greenland. Wei Ying is free for the afternoon. He should go back to his rooms and do a bit of catch-up work. He should grab normalcy with both hands. Be a good witch. Be worthy of his department. Of this Institute’s mercy.

He makes it as far as across the green before his footsteps slow, and he turns towards the far wall – a mere smudge of bricks peeking between tall buildings – and the dark of the forest beyond. The memory of an ancient violence hums between the trees, begging to be witnessed. 

Here there is a truth. Do you not wish to know it? 

Wei Ying closes his eyes. It is the same sensation as before – the pressing at his temples, alleviated only by writing in his grimoire. 

He should go back to his rooms and forget this business. But he has already walked through the forest once, and he cannot forget what he already remembers. He turns on his heel, holds his bag close to himself, and walks toward the wall. 

He finds the hidden door easily. Zixuan’s magic is still fresh on it. 

Hermit crab , he thinks to himself as he wakes the spell back up, passes through the open archway, and soothes the spell back to sleep once more. The wall weaves shut behind him.

Trees stretch far above him, older than they should be. Threads of magic stretch before him, old and strong, anchored to a thing in the distance. Wei Ying holds out his hand, and like a diver descending in the dark, holds on as he follows the pull of the thread into the shadows between the trees. 

At first there is nothing but fern and moss underfoot, crusted over with early frost – but then from the last of autumn’s dying undergrowth, there appears a narrow stone path. Part of the tiling crumbles into the soil, but enough remains that Wei Ying can make out the shining slate. 

Very little of the fading light makes it through the thick canopy to the forest floor. Wei Ying feels suspended in almost-night, but it matters very little to a witch transmuted by dragon-pearl. He follows the path as it cuts through the trees, winding this way and that in tandem to the concaves of the earth, until he comes across a single standing archway of moss-eaten stone. 

Wei Ying lifts a hand, pressing his bare palm against the cold stone. The moss is soft beneath his hand, and falls away from the arch as he retracts his grasp. 

It is not a magic doorway in the sense that it is not a tunnel of bramble through which he is meant to step into another fey dimension. But it is magic, in the sense that it was made to be sturdy, to support the floors above it, the wood and steel and brick and mortar of the abbey that once stood here, in the deep woods. 

There is very little left of this building. The walls have been knocked down – whether by war or time, it is unclear. Trees have worn their roots into the foundations. All that remains is a low barrier that marks out each room and hall. 

Wei Ying takes a tour of the ruins. Here, a foyer, the floor marked with molten stone all bubbled out of shape. There, stone tiles half-swallowed by soil and rotting leaves. Here, a storeroom. To his left, the outline of what might have once been a window, and colored glass sparkling in the brown grass. To his right, a statue worn so thoroughly by rain and wind and moss that it is impossible to tell if it was once a beast or man. 

There is a great hall in the center of this great carcass. Its floors are covered by mosaics which are miraculously still intact, gleaming as though freshly polished. It is a scene of a lively coral reef, populated with jewel-colored fish and bright anemone. Through the mosaic ocean, a dragon stretches its many-coiled body from collapsed hearth to hearth, legless and speckled in shades of jade, from dark green to palest white. Fronds of pale green stretch from its back like branches of kelp.  

Wei Ying kneels at the dragon’s head. He brushes his fingers over the tiny tiles that frame its large, yellow eyes. 

You are selfish, to claim her as yours , growls a familiar voice through the folds of time. 

Wei Ying lifts his head and sees Chairman Wen standing there, in the archway, his thorn-tipped sword brandished in his hand. Behind him, destruction roars and canonfire punctures the ancient walls of the abbey. 

And behind him, he feels the others, standing folded in a circle, protecting the eldest of them, trying not to give away their youngest, hiding in the cellar. How can this place claim to be Scholar’s Sanctuary if it cannot protect its own? But the creatures are relentless in their attack, and it is not in Sanctuary’s nature to retaliate with equal force.

She is not ours , says a calm voice. It sounds so familiar to Wei Ying, like a lullaby he can no longer recall the words for. Dragons do not belong to anyone. 

Chairman Wen bares his teeth. They are red with fresh blood. They do your bidding.

We call to them, says the calm stranger behind Wei Ying. When they answer, it is their kindness we rely on.

Wei Ying turns then, and sees her – the woman in the hut with chicken feet. And yet it is not her. But her face is kind, not stern, and her mouth is made for smiling, not housing metal teeth. She looks more like Wei Ying’s mother. They could be twins. Sisters. 

Metal shrieks as the invader strikes the tiles with his sword. Be stubborn as you like, he growls. If you will not give me the dragon’s pearl, then I will take her magic from you. I will bleed it from your flesh and suck it from your bones.

There is a horrible calm in the woman’s face. She has seen the future, the fire and the blood and the ruin, the brine that caresses her children’s bones in the secret bay not far from here, where Bosmorial will one day come up from the sea and offer a new gift to her descendant. 

‘Fine,’ says the old woman, who is here and also gone, who is dead and also not dead, who is evil and also good, who is grandmother and witch and Senior Scholar of Sanctuary. ‘But first, you will know what it means to fight a witch.’

And then they are all gone, and Wei Ying stands once again alone in a ruin in the forest. There is no invasion. There is no fire. There is nothing but the green and the moss, both which have come to make amends for the burning. 

He presses his hands to his mouth. He looks down at the dragon, who is likely lost, consumed by greed. Lost, like this place. 

Rain starts to fall through the gaps in the trees. First it spits, then a thin shower, then, almost torrential. The heavy drops leave small divots in the soft earth, splashes against the mosaic dragon and makes it shimmer.

Wei Ying could sit here, probably, for years, chasing the tunnel of time until he sees  all that has happened here. But that will not bring back the books turned to ash. It will not raise the dead from their bones. It will not save those hidden children from what will be done to them. It will not bring back the witches who have traversed the earth, searching for their clan, only to be caught in the Wens’ clever web.

What will you be, son of Cangse?

Lonely. Wei Ying is lonely. He is one of the last of his kind and he aches with a grief of things he will never know. 

There is no way but forward. Lan Zhan does it – so why can’t Wei Ying? 

He gets up and wipes the mud from the front of his pants. He steps carefully through the ruins. He can hear the echoes of screaming and crying, the roar of fire and the horrible creak of splintering wood. But he can also hear voices raised in song, and a girl laughing, high and sweet, and a cat purring by a warm hearth. 

He raises his eyes to the undergrowth, and the stone path leading back to his new home, and he sees, then, beneath the curtain of silver rain, half shrouded in shadows as though they were close friends – Dr. Wen, her hair long and unbound and flat against her skull, her eyes glinting like a cat’s in the dark.

Wei Ying takes slow steps towards her. He should be afraid of her. She is a Wen. Kin to witch-killers.

But she has no sharp teeth left in her ruined mouth. And he can set her on fire in a single gesture. 

‘Mr. Wei,’ the sais-pas says. Her mouth flashes in the gloom – she has filled her mouth with metal teeth. 

Wei Ying feels a rush of confusing emotions. She looks terrible – pale, her eyes sunken, her cheeks almost gray. She looks thin. Her clothes look frayed at the sleeves – nothing like the sharp suit she wore the first day they met. There are no rubies in her ears. 

He cannot drive the image from his mind though. He cannot forget the screaming. All those witches murdered. Children drowned in shallow water. Butchered scholars buried in mud.

‘Did you know?’ he asks her. His voice is calm, even as his heart hammers in his throat.

Her eye tracks over his shoulder, through the gloom, toward the ruin of molten rock and shattered glass. For a moment she says nothing at all. The rain patters off dying leaves and bark. 

‘It is in our records,’ she says at last, meeting his unflinching gaze. ‘But my uncle bound our tongues from speaking of it. Does it make a difference now?’

Wei Ying smiles humorlessly. He thought of her as incredible, inspiring once. 

‘To me it does.’

Dr. Wen sighs. She pushes her hand to her forehead and pushes away sodden locks of her jet-black hair. There is a bruise darkening at her forehead. Wei Ying wonders who placed it here. 

‘It’s complicated,’ she says.

‘Is it?’ Wei Ying asks. 

Dr. Wen stares at him with her large, haunting eyes. ‘If but you knew the stain my uncle leaves on our bloodline,’ she says softly. ‘ This is not how we came into the world, you understand? This is not our way, where we came from. But by the time my foot touched British soil, it was too late to do anything about it. The Institute was already built upon its stolen bricks and swallowed magic.’

Wei Ying takes a step forward, hissing through his teeth. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘The truth,’ she tells him. ‘The Hawthorn Institute is built on the bones of dead witches. But it must exist. It must exist, because Scholar’s Sanctuary does not.’

The argument feels familiar. He hates it. And yet, he understands it. He is an academic, and he understands – they cannot burn the Institute down, for it is as much the protector of its stolen knowledge as it is a plunderer.

Wei Ying takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes. 

The rain is cold on the crown of his head. It traces gentle fingertips down the back of neck, seeping past the collar of his shirt. He can hear the forest breathing, the squirrels and birds and foxes and living things growing and dying in it. What is taken shall be returned.

He opens his eyes to find Dr. Wen still staring at him.

‘Why are you here?’ he asks her. ‘Are you headed back to the Institute?’

She laughs then, a sharp, raw sound. Her metal teeth glint in the light. ‘There is no place left for me there,’ she grins, her eyes unblinking and so, so sad. ‘They kicked us out – Wen Ning, my mother, my family. I found us a place to hide in the human world, a farm we can work on but-’

She presses her lips together, and twists herself away. There are bruises on her wrists too, and on her elbows. Wei Ying thinks of the way she spoke about her uncle.

I will not lie down like a little dog and do what he wants.

‘My mother,’ Dr. Wen says to the trees. Her voice trembles. ‘My cousins. My brother. They’ve disappeared. I can’t find them. I have wandered this cursed forest for hours and…’

She presses her hand to her forehead, and bends into herself, as though she might crumple in the rain like a limp paper man. 

Wei Ying thinks about wandering blindly through the trees, calling for his brother.

‘Is this a trick?’ he asks her. 

Dr. Wen looks at him like he’s lost his mind. ‘I cannot trick a witch with your gift,’ she tells him baldly. 

Wei Ying shrugs. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘but you’ll forgive me for being cautious. I was poisoned yesterday, see.’

Dr. Wen’s eyebrows arch. ‘Very well,’ she replies. ‘My name. Use my name.’

Wei Ying feels his stomach turn. ‘I won’t do that,’ he says, shaking his head.

She bares her teeth like a dog used to picking fights and tearing flesh from bone. Her shadow stretches, inky black, towards Wei Ying, and he is reminded that she is still dangerous, even without her shark’s teeth. 

‘Do it,’ she growls. 

‘Wen Qing,’ snaps Wei Ying, ‘you will tell me the truth. Why are you here? Where is your family?’

Her mouth trembles. She blinks her eyes, her eyelashes heavy with water.

‘I’m here to look for my family,’ she says, her voice strange, coming out of her as though from afar. ‘I asked them to wait for me in the forest, but they are gone. I don’t know where they are. I do not know where Wen Ning is. I am afraid. I think the Jins have taken them, the way they took me, into the dungeons.’

Wei Ying looks at Dr. Wen – Wen Qing – and her bruised arms.

‘No,’ he says.

‘If they are there,’ says Wen Qing, ‘then I do not think I will ever see them again.’

‘No,’ says Wei Ying again.

He holds out his hand. She steps forward, silently, and places her hand in his open palm.

Wei Ying holds their cupped palms skyward, and waits for the rain to fill it with cool, fresh water. A small fragment of sky, overcast and broken into shards by the canopy, shivers in their grasp. 

Wen Qing looks up at him questioningly.

Wei Ying tips their hand over and spills the sky onto soil. The world flips inside out like a pillowcase.

Suddenly they are no longer in a rainy forest, but in a corridor made of shimmering white stone. The ceiling is low, and the way lit with flickering torches. On the walls, golden roots push through the gaps and cracks of the stones. There is magic in the air, thick and cloying like the perfume of too many flowers rotting in a closed room. 

‘Mr. Wei,’ whispers Wen Qing, ‘what the fuck have you done?’

Wei Ying opens his mouth to explain the spell, but he is interrupted by a sound in the hallway. He turns his head.

There is an old woman standing there next to a flickering torch, her dark hair streaked with silver. Her eyes are blank, like cloudy marbles. Her throat is a maw of white and pink, and crimson bleeds down the front of her fine white blouse. 

Wei Ying should be afraid. 

The dead woman raises a hand and points down the hallway behind her.

‘What are you looking at?’ Wen Qing hisses. ‘What’s there? What are you looking at?’

The old woman’s milk-white eyes continue to stare.

‘What was your mother wearing,’ asks Wei Ying with a dry mouth, ‘when you saw her last?’

Wen Qing gives a strangled gasp. 

The dead woman turns and begins to walk back down the curve of the hallway. Wei Ying follows, trapped in a trance. His right ear rings as though full of water, but when he shakes his head to clear it, it is not saltwater that comes trickling out. He touches his ear and glances down at it – black, thick sludge coating his fingertips.

Now he can hear it clearly – whispers, echoing against the pale stones. So many whispers, like the warning hiss of a hundred snakes.

He follows the dead woman. He does not know if Wen Qing is behind him. Living, dying, past, present – he cannot decipher what is real. He is good at swimming but the current pulls him by the foot and drags him out. 

The white stone gives way to dungeons. There are so many cages here, so many bars lined with iron. There are ghosts in every crevice here, branded into the stone with ugly deaths. The dead woman walks past them all, toward an archway at the very end, decorated with carved lotuses – a strangely delicate thing amongst this darkness. Beyond the archway is pitch black.

Wei Ying’s eyes adjust slowly as he steps through the archway and down a flight of steps. At the bottom of the stairs, the murdered old woman watches his descent with moonstone eyes. 

Wei Ying snaps his fingers, and globes of ghostly light appear above the dead woman, pushing the darkness away and revealing the room.

But it is not a room. It is a pit.

A horrible divot yawns around the old woman’s slippered feet. Beyond her there are bodies. Bodies, stained and still fresh and not yet rotting, piled on top of each other, as far as the light will reach. Burnt cloth sticks to ravaged flesh. Blood darkens and grows sticky on the dusty floor. Twisted hands reach up skyward, twisted into claws. Bone and sinew and dark organs glisten wetly from rib cages pulled open like plundered chests. 

There footsteps behind Wei Ying, then Wen Qing appears at his side. Her mouth opens as she sees the slaughter. Her knees crumple beneath her. A strangled cry escapes her. She sounds like a wounded animal. A dog, kicked too hard to yelp. 

The dead woman walks out of the light and into the shadow. With numb legs and shaking hands, Wei Ying steps down off the staircase and into the massacre.

The noise, deafening already, hits him with all the force of a speeding train. A thousand voices slam into him, screaming, crying, begging for mercy. He stumbles, trips and nearly falls into the gore.

He can feel something burning, white-hot in his jacket pocket. He reaches in and pulls it out – the charm made by Lan Zhan, with flowers picked by Wei Ying. Fire bursts over the charm, consuming those delicate dried petals in a flash of heat.

The screaming stops.

Wei Ying lifts his head, ashes in his hands, and sees the old woman.  

Her eyes are dark now, no longer moonstone. They are large, and haunting – like Wen Qing’s. She looks as she might have once, before her throat was slit. Her blouse is immaculate, and there are tiny roses embroidered at her collar. She points at her feet.

There, curled in a tight ball, pink shirt stained with blood so dark it looks black, is Wen Ning.

Wei Ying kneels before the young man. 

A wail rises up, strong and loud and alive. Wei Ying pries away Wen Ning’s arms and finds there, clutched to Wen Ning’s chest, is a child.

Wen Qing rushes over, sobbing, and scoops the boy up. She holds him tightly. ‘A-Yuan,’ she gasps. ‘A-Yuan, A-Yuan, it’s okay, it’s okay, Aunty’s got you.’ 

Wen Ning does not move, but his eyelids flutter slightly. His lips are so pale, they might be blue. Wei Ying rolls him over gently. There is a hole in the sais-pas’s neck.

He’s been bled like a pig.

As he is now, he will not survive. He is as vulnerable as that child in Wen Qing’s arms.

Wei Ying can feel the pixie’s curse encircling Wen Ning’s body like a metal vice. If he breaks it, he will bring about the Change. But it will be done against his will. He will hunger. He will be cold forever. He will be shadow, never again sunlight, never again brightness.

But he will not die. 

Wei Ying’s temples throb. The spell comes to him slowly, a spider cautiously crawling from its subterranean home. 

He looks up at Wen Qing, rocking the wailing child as one might their own baby. Tears fall down her face, silent and unstoppable. He thinks of Jiang Cheng in the giant birdcage. His sister’s apartment, empty and wrecked. The lotus, broken on her front steps. 

He presses his forefinger and thumb into Wen Ning’s chest, twists counterclockwise, and drops the ashes that were once a small bouquet of flowers on Wen Ning’s face. 

Like a lock sliding home, the Change begins to eat down the sais-pas’s face, turning that sallow skin perfect ivory. His eyes open, and they are pitch black.  

Chapter Text

Diary of the Ghost General, Talon of the Witch Ying Wei

My cousin told me that the Change was like dying in reverse. 

How do I know what dying in reverse is like without dying? I used to ask him. Oh, he’d tell me. You’ll know.

It was painful, but like frostbite cures are painful. It started with tingling, all over, and the feeling of different organs coming back to life, but in a different way – and with it, a horrible hunger that made the back of my throat dry. And then I opened my eyes, and the shadows were full of light – and there he was, my friend the witch.

Wei Ying, breaker of curses. Killer of Wens.

He helped me sit up with gentle hands and a face made of stone. He tried to help me to my feet, but I did it easily. I was much stronger than I’d ever been. The dark was in my veins, and it responded to me. And in the dark, I could see and smell the slaughter of my family. My mother. My aunts. My uncles. My cousins.

I would mourn them later, my sister told me. Now, we needed to run. 

Wei Ying led the way, holding my hand in his like I was a toddler. And to me, he seemed like a giant, glowing with impossible power. I understood why my uncle was so jealous of witches. I, personally, would have worshiped them. 

But then he looked at my sister and we stopped for a moment there, at the foot of the stairs. He looked down at the watch on his wrist, then up at us, and he seemed very small in his damp clothes.

‘It’s my birthday,’ he said, and he looked like he’d cry, or laugh, or maybe just lie down and never move again, and A-Qing closed her eyes like she was praying, but I know that’s what she does when she doesn’t want to cry.

I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for it, for causing them both so much pain. But in a way, it’s nice to share a birthday with one of your best friends. Even if this was a second birthday. A coming of age.

I want to think of this moment as an act of love. A bid for hope. 

He will call it a step further into the dark, but I will never think of it like that. There is too much light in him – the light that he used to coax me back to my bones and flesh and skin. 

We went up the stairs, to the hall with cages. Wei Ying ripped a hole in his jacket, pulled out a duck feather from there, and then tore from the wall a piece of gilded root. (One thing mundane, another precious, perhaps. I will never understand his spells.) He clenched them in his fist and we were out, out of the buried dark and standing on a stone path in a forest.

Wei Ying turned, pulling on my hand again, but in our way stood Dr. Lan Jr..

‘Don’t run,’ he said. He looked angry, maybe, or afraid. His sword was drawn.

My sister threatened him to get out of the way, but she was so weak, and she was carrying A-Yuan, and there’s nothing she could have done with her fangs pulled out.

‘Wei Ying, do not run,’ Dr. Lan Jr. said again. ‘Come back to the Institute with me.’

And I’m not sure what it meant, but maybe it sounded like a threat too, and a very real one.

I remember what Wei Ying said in response. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

He said: ‘If I have to fight with them, I’d prefer to fight with you. If I’m doomed to die, then at least I could be killed by you. That would be worth it.’

What horrible words to say. What horrible words to have live inside you. 

I think maybe Dr. Lan Jr. would have said something back. Maybe he did, but the rain was so heavy. We couldn’t hear it. 

He let us go, in the end. I took one last look back, and he was standing there, his back to us on the dark path, glowing like moonlight, sword in his hand, facing the horde as they followed in glittering armor. Like a knight, facing an army alone. 

~

War Journal of Qingyang, Formerly Knight of Peonies, Northern Fey Court; November 5th, Reign of the Peonies

My home is a den of snakes. I have known it since my childhood. I have known it since the man who raised me taught me to strike first for pain, and only third for death. I have known it since I watched Zixuan’s father make him fight his best friend to the death. 

A witch and a few Wens make a good villainous group. A convenient enemy. 

Perhaps I should not have said it to the High King of the Northern Fey Court. I should not have said it in front of his advisors, in front of his friends, in front of his many lovers, unwilling and willing. I should not have said it in front of his son and heir.

But they are my friends. They are my friends. THEY ARE MY FRIENDS.

I went to say goodbye to Dr. Lan Jr. before I left. They let me have that much, at least. He is a ghost that haunts the cottage, a broken-hearted selkie looking out for a drowned sailor to come haunt him again.

In the human world I will age, I will die, and I will be free of my home and my peony-perfumed snakes. I hope Zixuan joins me. I hope he will be free, too. And the rest – I hope they fucking choke on their own venom.

~

Private Journals of Dr. Lan Jr.; November 28th

The wounds are healing well. Uncle has managed to acquire a pardon from the Courts, saving both my tenure and Marine Biology.

I do not know if it means anything without him.

Chapter Text

Personal Notes: The Witch Ying Wei; November-December

To be considered dead to the machine of human bureaucracy is remarkably simple.

Here is how it is done:

• You lift the veil off the wreckage  of your brother’s car and let a farmer discover it on his way to work.
• Leave enough dried blood and skull fragments on the hood of the car to convince any half-competent paramedic that you suffered a near-fatal head wound.
• “Lose” your phone in a creek near a well-worked farm.
• Only contact your brother via frost or mist. Be patient with his anger and fear. He will understand eventually, and you have friends who will keep him safe from your enemies. 
• Remain in the Unknown until it is too late for you to be saved.

~

Wei Ying has a strange, sad, recurring dream.

It is not one of his death-dreams. It is just a memory, buried by magic and unearthed by his own awakened power.

It goes like this:

He is sitting on a thin strip of sand, his back to the singing forest and the looming cliffs, looking out over the sparkling sea. To his left sits a man who calls himself Xingchen, who says that he was a friend of Wei Ying’s mother. These are things that Wei Ying’s uncle and aunt believe. It is enough for them to permit this strange man with his British passport and polished Mandarin to take their adopted son out for a sea kayaking expedition. 

Wei Ying knows that the things that this man says are only half-truths.

He is not only known by Xingchen. 

And he is something more than a friend. But Wei Ying’s mother had no siblings, so it doesn’t quite make sense, but the grief that he carries, that he shares with Wei Ying is heavier than something a friend should feel. And in his face, Wei Ying sees the shape of his mother.

The air is humid. It will rain in the evening with heavy, cold droplets. 

‘It’s going to rain,’ says Xingchen, his dark eyes upon the rolling waves.

Wei Ying says nothing at all.

‘I’m glad you are not wearing your mask with me,’ the man continues. His voice is as light and gentle as a winter breeze. ‘I don’t like watching you perform.’

‘I don’t perform,’ Wei Ying lies.

Xicheng smiles then. He turns to Wei Ying, and the hot wind tosses his short-cropped hair over his forehead, revealing twin white scars that run nearly down to his eyelids. There is something wrong about the color of his eyes. They seem like a pencil coloring of irises, and not a lens with depth and filled with liquid. 

Wei Ying says nothing about his observations. He knows well enough to keep silent on these matters.

‘Our kind never stops performing,’ Xingchen says. There is a sadness to it. He is a very sad person, though he never stops smiling. 

He turns his head then, sharply – a cat picking up a bird in the bushes. Wei Ying, too, turns, and sees in the shallow water, a thing winking silver in the high sun by the shore. He scrambles to his feet and hurries into the waves.

He is nine, and not too old to be excited about fish.

But it is not a fish – or maybe it is a fish, and he’s not certain. It is the length of his arm, covered in scales that flash like light filtered through a prism, with a long face and a snout peppered with sharp teeth, and eyes bright and clever. It has limbs that end in little clawed feet, like an otter’s, but that’s not right, is it? Fish don’t have feet. 

It halts in its pursuit of a crab, and turns and looks directly at Wei Ying.

‘Oh,’ says Wei Ying, up to his calves in brine. ‘No, I’m sorry. Please go on.’

The creature in the water clacks its sharp teeth. It flips over, revealing a white belly, and weaves through Wei Ying’s legs like an otter somersaulting through kelp. Some of its scales rub off on Wei Ying’s skin, and he too shines in the sun. He laughs, and the little creature chitters like a dolphin, before wriggling back into the sand, chasing crabs once more.

Wei Ying hurries back to shore, grinning as his legs glimmer, too ecstatic to care very much about who the man on the beach is – only aware of the fact that Xingchen is smiling back at him, waving.

Xingchen rubs his calves off with a towel. He spreads the fabric out, showing the hundreds of tiny scales collected there, flashing silver and wonderful. He takes a jar from within his day pack, and painstakingly transfers the scales from the towel into the jar. He closes the lid and hands it over to Wei Ying.

‘Scales are a precious thing,’ he tells the boy.

‘Okay,’ says Wei Ying.

Xingchen presses his palm over Wei Ying’s salt-covered curls. ‘I will tell you a secret, A-Ying,’ he says. ‘A seed to grow when it is time. You and I, myself and your mother – we are of the old coven.’

‘Okay,’ says Wei Ying, staring at the silver scales in his jar.

‘It is a lonely thing to be what we are,’ says Xingchen. ‘But a blessing, too. You will be lonely, but you will never be alone. The sea will answer you when you call to it, if only you would call to it.’

Wei Ying wonders if Xingchen evaded the Wens. If he still lives. If he is out there, a wandering lonely witch with his sadness and his glamored eyes.

He tries not to think too long about it. This is one of the many things he has been forced to lose. One of the many things he never owned – things stolen from him before he was old enough to grasp them in his slippery hands.

He pushes himself out of bed. The light is pale, even though the hour is late. The curtains are far too flimsy to keep out much, but there is very little around them to keep out. It’s cold beyond the safety of his blankets. The radiator gave out in the middle of the night. It is not that the spell is bad – just that the house has a tendency towards chaos rather than order. And that’s alright.

Wei Ying accommodates the moods of the house. He loves it as much as he would love a dog with tattered ears and one eye. 

They came across it after weeks of camping out in overgrown tunnels and beneath bridges. It stands just on the border of the deep forest, between the known world and the Unknown. The house has a scent to it, as though it was built by magic hands rather than blessed by spells for longevity and to ward against weather and time. Wei Ying can tell that in its foundations are bricks taken from Scholar’s Sanctuary – this is a witch’s house, or at least, it was once, and now it is again.

Wei Ying keeps the house safe with thick bramble bushes and hedges tipped with thorns of iron. He has hundreds, thousands of wards – some in the leaves, some in the ground, some hanging in the air like tripwire. 

He lifts the protections twice a day – once to let Wen Ning out to hunt in the woods, and then again to let the sais-pas back in. He doesn’t ask Wen Ning what he eats, while he’s out there. All he knows is that Wen Ning brings back enough rabbits and birds for the three of them to eat. 

He goes to the personal sink in his room and looks down into its half-moon bowl and the brass taps. They match the taps in the one bath they all share – a tub perched on lion’s claws, framed in by a stained glass window pieced together with hundreds of different shades of green. Wei Ying can tell that some of that glass was also salvaged from Scholar’s Sanctuary.

Wei Ying turns the hot water on and lets the steam rise up over the oval mirror. He taps the top right corner of the mirror, then the bottom left, and then the top left. The glass ripples beneath the haze of condensation. 

Still alive, Wei Ying writes on the steamy glass.

The hot water rises, and his words disappear. There is a brief pause, and then fine, delicate letters appear on the glass.

ud better fuckin be

MM discovered the fancy chippy

im gonna go broke

love u pls stay alive

Wei Ying smiles as the steam rises and his brother’s writing fades. Jiang Cheng’s been getting better at writing these messages. In fact, Wei Ying’s pretty sure he’s started writing with a makeup brush.

He’s relieved that Mianmian is there. She knows how to ward a house against sais-pas . And she’s still devilishly good with a sword.

Wei Ying tries not to let the bitter taste in his mouth ruin his morning. He tries to brush it out with minty toothpaste, but it lingers. If he goes to see his siblings, he’ll stop being Missing Presumed Dead. He’ll alert the sais-pas watching his sister’s house. He’ll risk Jiang Cheng and Yanli getting captured again – or worse. 

He can’t go back. 

Wei Ying finishes getting ready. He’s got some clothes that Wen Qing picked up from a charity shop. Some of them are a bit too big – though that might be because he’s lost some weight. There aren’t any gyms out here in the forest, and he walks a lot. Beggars can’t be choosers, anyways.

(He doesn’t look at the biscuit tin that sits next to his socks. He doesn’t open the tin. He won’t think about it. He won’t.)

Wen Qing is at the stove already as Wei Ying clatters down the stairs. Her hair is tied up with a ribbon. She’s wearing one of her favorite charity shop finds under her sweater – a gray dress with tiny daisies on it – which means it might be a good day today. A-Yuan is sitting at the table, organizing rocks and yellow leaves into careful circles. It’s a marvel how happy he is, given what he’s seen. 

‘Wei Wei!’ he calls, spotting Wei Ying. He holds up his hands and squeezes the air. 

Wei Ying grins and scoops up A-Yuan. He presses his cold face against the child’s soft, warm cheek, and he blows a long raspberry, which sends A-Yuan into a fit of giggles.

‘Wei,’ sighs Wen Qing, not taking her eye off the pan. ‘Don’t. You’ll set him off again.’

Wei Ying smiles at the stern-faced sais-pas . ‘What are we making? Eggs?’ 

‘No eggs,’ she replies. ‘But I’ve got mushrooms and bread.’

‘Shooms,’ says A-Yuan, very helpfully. 

‘We should invest in a chicken,’ Wen Qing says, turning off the stove. She spoons the contents of the pan into a large, chipped porcelain plate, and turns to set it down in the center of the table. ‘Bess will give us one of her egg-layers for free. Says she doesn’t get on with the rest of the girls.’

Wei Ying watches Wen Qing’s face carefully as she cuts the bread into thick slices. He balances A-Yuan on his hip, and distracts the little boy’s clutching hands by fastening them to the collar of his sweater.

‘Bess?’ he repeats. ‘Who’s Bess?’

Wen Qing’s shoulders draw up and together. She sets down the knife and presses her fingertips against her metal teeth – a nervous habit she’s developed in the past month or so – and meets Wei Ying’s steady gaze. 

‘I’m careful,’ she tells him. ‘She thinks I’m a sixty-five year old woman from Leeds living with my grandson.’

‘Your magic has a scent,’ Wei Ying frowns.

Wen Qing’s lips quirk ever-so-slightly upward. ‘Only to your kind,’ she reminds him. ‘Bess is fine. We should get the chicken.’

‘In spring,’ Wei Ying says. ‘Spring is better.’

It’s a compromise, one that seems to be acceptable to the sais-pas , because she nods and takes A-Yuan out of Wei Ying’s arms. She sits A-Yuan on her lap and begins to break bread off into little portions, before spooning some mushrooms onto them. There’s not enough meat in their meals, Wei Ying worries. At least, not enough for how much a creature like little A-Yuan needs to ever grow big and strong. There’s not enough meat for Wen Qing either, who has no teeth with which to hunt, and she’s always here in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning and looking after A-Yuan. She’s grown thin. She looks tired.

‘Don’t get anxious,’ Wen Qing tuts.

He lets his eye drift over the charms that hang from the windows, over the door, and down from the eaves – twine and animal bone and herbs and rock and glass. The wards hold strong, but any moment now, someone will come. 

‘I’m not anxious,’ says Wei Ying.

Wen Qing pushes Wei Ying’s plate at him. ‘Eat.’

The mushrooms are good. The bread is warm. A-Yuan sings between bites, and Wen Qing scolds him softly without ever meaning it. Wei Ying sits back in his chair and watches the morning light filter in through the windows of the house, spilling over the dark wooden floors. It is cold but they are together, and the fire crackles in the hearth.

One of the charms by the window rings out. A ward has been tripped in the clearing just north of them. 

Wei Ying sets his spoon down and gets up. The legs of his chair scrape over the floor.

Wen Qing’s eyes are lowered to the table as Wei Ying passes her. He squeezes her shoulder once, and she presses her hand over his. I’m sorry , she seems to say in her touch.

She doesn’t understand, of course, that it isn’t her fault. This would have happened eventually. And even if he hadn’t brought Wen Ning back, even if he hadn’t helped her that night in the dungeons – he still can’t go back.

Wei Ying takes the gravel path to the edge of the hedgerow. Their iron thorns glint in the pale sunlight. He waves his hand and watches as the hedges withdraw, and he ducks through. The spell seals itself behind him. It will stay sealed, even Wei Ying dies out here. And they can’t track him from his shoes – he’s made sure that he leaves no footprints( To Erase a Mole; To Mend a Broken Shoe; To Clean a Garden). 

The ground is hard with frost. The leaves have rotten into wet soil, and the twisting branches above bare. Chilly winter air stings at Wei Ying’s cheeks. 

The sais-pas stands in the clearing with his sword in his hand. He is wearing leather armor, and a cloak raven’s feathers. He’s not from the court of the Northern Fey – he doesn’t wear their emblem, nor their colors of white, gold and yellow. Perhaps he does not know the end he’s about to meet.

He raises his sword higher as Wei Ying steps into the clearing. ‘Witch Ying Wei,’ he snarls. His voice is the sound of gravel falling into a pit. ‘I am here to seek justice.’

Wei Ying tilts his head. ‘You’re not here to seek justice,’ he sighs. 

He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out his pocketbook. He holds it up. The sais-pas ’s yellow eyes light up, and he takes a step forward, hand reaching out.

‘You don’t need this,’ Wei Ying says, waving his pocketbook.

‘The Grimoire must be destroyed,’ the sais-pas growls. He takes another step forward. 

Wei Ying tucks the pocketbook away. ‘The Jins don’t want to destroy it,’ he replies. ‘You’re being played for a fool. Go home, raven knight. You don’t want to fight a witch.’

The sais-pas swings his sword in a wide arc. His teeth are like a wolf’s, and he bares them. ‘You are not difficult to kill.’

Wei Ying laughs, then, and something dark and cold spreads in his heart. He bites into his cheek, his mouth fills with blood, and he smiles with lips stained red.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Come then.’

~

After it is done, and he has turned the sais-pas to a dark scorch mark on the earth, Wei Ying spits blood into his hand and spills it over the burnt ground. He watches as ferns sprout from the new earth, and moss spreads out rich and lush and green, pushing away the frost.

There are other patches of greenery in the clearing, out of season, moss untouched by the creeping ice. There have been others who thought Wei Ying easy to kill. Others who stood in this clearing – and many other clearings like it – brandishing their weapons of steel and spellbound glass.

They had lives and families and loves. Wei Ying is certain of these things. And he doesn’t necessarily blame them for what they do. He even gives them a chance to run.

Wei Ying looks up at the pale sky. There is a breeze sneaking through the trees, stinging with brine from the shoreline. He does not think about Greenland. He turns and goes back through the trees, to the witch’s house and his coven of four.

~

Winter creeps in on December’s tail. Christmas comes with very little fanfare. Wei Ying cannot go anywhere to buy presents, and even if he could, he has no money with which to buy them – but he is pretty good at making things. And Wen Qing is an excellent cook.

They have venison, cooked medium rare, and a stew of mushrooms, spring onions and potatoes. For dessert Wen Qing bakes bread with lavender pressed into the crust, which they eat with a wheel of cheese that Bess gave Wen Qing in exchange for wild mushrooms. 

After dinner, by the fire, Wei Ying gifts Wen Ning a handkerchief sewn out of an old shirt, with blackberries and bramble leaves stitched in for luck. To Wen Qing, he gives a wooden spoon with a little duck carved into the handle. And for A-Yuan, a tiny paper bird painted cornflower blue.

(He does not think about Greenland. He does not think of the Marine Biology cottage.)

Wen Ning entertains A-Yuan by spelling the tiny bird to life and making it duck and weave around their kitchen, spiraling up in the air and then dive-bombing over the table. Magic comes easily to him now. He never relies on rituals anymore. 

A-Yuan chases the bird around the kitchen table, clapping and yelling. Wen Ning grins. His teeth are sharp and deadly, like a shark’s. Wen Qing allows herself a small, close-lipped smile as she watches the two of them. She turns the spoon over in her hand, and looks up at Wei Ying.

‘What?’ Wei Ying asks her.

She presses her lips together. Her hair is loose and falls down over her shoulders. She is still too thin, and there are shadows beneath her eyes. They sit by the fireplace in the house’s only two matching, worn armchairs – two thin, tired creatures clothed in tattered and repaired hand-me-downs, squeezing as close as they can to the hearth for warmth. 

It is funny, to think they once saw each other as student and teacher. To anyone looking in through the windows of this house, they’d look like an old couple. 

‘I worry about you,’ Wen Qing says to him.

Wei Ying arches his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Why?’

She shakes her head silently, almost in disappointment. 

‘I’ve gained weight,’ Wei Ying frowns. He pats his arm to show her – and it’s true. He’s put muscle back on, and he’s no longer quite so hungry in the night. They’re getting better at this cottage life. Wei Ying’s even got plans for a garden. 

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Wen Qing sighs, wrapping her scarf tighter around herself. ‘You know what I mean.’

Wei Ying looks into the fire for a moment. He tries to count the tongues licking at the grate, breaking wood down into white ash. He thinks of moss growing over frozen soil.

‘It’s Christmas, Qing,’ he murmurs. It makes no difference to use her name here, here where it is quiet and there is nothing but their home and old bricks from a dead school and remnants of a dead family. ‘Let’s not fight.’

The chimes by the window ring. Wei Ying gets up and goes to the door, and Wen Qing watches him go with dark, haunted eyes. 

~

In January, the ground is too hard and unyielding. Snow gathers on the ground, burying the leaves and moss. 

That doesn’t matter, though. Wei Ying has dreamt up new ways to get rid of invaders. Magic shouldn’t be wasted, see. It is better to transform a creature made of magic than to reduce them to ash, to eat them up with dragonfire. 

Sais-pas are intertwined with their magic. It makes them incredibly powerful – but it also means that a sick fuck like Wei Ying can twist their bones the way he can twist their magic. He picks them apart, burrows inside like a hermit crab might worm its way inside an empty shell, and warps their form from within. He’s not cruel, of course. He makes sure they don’t feel any pain as they become rock and bush and tree. 

And he always gives them the chance to run. Some flee. Most do not.

Wei Ying tries not to think too much about it. He cannot afford to. The morals of the known world – of the human world and its comforts and laws and peers – those no longer apply here.

He has more important things to worry about, like whether Wen Qing has enough to eat, and if A-Yuan is warm. He strengthens his wards. He cuts wood, keeps fire burning in the hearth. He glows plants in small pots by the window, feeds them sunlight by borrowing old spells from the dead.

And some days, he goes into his bedroom and stares at his sock drawer, and thinks of the biscuit tin inside. He never opens the biscuit tin. And he does not think of Greenland.

The cold does not last long, and soon the thaw comes, softening the earth. Wen Ning helps Wei Ying build a chicken coop. Wen Qing barters more wild mushrooms for a shovel and trowel and seeds, and returns one day with a black hen tucked under her arm.

Wei Ying plants strawberries, and potatoes, and carrots, and onions, and garlic, and eggplants. He places charmed stones around the tilled dirt to protect against slugs and pests. A-Yuan gets soil all over his clothes and has to be washed with a garden hose. 

Wen Ning comes back from the deep forest with much better kills. Pheasants, quail, plump rabbits, and fish that've been cleaned and washed with great care. He also brings berries, and wildflowers. Wen Qing kisses him on both cheeks every time he gets back and praises him.

Their love is warm. It makes Wei Ying’s chest hurt.

In March, the wards ring south of the hedge. Wei Ying pulls open the boundaries to find Mianmian in a green cable-knit sweater, with Jiang Cheng standing close behind in very sensible hiking shoes and a hiking bag, cheeks pink with the early morning chill.

‘Hi,’ says Wei Ying, who feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

‘Fuck you,’ says Jiang Cheng, his face shifting from pink to vermillion. He charges through the open hole in the hedge.

‘You look terrible,’ says Mianmian, smiling lopsidedly at Wei Ying. ‘He’s just worried.’

Wei Ying’s chest is a tight thing full of sharp brambles. He cannot breathe too deeply, he will pierce his lungs with his emotions. ‘Right,’ he wheezes. 

Mianmian slings her arm around his shoulder and guides him firmly back through the brambles. ‘Come on, show us the den of the great Witch Ying Wei.’

~

The den of the great Witch Ying Wei doesn’t seem to impress Jiang Cheng much. Wei Ying’s brother scowls at the garden, squints at a loose tile on the roof of the house, mutters darkly at all the charms hanging from the ceiling, and complains about the bathroom. 

Mianmian rolls her eyes and goes outside, where Wen Qing and A-Yuan are tending to the chicken, who they’ve decided to call Spock.

Jiang Cheng takes off his bag, deposits it on the table. He pulls out a paper bag full of pastries – pain au chocolats, croissants, sausage rolls and apple turnovers – followed by a few cans of beans, sardines, chopped tomatoes, sweetcorn, and two cans of Campbell’s soup. He also pulls out three bars of chocolate, and coffee. 

‘This place doesn’t even have a fridge,’ Jiang Cheng grumbles, depositing a small bag of sugar on the table. ‘I couldn’t even bring you milk.’

Jiang Cheng didn’t have to bring Wei Ying anything at all. He’s risking his life even being here. Wei Ying says as much.

Wei Ying’s brother stands on the opposite side of the table and stares at Wei Ying. Behind him, the forest glows green as it comes back to life. He’s had a haircut recently, and it reveals the sharp edge of his cheekbones in a way that makes him look just a little older. Wei Ying wonders how he must appear. His hair’s long now, down to his shoulders, and his clothes have so many holes in them.

Jiang Cheng inhales deeply. He zips up his bag, pulls out a chair, and drops the bag onto the empty seat. ‘I wish you’d stop doing this to yourself,’ he says.

‘Doing what?’ Wei Ying asks. His voice sounds unusually hoarse.

Jiang Cheng just shakes his head. 

Laughter sounds from outside, boyish and high with joy. Birds trill in the trees above. The air is cool but not as unforgiving as it had been in the winter. It smells of salt. Even if they cannot hear the waves of the ocean, it is close.

Jiang Cheng turns away, leans over the kitchen sink and looks out at the garden through the windows, past the pots of basil and mint and thyme that line the counter behind the sink. 

‘Mum wants to pay someone to find your body, so we can cremate you properly,’ he says without turning around. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can lie to her for. I don’t know how Yanli does it.’

Wei Ying’s stomach is a giant knot. He’s glad he didn’t have breakfast.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. 

Jiang Cheng grips at the edges of the sink as though it might go spinning away from him. ‘Yeah, no, it’s shit like this,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You just keep on doing shit like this.’

Hurting you , Wei Ying thinks. I’m always hurting you.

‘Stop setting yourself on fire to keep us warm,’ Jiang Cheng grits out. He turns around, one hand still on the sink, feet spread as though he’s about to fight. ‘You don’t have to be useful to the family for us to- to-’ 

Wei Ying blinks. 

‘You’re not expendable,’ sighs Jiang Cheng. ‘You’re my brother. You’re my brother .’

There’s a peach pit stuck in Wei Ying’s throat. His eyes sting. He loves his brother so much it might choke him. He does not want a place in the world, not the one that was carved out for him by his aunt and uncle, but he wants more than anything to be back by Jiang Cheng’s side. Funny, to think he ever wanted to disappear. 

‘I’m a witch,’ Wei Ying whispers. ‘I can’t ever go back.’

Jiang Cheng smiles a sad, crooked smile. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘Well, I don’t really know, but. I know.’

Outside, A-Yuan goes charging past the garden, pursued happily by Spock the chicken, and less happily by a rather anxious-looking Wen Qing - ‘If you trip over, A-Yuan, I swear-’ - and Mianmian, hot on their heels, clutching a basket of eggs to her chest.

Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying watch them go from the open window by the sink. The unusual parade circles the garden twice, then disappears around the other end of the house to the sounds of clucking and Wen Qing yelling.

Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue, and he sounds so much like his mother that Wei Ying starts laughing, which makes Jiang Cheng laugh too, and for a while the sun feels a little brighter as it spills into the kitchen. Everything is terrible and Wei Ying will never get his life back, will never get on a plane and go home and tell his aunt that he is not dead, that they don’t need to burn any paper for him or stack any mandarins or light incense at his altar – but it’s too late and it’s all slipping like sand through the cracks between his fingers.

But he is here in this kitchen and it smells like the ocean and like chocolate and his brother is laughing with him.

‘How’s school?’ Wei Ying asks, trying to be casual about it, as though he doesn’t wake up sometimes in the middle of the night sick with yearning to be back at the Institute. 

(He won’t think about the cottage. He won’t think about Greenland. He won’t think about L-)

‘Exhausting,’ Jiang Cheng replies, his smile reaching his eyes. ‘I fucking hate my stats prof. Mianmian’s a pretty good tutor tho. Glad she’s crashing with us.’

The sun rises to its peak. Everyone comes back in and shares the pastries. A-Yuan likes the lemon tart in particular. 

They save one sweet and one savory for Wen Ning when he returns. Mianmian hugs everyone tightly, and she even kisses Wen Qing on the cheek. Jiang Cheng doesn’t hug anyone, except for A-Yuan, but he does linger at the hedgerow, peering over his shoulder at the house framed in golden afternoon light.

‘Can I visit again?’ he asks.

Wei Ying smiles so widely his cheeks hurt. ‘Of course you can.’

~

Jiang Cheng and Mianiman come back a fortnight later, on a rainy afternoon – this time Jiang Yanli comes too, wearing red wellies and a matching raincoat. When she sees Wei Ying, she crushes him in a hug and doesn’t let go even as he warns them they’re not safe inside the hedgerow yet.

They’ve brought pastries again, and a few more sensible essentials, like toothpaste and soap and sunscreen. Yanli opens up her backpack and produces a small toiletries bag that she hands directly over to Wen Qing. It’s things she doesn’t need – silver earrings, a tube of lipstick, three travel-sized bottles of perfume, some hand lotion, and a mini eyeshadow palette.

Wen Qing presses her hand over her mouth. ‘I cannot give you anything in return,’ she says, her voice wavering. 

Yanli beams at Wen Qing. ‘You can help me make lunch! I don’t know how this stove works, see, so you’ll have to show me.’

‘Lemon tart!’ yells A-Yuan, his fingers still sticky from picking blackberries. 

‘ Aiya ,’ sighs Jiang Cheng, bending down to scoop the little boy up and perching him on his hip with the practiced ease of a man who grew up with many little cousins. ‘You’ll have lemon tart after lunch.’

Wei Ying grins at his brother, who grins back at him.

But then one of the chimes hanging from above them rings. South, three hundred feet from the perimeter.

For a moment, the kitchen falls silent. A-Yuan hiccups, his dark eyes round as he looks from Jiang Cheng, to Wei Ying, and then over to Wen Qing. As young as he is, he’s perceptive enough to know that bad things follow a chime. 

Wordlessly, Wei Ying goes out the front door and shuts it behind him.

He strides past Mianmian, who’s picking eggplants in the garden in the rain. She puts down her shears and basket and immediately follows him.

‘No,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Stay at the house. It’s safer.’

‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ Mianmian scoffs. ‘I’ve fought more battles than you’ve eaten grains of rice.’

She reaches within her jacket and draws out a wicked-looking knife. The edge of the blade gleams dark gray – the rest of it is as clear as ice.

Wei Ying knows better than to argue with a woman so well armed. 

They walk through tall grass and blooming wildflowers, through trees garbed in pale lichen, over mossy rock and damp soil. It is beautiful and peaceful and the forest is still dreaming, turned silver with gentle summer rain. Wei Ying will not force it from slumber with fire. 

‘Do you always go alone?’ Mianmian asks him. 

She’s cut her hair short since they last saw each other, it sits just below her earlobes and curls into her cheeks. She holds her knife in front of her, blade angled slightly before her. She is terrifyingly light on her feet.

Wei Ying doesn’t reply. He can feel the intruders standing on his wards, making the threads tremble like strands on a web – but who is the spider, and who is the butterfly?

‘Cheng-Cheng is right,’ Mianmian says, flipping her knife in her hand. ‘You shouldn’t treat yourself like you’re expendable.’

‘I don’t think I’m expendable,’ Wei Ying lies. 

Mianmian scoffs. She steps ahead of him on the path and lifts her knife.

There are six of them, clad in gold and white armor, standing a half-circle around Jin Zixuan. His cutlass swings before him in an arc as he steps forward from his guard.

‘Mianmian,’ he whispers. 

His cutlass trembles in his shaking hand. His eyes look strange, burning bright and feverish in his ashen face. 

‘Qingyang Luo!’ calls out one of the soldiers to Zixuan’s right. ‘Hand over the witch and his Grimoire.’ 

Mianmian flips the knife up, and it goes spinning, over and over, a fish darting beneath the water’s surface. She snatches it from midair with her left hand, and points it directly at the soldier’s heart. 

‘My name has no power over me,’ she grins. ‘You can’t command me to do anything.’

The soldier draws his sword – a long, thin rapier that drips with golden venom. ‘Do as we say,’ he hisses, ‘and we’ll let your traitorous heart keep beating.’

Wei Ying shakes his head. ‘Enough,’ he sighs. He turns to the familiar sais-pas – the very same who saved Jiang Cheng’s life, when healers wouldn’t help him. ‘Go home, Zixuan. Your father doesn’t need my Grimoire. You have plenty of power already.’

Zixuan’s eyes are as bright as fire. His mouth twitches, and sweat beads at his forehead. His cutlass inches downward.

The soldier who had first spoken lurches forward with a yell. Before Wei Ying can lift a hand, Mianmian is already running forward.

She’s not some femme fatale flirting her way through a deadly dance. She’s brutal and efficient. She ducks away from the soldier’s rapier, kicks at his knee hard enough to break it, and then slices directly through his jugular before he can even shout. The closest soldier tries to draw his sword, but Mianmian is already above him, driving her knife into his heart as she yanks his blade from its sheath. 

‘Stop her!’ yells one of the soldiers, drawing his blade.

Mianmian laughs, blood streaking her pretty face. She yanks her knife out of the chest of the now dead sais-pas, and flings it directly into that soldier’s eye. He crumples, a puppet with its strings cut.

Zixuan takes a wobbling step toward. His cutlass rises before him, slow as though slicing through water. He makes a gurgling noise in his throat. 

Wei Ying takes a step back. ‘Zixuan, don’t,’ he warns, but it’s useless. 

Whatever’s been done to the prince – whatever commands he’s operating under – he can’t stop. The cutlass slices down at Wei Ying’s bare throat, but he manages to roll away at the last minute. Zixuan stumbles, then pivots at the last minute. His eyes bulge in their sockets, so wide Wei Ying can see the whites around them. Water runs down his butter yellow shirt and stains the sais-pas’s shirt dark, ugly brown.

‘Fuck fuck fuck,’ Wei Ying utters. 

He yanks a handful of dead leaves from the soil and clenches it in his hand. Spells swim through his head, all of them ending in blood and death. He cannot see a way through that will not kill Zixuan.

‘Ngeh,’ says Zixuan, and swings again. 

A shadow darts through the forest. There is a loud ringing, like steel striking granite. Zixuan staggers back from the rebounding force of his strike. 

A solid wall made of pitch black shadow looms over Wei Ying, shielding him completely against Zixuan. The rest of the shadow creeps away between the trees, into a menacing dark that was not there before. The cutlass’s sharp blade ricochets off the darkness without making so much as a dent. 

There is a yelp as Mianmian finishes off the last soldier. She turns and stares at the shield of darkness separating Zixuan and Wei Ying.

Zixuan takes a step backward, his chest heaving. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks at the shadow, and raises a hand. Light spills from his palm, pale and painful. The shadowy shield cracks and splinters, dissipating into nothing more than smoke. Wei Ying takes another step back.

Zixuan raises his cutlass. There are tears in his red eyes.

‘Nm sorry,’ he gasps.

Zixuan’s cutlass is knocked from his hands, and it goes spinning away through the air. 

Towering above them all, sharp teeth bared in a snarl, and taloned hand closed in a vice grip around Zixuan’s arm, is Wen Ning. He is swathed in shadow as thick as sea fog, and he is pale and terrible and cruel and beautiful. Wei Ying barely recognizes him.

Zixuan struggles against Wen Ning’s grip. 

Wen Ning raises a hand. The darkness rises up around him in twisting tendrils.

‘No!’ Wei Ying yells. He throws his handful of leaves and soil to the ground, spells abandoned. ‘Wen Ning, stop! He’s not in control, can’t you see?’

Wen Ning hesitates. He turns his head to look at Wei Ying. ‘What?’ he asks, squinting until his nose crinkles, and suddenly he looks like himself again. 

Zixuan twists at the torso, pulling a hidden dagger from his boot.

‘Watch out!’ yells Mianmian. 

Wen Ning starts to flinch away, but the dagger is swifter, and it slices through the front of his jacket – barely missing skin. Wen Ning has to release his hold on Zixuan to dodge the next attack.

Wei Ying has so many tricks, but none can help save all of them. He will have to make a choice. 

Zixuan staggers toward Wen Ning, dagger raised.

‘Jin Rong!’ a voice shouts out. ‘I command you to stop.’

Zixuan freezes. 

Wei Ying turns toward the source of the voice. Above them, the rain trickles to a stop, and the cloud bank opens, spilling down golden sunshine. Jiang Yanli stands in a sea of blooming wildflowers and bending grass, dappled light filtering down between the trees and kissing her bare shoulders, lighting a halo around her head. She lifts her chin and clenches her fists by her side. There are daisies braided into her damp hair.

‘I order you free of any oaths, boons, or burdens that might have been placed upon you by power of your true name,’ she recites.

Zixuan falls to his knees, the dagger falling from his limp hands. His face is wrought with the anguished delight of someone seeing their god for the first time. Tears spill down his face.

‘Yanli,’ he whispers, reverent before his savior.

Wei Ying’s sister rushes toward Zixuan, and she throws her arms around the sais-pas . He clutches at her waist, burrowing his head in her stomach as she bends into him and presses a delicate kiss to his forehead. 

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Wei Ying sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He whirls around at Mianmian. ‘How long has this been going on for?’

Mianmian just laughs and wipes blood off her damp forehead. 

~

Jin Zixuan, son and heir to the throne of the High Court of the Northern Fey, sits in the cabbage patch, staring at A-Yuan chasing Spock the chicken in haphazard circles. Jiang Yanli sits beside him, cradling his hand in hers with the same care one might hold a baby bird.

Wei Ying watches the two of them as he leans against the edge of his house, arms folded. Wen Qing stands beside him, squinting against the light of the evening sun.

‘This is a bit odd, isn’t it?’ Wen Qing frowns, cocking her head towards the couple. She’s got a bit of lipstick dabbed onto her lips, and she’s braided flowers in her hair. 

Wei Ying shrugs. ‘Mianmian says I’m an idiot for not noticing sooner.’

Wen Qing taps her fingernails against her metal teeth. ‘She’s not wrong about you being an idiot,’ she says.

Wei Ying sighs loudly. 

Wen Qing tucks her hands into her apron, twisting her torso round as she surveys the hedge that borders their sanctuary. ‘Where is Mianmian, anyways?’ she asks.

‘Out patrolling with Wen Ning,’ Wei Ying replies. ‘In case they send people after Zixuan.’

‘And Mianmian can hold her own against the Golden Knights?’ Wen Qing asks.

Wei Ying huffs a quiet laugh. ‘Oh, she really can.’

Wen Qing stares at A-Yuan, who has managed to scoop Spock up in his stubby arms and is kissing the befuddled hen over and over again on her soft head. ‘Hm,’ she says.

Jin Zixuan shakes his head, a man waking from a long sleep, and he rises to his feet. Yanli lets him go, but her eyes are fastened to his back, worry etching deep lines into her face. She loves him. Wei Ying can see it in her face – he’s seen his sister in love before, once as children, and then once again while she was in university. He hopes that this one won’t break her heart.

Zixuan walks up to Wei Ying. Wen Qing takes a step back, almost out of reflex, and then grimaces when she realizes what she’s done.

‘Dr. Wen, I won’t bother making excuses,’ the handsome sais-pas sighs. ‘And I won’t ask you to forgive me.’

She stares up at him for a long moment. The wind brushes through the trees in the forest, and down over the grass, whispering centuries of secrets to them and bringing the salt-sting of the briny sea. 

‘Our roots tangle in a distant soil,’ she tells him, her eyes wide and bottomless in their darkness. ‘We are made of the same coin. I have paid for the stolen blood my uncle sucked from children’s bones. What will y ou pay for what your father did, in allowing it to happen?’

Jin Zixuan’s eyebrows climb his handsome, perfect face. ‘What?’ he utters. He turns to Wei Ying. ‘What does she mean?’

Wei Ying digs his teeth into his lower lip. He paces away, looking at the aging sky beyond the trees, and then back again, his hands planted on his hips. It is a difficult tale to tell. It’s one that he’s had to coax from the stones built into his house and from the charred ruins of Scholar’s Sanctuary, making his hermitage alone to kneel before ghosts and inquire as to the manner of their death.

‘It’s complicated,’ Wei Ying says.

‘I’m an academic,’ says Zixuan. ‘I can bloody well figure it out.’

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. ‘Fine,’ he says. 

He bends down and scoops a bit of soil from the earth, and then leans over and plucks a little white feather that’s been permanently fixed to Wen Qing’s apron for the past three days. With the other hand, he grips onto Zixuan’s shoulder.

‘This might make you a bit queasy,’ he says, and clenches his fist shut, forcing feather into soil.

The world flips. The witch’s house folds into itself.

An older forest opens up, and with it, reveals the lichen-dusted ruins of Scholar’s Sanctuary. The sky here is gray, and it is drizzling ever so lightly.

Zixuan stumbles away to retch into a bush.

‘Sorry,’ says Wei Ying, though he’s not that sorry. 

He waits until the sais-pas is done retching, then leads him through the ruins. He twists his fingers, pulls at the threads of time, and it unravels around them. Ghosts of children dart past their legs. Women sit by an invisible fireplace and sing songs from books, flowers braided into their hair. A little boy teases a kitten with a ribbon. An elderly gentleman leans against an invisible doorway that is no more, reading from a small pocketbook.

Zixuan watches them, his left hand on the front of his breastplate, the other braced against his stomach. He looks like he might be sick again.

‘Do you know what was here before?’ Wei Ying asks Jin Zixuan.

‘I’m a physicist, not a historian,’ Zixuan replies, his eyes tracking the translucent figure of a young man help a little boy copy lines of text into parchment. ‘I had as little access to the archives as you did.’

‘What do the Fey tell each other about what was here?’ Wei Ying amends. 

‘It was a home for witches,’ Zixuan says. He averts his gaze from the ghosts, and turns instead to Wei Ying. ‘But these are not witches.’

The forest is full of green and growing things, but flowers will not sprout from between the old tiles of Scholar’s Sanctuary. Too much was done here. Too much pain has bled into these stones.

‘You’re right,’ Wei Ying says. ‘There aren’t all witches. It was a sanctuary for all scholars. A place to teach magic.’

‘But the way of magic was wrong,’ Zixuan frowns, gesturing with his hand as he steps closer to Wei Ying. ‘This way gave humans too much power. It threatened the balance of magic.’

‘The Institute also teaches humans to mend bone and alter hurricanes,’ Wei Ying replies. He has no anger in him – he’s laid all his anger to rest already. ‘That is plenty of power. And anyways, the Wens murdered most of us witches and buried our heretic ways. And yet magic still wanes.’

Zixuan is silent then.

‘Chairman Wen wanted to drink the magic from our bones,’ Wei Ying continues. ‘Just as he wanted to drink the magic from dragon blood. And with the signing of the Tiger Accords, your father let him do what he wanted. That was it. That was all.’

The prince presses his hand over his lips. He takes a stride away, his armor clinking softly as he goes. His hair has caught some of the rain, and the drops sparkle like tiny jewels at the crown of his head. 

He turns then, his eyes wide with sorrow and regret. ‘No wonder you want revenge against us.’

Wei Ying laughs bitterly. He folds his arms over his body. ‘I don’t want revenge, Zixuan,’ he replies. ‘I just want to keep what I have left. I have- I have so very little left.’

He has nothing left – nothing, nothing. There is no space in the world for him anymore, and no space for dreaming anything other than of things he has lost, silver scales still tucked away under his childhood bed.

(He does his very best not to think about the biscuit tin. He does not think about- he won’t think about-)

‘Your family,’ Zixuan says. 

Wei Ying shakes his head firmly. ‘It’s not safe for me to be around them.’

Zixuan considers this for a moment. He looks around them, at the evidence of old crimes never paid for, and makes his choice. ‘I will make it safe,’ he says, with the weight of a promise.

Wei Ying understands the value of a sais-pas’s promise. Wen Qing has explained it to him many times, with great care. He is astounded that this shining prince would ever offer it to a creature with a bloodstained mouth and trickster hands.

‘You love my sister that much?’ he asks.

Zixuan smiles a thin, pained smile. ‘Mr. Wei,’ he says, ‘I would give your sister my heart as it beats in my chest. I would rip the moon and stars from the sky and ordain her bed with it. I would make her armor out of my ribcage, if it pleased her.’

Which is a very dramatic thing to say, but Wei Ying gets the picture.

‘But,’ the prince adds, ‘it is not quite so simple as a matter of love. My father owes me debts too. He has exiled Mianmian, whose oath is sworn to me, not him. And what he did to Wangji-’ he breaks off, unable to finish.

Wei Ying’s heart falls into his stomach. He thinks of rain, of cruel words spoken in his voice, of Lan Zhan’s face, pale and anguished in the torrential rain. 

‘What did they do to Wangji?’ he demands, marching forward. ‘ What did they do to him?’

Zixuan closes his eyes. He holds his breath for a moment, opens his eyes, and then tells Wei Ying. 

Chapter Text

Grimoire of the Witch Ying Wei; To Find Someone Taken from You by the Unknown and Hidden by Glamor

• Pull a strand of loose thread from your shirt.
• Find a delicate thing that is precious to the person taken from you. 
• Bind it to your left pinky by wrapping the thread thrice. 
• Put your right hand over your eyes. Hold your left hand out. 
• Follow the thread. 

~

The sea cradles Wei Ying in its warm embrace as he floats. Shafts of diamond-bright light pierce the surface, dancing into darker blue. There is something in the deep water, but it isn’t dangerous. Wei Ying glimpses a flash of green, but it is too deep and too big to see the thing’s full shape. 

A rolling wave lifts Wei Ying’s body. He feels the current drift through his hands, over the tired muscles in his shoulders and back. He to his right, to the endless open water beyond his grasp, and the shimmering bellies of the waves as they rise and fall. 

And when he looks down, Lan Zhan is there, dressed in billowing white robes, rising up to him from the dark like some ethereal angel – a guardian ghost of the ocean. His eyes are molten gold. Wei Ying reaches out with his hands, dips at the waist and dives down.

As a flower might bloom, the sleeves of Lan Zhan’s robes unfurl around them. He reaches out to Wei Ying, frames his face with his long-fingered hands. He is so beautiful, it hurts like a knife to look at him, but Wei Ying would never willingly look away.

Wei Ying fastens his grip on Lan Zhan’s forearms. Ribbons of pearls trail out around them, woven with white ribbons into Lan Zhan’s robes. 

Lan Zhan’s lips taste of winter air.

~

We Ying wakes from his dream with a start. He feels the wards go off before the chime rings out below – but by then, he is already rolling out of bed and shoving his feet into his shoes and running downstairs. 

He doesn’t stop to talk to Wen Qing, making breakfast at the stove, even though she shouts at him to slow down. And he doesn’t slow down as he runs past the cabbage patch, past the strawberries, past the chicken coop, down to the hedgerow of brambles and iron, feet slipping on ground muddied by last night’s downpour. 

His heart is a jackhammer in his chest. But he can’t stop running. 

It can’t be- there’s no way it would be- but what if it-

Past the hedge, three hundred feet north of the boundaries, within a small clearing, Wei Ying finds his intruder. He stumbles to a stop, panting heavily, and stares, one hand on his chest, the other over his mouth.

Lan Zhan stands, his calves half-submerged in a carpet of ferns and foxgloves,  illuminated by the hazy sunlight that falls between wizened trees. In his gray peacoat and matching pants, white cable knit sweater, and sensible boots, he might as well be any other English gentleman taking a leisurely walk through the woods.

For a moment, Wei Ying can’t bear to move. He can’t even breathe, a deer shivering in the oncoming headlights of a car as it rounds the bend towards him.

It is the sais-pas who breaks the silence first. 

‘Hello,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘I thought I would come see a friend.’

Wei Ying takes a trembling step forward. ‘But,’ he manages, his voice breaking as it escapes his throat, ‘but what will they do to you for coming here?’

Lan Zhan lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘Nothing they haven’t done already.’

Wei Ying gasps. 

Lan Zhan walks steadily across the clearing toward Wei Ying, the bottom of his coat brushing over the tops of the foxgloves and making them bend and dance. He places his hands gently, carefully on Wei Ying’s face. His thumb sweeps over Wei Ying’s cheek, wiping away tears he didn’t know were there at all.  

Wei Ying catches Lan Zhan’s wrists and steps away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, shaking his head. ‘I’m-’

Lan Zhan just watches him. There is no anger in his face, nor rejection – just quiet, patient, endless understanding. Wei Ying does not deserve it. 

‘You should- we should-’ Wei Ying clears his throat, trying to empty it of the tears he’s been forced to swallow. ‘Come see the house.’

Lan Zhan nods. ‘Alright, Wei Ying.’

Wei Ying walks ahead through, and Lan Zhan follows. He takes in the vast, towering hedgerow, but says nothing, even as Wei Ying opens a hole in the hedgerow with nothing more than a turn of his wrist.  

Wen Qing is in the garden, balancing A-Yuan on her hip as she unlatches the door to the chicken coop to let Spock out. She watches the two of them approach the house with her mouth open. 

Wei Ying shakes his head at her, and she snaps her jaw shut immediately. 

The door to the house is always open in the summer anyhow. Wei Ying steps over the threshold first. He gestures for Lan Zhan to sit at the table – which the sais-pas does, taking off his coat, folding it over his elbow, and pulling out the chair closest to the door. Wei Ying fills the kettle with water from the sink. He lights the stove top with a match and puts the kettle on. In one of the drawers, he finds the dried lavender and mint he and Wen Qing dried earlier in Spring, and spoons this into their one chipped teapot. 

Wei Ying stares at the tiling on backsplash while he waits for the water to boil. He doesn’t look at Lan Zhan, because he knows what he will see: Lan Zhan, with his sweater and shirt sleeves rolled properly up to his elbows, and behind him, the lush green beyond the windows and the garden beyond the open door. 

And it is too close to the hidden thing that Wei Ying wants. The thing he must not want. 

The kettle whistles. Wei Ying lifts it off the flame, turns the stove off, and pours hot water into the teapot. He closes the lid, picks up two mugs, and brings them over to the table. He pulls out a chair and sits down opposite Lan Zhan.

It is as he feared. Lan Zhan looks perfect in this place. Wei Ying will never stop loving him.

Wei Ying looks down at his empty mug. He turns it round and round in his palms, inhales deeply, then sighs heavily. 

‘Zixuan told me what they did to you,’ he says.

Lan Zhan is silent.

Wei Ying squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Mianmian wouldn’t tell me. She would never tell me. Not this whole time. She just kept saying Lans are hard to kill, and that you were still alive, but she didn’t–’

His throat closes around the words he can’t bring himself to say. He rubs his hands over his eyes, forces himself to stop crying, and then looks up at Lan Zhan.

‘We are hard to kill,’ Lan Zhan says. ‘And I am fine now.’ He makes an elegant gesture with his hand, as if to say, as you can clearly see.

Wei Ying shakes his head. His mouth is so full of brine, he might as well have swallowed the whole sea. Between them, steam rises in a tiny twisting column from the teapot’s spout. 

‘And the Institute cut your funding,’ Wei Ying says. ‘Withdrew all approvals. You can’t even go down to the beach. You’re meant to stay only in the cottage, isn’t that right?’ 

Lan Zhan says nothing, and just watches Wei Ying instead, one hand on his lap, the other balanced on the edge of the table. 

‘They wouldn’t let you go to G-’ Wei Ying takes a deep breath and tries again. ‘To Greenland.’

Lan Zhan’s brows tighten. ‘My uncle needed to demonstrate to the Board that I would not be a threat to current management,’ he replies. ‘My compliance with these restrictions is proof.’

‘Why?’ Wei Ying demands. ‘Why comply? Why did you let me go, when you should have killed me? ’

Lan Zhan huffs, and a familiar look crosses his face – one often levied at Wei Ying before, when he asked stupid questions or made wild suggestions. ‘I have had much worse,’ he states baldly. 

Wei Ying bites his lip. He clenches his fists in his lap to help ease the way his hands can’t seem to stop shaking. He feels like a leaf caught in a storm, being thrown up, up, head over heels until he might vomit or pass out. 

‘I’ve seen the scars on your back,’ Wei Ying says. ‘But I never wanted you to have more. Not because of me.’

Lan Zhan tilts his head, his golden eyes narrowing. He leans back in his seat and clasps his hand over his crossed knee. ‘Do you want to know how I got those scars?’ he asks.

No. Yes. I have had nightmares about those scars since the last day I saw you. I daydream about murdering those who placed them on you.

None of these seem appropriate answers, so Wei Ying decides to pour the tea. It’s steeped long enough. He fills Lan Zhan’s mug first, then his own. Lan Zhan picks up the mug and sips delicately from it. He makes a sound of approval deep in his throat.

A breeze sweeps in from the open door, bringing with it scattered leaves and tufts of loose grass, and the sweet smell of ripe fruit. 

Lan Zhan takes another sip of the tea and sets it down on the table, and then he begins to talk.

‘My family did not reacquire exclusive access to dragons through polite negotiations. We are not violent by nature, but we can be violent if provoked. Some of my kind were lost in the war. Some scars were not earned in open battle.’

Wei Ying clutches his mug. The heat sears into his palm and gives him something to hold onto in the storm.

‘Who gave you the scars?’ he asks hoarsely.

‘Poachers in Siberia, at the tail end of the war,’ Lan Zhan replies. ‘They caught me unawares. Held me for three weeks, tried to get me to tell them where Ælith’s den was. Inevitably, though, one of them broke the array holding me, and that was the end of the poachers.’

He says it with such finality. How violent were Lan Zhan’s past lives, Wei Ying wonders to himself.  

‘I have been through blood and death, Wei Ying,’ Lan Zhan says softly. ‘This is a small wound, one I would suffer a thousand more times to keep you safe.’ 

Wei Ying feels sick. He buries his head in his hands. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers. ‘Fuck, the risk you’re taking, just being here.’

‘I do not care,’ says Lan Zhan. ‘And there is no need for apologies between us. Please, drink your tea. It is quite excellently brewed.’

When Wei Ying looks up, Lan Zhan is smiling at him, haloed in lovely summer light. 

~

Wei Ying shows Lan Zhan the gardens and the coop. A-Yuan runs full pelt at Lan Zhan and clings onto his leg like a tiny monkey, and neither Wei Ying’s cajoling nor Wen Qing’s scolding will make him let go. Lan Zhan considers the child for a moment, then bends down and lifts him up, settling him on his hip with the sort of ease Wei Ying isn’t expecting from a highly introverted academic. 

Their little troupe goes down to the hedgerow. Wei Ying explains the charms he’s using here, and Lan Zhan nods thoughtfully and asks very good questions. Then they go back up to the house, and Wei Ying climbs the dining table and points at each hanging shard of glass, bone, twig and twine, reporting the areas of the forest that each corresponds to.  

And then Wei Ying shows Lan Zhan around the house – the old markings above the hearth that might have meant something to a witch who is now long gone, the mismatched stones that form the walls, the ancient boiler strapped above the stove. He takes him up the wooden staircase that leads upstairs, and stops a while at the half-floor to admire the paintings of wildflowers and herbs and mushrooms hanging there. Upstairs, he shows Lan Zhan the rooms that Wen Qing and Wen Ning sleep in, though he keeps the doors shut for their privacy. 

Then he shows Lan Zhan his own room. There’s a small jug of daisies on his little bedside table, and the windows are open, the curtains billowing in the breeze. The mattress is too old, but the sheets are brand new – courtesy of Yanli – and he’s put wreaths of dried flowers around the mirror above the sink. 

Lan Zhan looks around the room, then at the narrow bed, the bare wooden floorboards, then up at the ceiling and its thin webbing of cracks. 

‘It is cold in this room,’ he remarks. He lowers his gaze to meet Wei Ying’s, his eyes glowing amber, his mouth full of teeth. He reaches out with a taloned hand. ‘Would that I could make it warm in the place you sleep.’

Wei Ying suddenly regrets bringing Lan Zhan into his bedroom. He feels like an egg shattered on a kitchen floor, yolk bleeding into the tiles. He is a peach twisted open with strong hands, all bruised and ruined, his rotten pit exposed to the world. 

‘Would that I could make your pillow feather-down soft,’ Lan Zhan says, and there is something older than magic in his voice. ‘Would that I could hold you until the nightmares pass.’

Wei Ying stares at Lan Zhan, his heart twisting in his chest. He feels sick. He is so hungry he is delirious with it. He thinks of an alcove and the sound of dancing.

Frightened of what he will do, Wei Ying lifts his foot to take a step away, but finds himself moving forward instead. He tries to step away, and again, he steps forward – again, again, again until he is nearly chest-to-chest with Lan Zhan.

‘ Would that I could remove from you your troubles ,’ Lan Zhan whispers, neither in English, nor Mandarin, nor any human tongue. He lifts a taloned hand and caresses Wei Ying’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. ‘ Would that I could walk this path with you. ’

Wei Ying closes his eyes. Through the window, he can hear A-Yuan laughing. 

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘No, Lan Zhan. This is a dark and narrow path. It’s not fair to ask you to walk it with me.’

‘Hm,’ Lan Zhan rumbles, deep in his throat. He presses his thumb over Wei Ying’s lips. ‘Ask me anyways.’

But Wei Ying is not a dog begging for scraps. He is good at reminding himself what he should want. And he is no longer as greedy as he was, when the world was open to him and the Institute felt like home.

(But he is, he is, he is so greedy.)

And knows what he deserves, and it is not Lan Zhan. He is the villain in this story, and the villain does not get the happy ending or the love of his life. 

So he pushes Lan Zhan away, not daring to look at the sais-pas’s expression. He goes to his chest of drawers, pulls it open, and lifts out the biscuit tin. He opens it up and sets the lid on top of the chest. Inside it is the silver flower pin – the thing he never got to remove from his lapel to mark a full year in the Institute. And next to it, the silver rabbit-ear and its miniature coils, its painstakingly wrought beak. 

He puts the tin down and turns around to face Lan Zhan. He holds out the dragon pin in his open palm.

‘I’m sorry about Greenland,’ he says, forcing his voice to remain steady, forcing himself to look Lan Zhan in the eye and not crumble. ‘I’m so sorry that because of me, the Institute has destroyed your work. And I’m sorry that I-’

He takes a breath and blinks. His eyes burn and his tongue is too bitter with what he must say. He is not greedy. He can do the right thing.

(But he is, he is, he is so greedy.)

‘I’m sorry that I was never going to be worthy of this,’ he finishes.

Lan Zhan takes slow, careful steps toward him. He is not as close this time, but close enough that Wei Ying can see each strand of jet-black hair that falls over his forehead, down to his brow. He reaches out and closes Wei Ying’s fist over the pin.

‘You have always been worthy,’ the sais-pas says.

Wei Ying shakes his head. ‘No,’ he whispers. ‘No, I’m not good enough for this. It’s not meant for me.’

Lan Zhan’s hand is firm around Wei Ying’s. He is not the wild creature from before, and is once again the poised English gentleman wandering in the woods. His gaze is so sweet, so undeservingly kind. 

‘You will always be good, Wei Ying,’ says Lan Zhan, softly as though he is jealous of the wind overhearing. ‘But even if you were not good, even if the whole world were against you, even then, I was always meant for you.’

Wei Ying closes his eyes. He takes a sharp, shuddering breath. 

‘You should go,’ he tells Lan Zhan. ‘You don’t want to be here when the Jins send someone.’

Lan Zhan holds onto Wei Ying’s hand for a second longer, and then he steps away, his hands politely clasped behind his back. ‘Alright.’

Wei Ying takes Lan Zhan back down the gravel path, and makes sure to close the hedge behind him, listening as Lan Zhan moves his way through the web of wards until he is a safe distance away. 

And then Wei Ying sits there for a while, between a twisting bramble bush and a looming thicket of steel thorns, his knees curled up against his chest, until he finds a way to stop crying.

~

It should be the first and last time that Lan Zhan visits the house between the Unknown and the known world. 

But Lan Zhan keeps coming back. 

He brings books. Not magical ones, of course, just normal scientific volumes and novels and poems and marine biology papers. And he brings food cooked in small tupperware containers, which he makes sure to wash in their kitchen sink before taking away with him. 

He is gone before sundown, so he always misses Wen Ning, but he always leaves gifts for Wen Ning. Medical journals, a pocket knife, a whetting stone, posters and textbooks that are clearly from a human university.  

For A-Yuan, he brings toys. Real, store-bought toys. 

A-Yuan calls him Rich Uncle all the time, and Lan Zhan lets him, a softness in his face that makes Wei Ying’s heart hurt.

Lan Zhan helps Wei Ying work in the garden. He prunes and he collects tomatoes and he makes fast work of the weeds. As they work in the sun, Wei Ying tells Lan Zhan about the dragon mosaic in Scholar’s Sanctuary, and what he saw there through fire and time.

‘Lothraël,’ Lan Zhan nods. ‘Weaver of life and death.’

‘I guess she protected Scholar’s Sanctuary,’ Wei Ying says. ‘But I can’t tell. It’s hard to pick it out from the noise. The dead like to talk, but there's too many of them layered on top of each other, and too many lost to violent deaths.’

‘You speak to the dead?’ Lan Zhan asks, his trowel half forgotten in his hand. 

‘I hear them,’ Wei Ying corrects. He straightens up and tries to work the kinks out of his lower back. ‘I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I know.’

Lan Zhan sighs. ‘It is enough,’ he says, bending down to dig at a half-unearthed radish. ‘To know that witches had a symbiotic relationship with her is to gain context I did not have before.’

~

Summer fades. In Autumn, Lan Zhan brings mooncakes and a tin of longjing tea. They cut mooncakes into slices, eat, sit in the grass and look up at the moon, fat and full like a dollop of cream.

Wen Ning whispers of rabbits and princesses to A-Yuan, and Wen Qing gathers night-blooming flowers for her tea. 

Wei Ying steals a glance at Lan Zhan, but the sais-pas is already looking at him, his eyes glowing with their own light despite the dark. 

‘Why do you come?’ Wei Ying asks, soft as the night breeze. ‘Why risk it, even when we both know the risks?’ 

Lan Zhan shakes his head. ‘I have never cared for the risks,’ he says. ‘Not when it comes to you.’

Wei Ying closes his eyes. Today he can be strong. 

But one day it will be too much, and he will be greedy, and everything will burn.

~

On the 1st of October, the Jiangs visit with Zixuan in tow. They bring groceries as usual, and a little extra in the way of treats and sweets. 

(Mianmian is at home refreshing the wards and adding a new layer. She sends a box of donuts and a tin of Cadbury hot chocolate in her stead, as well as a hastily scribbled post-it.)

Yanli kisses A-Yuan until he squirms in her arms and squeals. Then she hands over another little package to Wen Qing, leaves a stack of new clothes on Wen Ning’s bed, and takes ownership of the couch closest to the fire. They sit together and drink cocoa, Zixuan leaning on the back of Yanli’s chair.

‘You look so much better,’ Yanli tells them all, beaming widely. ‘ So much better. We missed you at the wedding.’

She reaches up, and Zixuan takes her hand. It’s only been a few months, but they move so well in tandem, as two people do when they have learned to occupy each other’s space.

Wei Ying feels sick. He is happy for their happiness and he hates himself for his monstrous envy. 

Jiang Cheng cracks open the chocolate digestives, eats two, then hands them out. He smacks Wei Ying when he tries to refuse. 

Yanli tells them about the rehearsal dinner – the awkwardness of trying to explain who this very fancy man is, and why none of his family are attending save for a girl he calls his cousin but is definitely not his cousin, culminating in Wei Ying’s aunt trying to hire a local detective to get to the bottom of the mystery and Jiang Cheng trying his best to diffuse the situation by yelling, at the top of his lungs in the middle of a banquet hall: I’m gay! I’m a homosexual! This is the only wedding you’re getting, Mom, so be grateful! 

‘ Are you gay?’ Wen Qing asks, frowning deeply.

‘Uh, excuse me,’ scowls Jiang Cheng, ‘ why the tone of surprise? I’m out and proud.’

‘That’s a lie,’ corrects Wei Ying gleefully. ‘Back home he is one with the closet. The closet is his home.’ 

‘Not after that outburst,’ Yanli giggles. ‘I’m pretty sure Aunty Li heard every word. By November, every tai-tai who’s ever given you sweets will know you’re not marrying their daughters.’

‘Now I’m even more sorry we missed your wedding,’ Wen Qing remarks, a slow smile spreading over her face. 

Jiang Cheng clutches the box of biscuits to his chest. ‘ Rude! No more digestives for either of you.’ 

Yanli laughs, delighted, and Zixuan laughs too, and A-Yuan, who has no context for anything, claps his hand and laughs too, until they are all laughing at Jiang Cheng, who sits there clutching his biscuits and frowning at them.

Wei Ying stretches out in front of the fire, propping himself up only with his elbows, and watches his mismatched family fondly.

The chimes do not ring. 

~

Halloween comes, and Wei Ying’s birthday with it. 

He lifts the wards late at night and walks into the forest. The moon is waning, half-buried beneath clouds, but Wei Ying sees well in the dark. He treads silently through curling ferns and over a fallen carpet of brown and red leaves, beneath the towering trees and their twisting branches. The wind is gentle as it rustles the leaves and sends more spiraling down.

Wei Ying finds the beach easily. It is a small cove, barely three hundred feet across, with a small sandy bank and craggy rocks that creep into the water. The night is dark, the stars half-obscured, but the water is calm.

Wei Ying takes off his shoes and socks and perches them on a nearby boulder. He rolls up his pant legs and wades into the water. 

He does not call, but Bosmorial comes anyway – great body splitting the water as he swims in from the deep, his long, muscular tail gleaming in the night. The major dragon, breather of mountain-fire, transmuter and shaker of earth, settles in shallow water. The waves break over his mass, hissing and rising as steam. 

‘Did you watch over witches too?’ Wei Ying asks Bosmorial. ‘Was that why you came for me?’

Bosmorial rumbles deep in the smooth, black barrel of his chest. It is a low note, but melodic all the same as it lifts and falls – like a song that could only be sung by the movement of tectonic plates, like the formation of mountains pushed up from the deep sea over millions and millions of years. It has no words, but Wei Ying can hear the lyrics in his head and feel the thrumming of it in his blood.

The major dragon sings songs for his dead brothers and sisters, their bones bleached by the sun and the sea and the wind, or whittled down and made into combs and crowns and swords. Bosmorial sings of magic worn down like sand upon a great beach, of tides and seasons and the wheel of making and unmaking, the turning of the earth’s mantle, the compression of sand into rock and then rock into sand once more, until lighting strikes and makes it glass. 

Everything that once burned will burn again , Bosmorial sings.

And Wei Ying presses his palms against his chest, and tries not to feel the loneliness of being one of the last of his species, or feel fury for the devastation wrought upon Bosmorial’s kin. He succeeds in this, at least, but as he listens to Bosmorial’s singing, standing in the warmed sea, he wishes with his greedy little heart that he could hold onto Lan Zhan in the last, dwindling centuries of the shriveling Unknown and ignore its slow death. 

~

Winter returns, and snow falls feathery from the pallid sky, two months earlier than predicted. Lan Zhan visits again with presents in red and green wrapping paper – two for each of Wei Ying’s tiny coven. 

(Wei Ying will open his later, when he is alone, and find a red sweater, and warm socks with tiny blue sharks on them. It will make him cry.)

Wei Ying sits by the fire after Wen Ning goes into the forest to hunt, and after Wen Qing has taken A-Yuan up to bed, and Lan Zhan sits with him, even though it is very late into the night and very solidly past Lan Zhan’s usual bedtime. Wei Ying watches the flickering orange light of the fire dance on Lan Zhan’s face and caresses the soft folds of his sweater, slipping into the shadows and retreating like the tide. Wei Ying looks at Lan Zhans hands, at his crossed legs, and the place where his pants ride up above his boots to reveal a narrow band of red. Christmas socks , Wei Ying thinks. 

‘You shouldn’t come,’ Wei Ying tells Lan Zhan. ‘And you shouldn’t stay so long.’

Lan Zhan uncrosses his legs, and then crosses them again, swapping his legs over. His left sock is green. 

‘I would stay longer,’ he replies, ‘if you asked me.’

There is a meaning here that Wei Ying does not understand. He still knows very little about Lan Zhan’s kind and their ways. But he knows that to ask is to risk Lan Zhan’s safety, because it is not safe here, not even with Wei Ying’s many wards. And he will not be the reason that Lan Zhan earns more scars. He will not be the reason Lan Zhan is separated from dragons.

Wei Ying closes his eyes. He adjusts the blanket over his knees to hide the shaking of his hands.

‘Or I could stay away,’ says Lan Zhan, his voice calm. ‘If you asked it of me, I would.’

Wei Ying’s eyes snap open. ‘Lan Zhan,’ he croaks. ‘I don’t have the strength to do that. You know I don’t.’

Lan Zhan smiles. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘But I will be away for Christmas. That is why I came early.’

Wei Ying frowns, but he doesn’t interrupt. He sits, and waits, and listens to the fire crackling away in the fireplace. 

‘They are permitting me to travel to Greenland,’ Lan Zhan explains. ‘It seems they have not discovered my visits here, or at least consider my probationary period complete.’

‘That’s great news,’ says Wei Ying, smiling. ‘That’s really, really great news.’

Lan Zhan nods in agreement. ‘I will be back,’ he says. ‘On the sixth of February, listen for the wards.’

~

January proceeds without much fanfare. 

The snow falls thicker than it has any right to, this far South. Jiang Yanli and Zixuan visit every week, bringing supplies and heavier blankets and toys and clothes. Jiang Cheng visits only on every other weekend. He studies by the fire until the light is too low, and then he plays with A-Yuan and teaches him silly Mandarin phrases and peels clementines for him. Other times, he brings a pack of Uno cards and squabbles with Wei Ying about who’s cheating. (It’s always Wen Qing, but Wen Ning usually lies and takes the blame.)

The one time that Mianmian comes, she and Yanli and Wen Qing spend at least two hours cozied together by the fire, chatting and flipping through glossy magazines. Wen Qing makes Yanli tea to ease the nausea that comes in the early months of pregnancy, and weaves her protective charms from twigs and dried wildflowers to hang above her bed frame. 

‘The locals are nasty about babies,’ Wen Qing says, when Wei Ying gives her an inquisitive look. ‘Back home, if you steal a child, you bring it back. Here, they just swap them out.’

Wei Ying asks Zixuan about it later, when they patrol the wards together. Exile suits Zixuan. He’s rather become a man of leisure, easing into spending the days cleaning Yanli’s home, reading his way through the local library, and cooking and tending to her illnesses. The morning sickness, however, is a thing he cannot seem to control even with his healing magic.

‘I do not know how it will be for our child,’ Zixuan says, very honestly. ‘I do not know if it will be given mercy by the fey. I cannot give Yanli immortality, if we live forever in exile, and eventually it will be only myself and my child. Will it hate me? Only time will tell.’

Wei Ying can see the stain of his decisions spread outward, ink spilling over paper. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

Zixuan turns to him, brow furrowing. ‘Do not apologize for things not within your control,’ he says seriously. ‘And it is not all tragedy, Mr. Wei. I am married to the love of my life, and she will bear me a child. This is more happiness than I ever thought I would have.’

Wei Ying can see the ways in which this sais-pas and his sister were made to fit. He thinks of things that once burned, and things that will burn again. 

~

February comes. Lan Zhan does not.

Wei Ying does not think too much of it at first. Field studies sometimes go awry. Unexpected things happen. Schedules get moved.

But then February is done, and winter is not. The ferns and flowers of early spring cannot push through the heavy carpet of frost and snow. Hailstones fall in the night, breaking twigs and leaving scars in the trunks of trees. The sky is smothered by the clouds and the sun is a weak thing that can barely cast light. They have to bring Spock inside. She roosts by the sink and clucks nervously at the frost as it spiderwebs over the windows. 

Lan Zhan does not come. And it snows, and snows, and snows. 

On the last Friday of March, Wei Ying stands at his bedroom window. The house is kind these days and keeps the boiler on all hours of the day. He looks at the expanse of white that stretches from the house, the path they have to shovel every day, and the hedgerow, kept green and alive by Wei Ying’s magic. He listens for the chime of his wards and hears nothing. 

Wei Ying opens his sock drawer and pulls out the biscuit tin. He takes out the tiny dragon and holds it in his hand. He looks at it for a moment, and thinks of Lan Zhan’s hand over his, the imprint of those fingertips over his nails, the weight of that grasp.

This is a small wound, one I would suffer a thousand more times to keep you safe.

There will be a price for what comes next. Wei Ying can see it beyond the churning of the wheel. No matter what lines he chooses in this play, no matter the choices he makes or the things he tries to ignore, it will always end in blood and brine and smoke. It will end in pain and suffering. 

But in every version of this story, Wei Ying loves Lan Zhan as hopelessly as any creature may yearn for the moon.

He pulls a loose thread from his sweater. He presses the dragon’s beak into the tip of his pinky, and begins to wind the thread around his finger.  Once, twice, thrice.  

Chapter Text

The Ballad of the Broken Throne; Act I Scene IV: The Dread Witch Ying Wei Arrives 

“If you have children at your hearth, if you have lovers waiting for you in warm beds, do not raise your sword. I am tired of littering the earth with your bones.”

~

No music plays in the golden court beyond the bramble tunnel. The strange and frightening folk stand arranged beneath the pillars, many hidden in shadow. Knights dressed in white and finery stand in a semi circle before the raised dias, upon which the King of all Northern Fey sits, a circlet upon his silver hair. Three steps down from the dais, Lan Xichen kneels in a pool of his own blue blood, his clothes rumpled and covered in dirt. His hands are staked to the floor with barbed, glittering knives. His eyes are wide and unseeing, and there is a collar of thorns around his neck. 

There is no sound but the soft whispering of golden leaves as they fall from the pale trees above, and the quiet tread of Wei Ying’s feet over the carpet. 

A green-skinned goblin snarls at Wei Ying as he walks past, baring a goat’s square, unbreakable teeth. Wei Ying grins back. The goblin retreats with a whimper. 

There is no one he recognizes in the crowd. No Mingjue. No Huisang. No one from his cohort at the Hawthorn Institute. 

The King raises a hand. The knights to his right step aside with one precise motion, their armor clanking. Behind them, down on his knees with his arms chained behind his back, is Lan Zhan. He is unbloodied, unharmed, but as he looks up at Wei Ying, his face breaks apart with unbearable anguish. The chains lead behind him, through the rippling surface of a giant mirror framed with pale stone. Wei Ying cannot feel anything through that artifact except ice and stone. 

Wei Ying raises his hand, the dragon still bound to his pinky, the thread pulling them together.

The King lifts his lips into a wolf's smile.

The chains retract. Lan Zhan is hauled to his feet from the force as he is pulled swiftly back. Before Wei Ying can open his mouth to speak, the sais-pas is yanked through the mirror.

The glass ripples once, like a lake disturbed by the stone, then is still. The glass shatters with a deafening crack, and falls in sparkling shards. The thread at Wei Ying’s hand falls apart. He catches the dragon pin in time.

Lan Zhan is gone. There is nothing but an empty mirror frame and the cruel smile of a sais-pas king. 

Wei Ying turns to Jin Zixuan’s father. ‘Give him back,’ he says. 

It is the first thing he said since he started walking with his eyes closed through the forest, the first words he’s spoken since he strode through the endless snow, the first words he’s uttered in hours . 

The King of the Northern Fey tilts his head. The jewels on his robes sparkle as brightly as all the shattered glass now scattered over the ground. 

‘Why?’ he asks, his voice soft. 

‘You owe me many favors,’ says Wei Ying. He holds the tiny dragon pin in his hand, feeling the sharp edge of its beak press into the soft of his palm. ‘I fought for you. My siblings nearly died for you. I eliminated your enemies. Give Dr. Lan Jr. back, and I will consider my favors paid.’

The King laughs. He leans forward, his elbows balanced upon the arms of his throne. ‘I paid my favors to you by not sending my whole army to crush you and that dirty little coven of yours,’ he replies. ‘I have given you mercy, where the Wens did not.’

Wei Ying looks up at the sais-pas for a long moment. Then he looks down at his boots, the mud and the snow still sticking to them. The tiny pin in his hand, dark and calloused from hard work in the garden. The fraying edges of his jacket. He must look very small and very human to these creatures with their horns and talons and teeth.

‘You think an army would have been enough to destroy me?’ he asks, lifting his gaze. 

The King makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. The many rings upon his fingers glint in the light. ‘You witches are not hard to kill,’ he says.

Steel sings as the knights step forward in strict formation, shield to shoulder, swords sprung free from their sheaths. From between the pillars and beneath the ivory trees, the glittering members of the Courts watch. The King upon his throne grins like a cat with a canary caught between its talons.

‘Ah,’ says Wei Ying, and it comes from him like a sigh at the end of a laugh. ‘So this is how you want to play.’

He tucks the dragon pin into the inside pocket of his jacket. He looks at each of the faces of the knights before him. Some of them look no older than first years. Boys barely out of puberty. But what does he know about the way sais-pas age? 

‘Are you sworn to him?’ he asks them. ‘Go home. You don’t want to die here.’

One of the soldiers before him knocks his sword against his shield. ‘You do not scare us,’ he barks. ‘Our shields are warded against dragonfire!’ 

Wei Ying closes his eyes briefly. The past shimmers above him like a steel net descending from the surface, and the wailing ghosts not yet murdered call to him from the future. Bodies upon bodies upon bodies have turned to bone beneath this court’s splendor, rotting in the dungeons. Bodies full of magic, hearts once fed full of greed and rage and hunger. Blood, brine, death, decay – so the wheel turns, so the loom spins. 

Wei Ying bends at the waist, and with his forefinger and middle finger, plucks a single golden leaf from the floor.

‘Dragonfire?’ Wei Ying says mockingly, straightening. He sweeps his left foot before him, a dancer preparing to launch forth into his routine on a creaking stage. ‘I’m so past that now.’

He flips the leaf into the air. It hangs for a moment before him, suspended on an air current. 

Lan Xichen blinks.

Wei Ying claps his hands together, slamming his palms over the leaf. 

A deep, grating roar sounds from far beneath. The ground shakes. Golden leaves tumble over each other as the earth splits beneath Wei Ying’s feet. He steps aside lightly, flinging his hand up, and from his grasp the leaf spins, unravels, and spits into strands of glittering diamonds. The broken earth tears itself apart as the very first ebony branch reaches up from beneath loosened soil and shattered stone.  

 The sais-pas of the court scream. Courtiers push against each other as they attempt to flee. A knight slashes at a black branch as it pierces upward from beneath his feet, but his sword breaks upon impact. Soon he and his companions are gone, swept up in an explosion of rock-hard bark and crimson leaves. 

There are bodies upon bodies upon bodies in the dungeon, and what is a body but a woven thread of magic that can be unspooled and recycled and turned back into thread again? In his loneliness Wei Ying has learned he is more than a hermit crab scuttling over the ocean floor, a guppy hiding in a skull’s eye sockets. 

A forest of black trees erupts from below, tearing apart the pillars and stairs and beautiful alcoves of the courtyard. Boughs crash through marble and silver and gold. Thorns crawl like tentacles over knights before they can escape. And through it, Wei Ying dances, his hands upturned, magic thrumming over him like a roaring river.

And then it is done, and there is nothing but silence. The High Court of the Northern Fey is gone, swallowed by a new forest of dark trees. Crimson leaves kiss the old canopy of gold, and stain the gilded floor with pools of blood red. 

Wei Ying looks around at the ruins of a once splendid court, at the broken marble pillars lost between leaning trees. He picks his way past the glint of golden armor from beneath the gnarled roots of a tree that is blacker than night. The throne is nothing but warped metal swallowed in a tight coil of pitch-black thorns. Blood, gold as ichor, drips between the barbs. 

Lan Xichen still sits upon the stairs, his hands still pinned down. There is a thin cut on his cheek from where a thorn narrowly missed him. The rest of him is unharmed. 

Wei Ying kneels before him and carefully pulls each knife out. The magic fizzles in his blood, still thrumming to ancient music. But Wei Ying is done dancing. He helps Lan Xichen to his feet, supporting the tall sais-pas at his elbow. 

‘Do you want me to heal your hands?’ he asks, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.

Lan Xichen shakes his head. There is blue upon the white of his sweater, fresh blood smeared on the tops of his thighs. He closes his hands into shaking fists. A brief burst of white light flashes at his palms, and when he opens his hands, the wounds are gone.

Wei Ying glances up at Lan Xichen’s expression. 

‘Do you know what it is like, to be commanded by someone you thought loved you?’ he asks, his gaze fixed upon some distant place lost between the ebony trees. 

Wei Ying does not know how to respond. 

Lan Xichen looks out at the destruction before him, hidden beneath the thick of the trees. ‘I did not know witches were capable of this,’ he says softly. Whether it is awe or fear that hushes his voice, Wei Ying cannot tell. 

‘I don’t know what witches are capable of,’ Wei Ying replies. ‘I don’t know what is right or wrong by our ways. But I know what I would do for your brother. To keep him safe. To get him back.’ 

Lan Xichen’s eyebrows climb his forehead. There is no polite smile on his face now, no mask, nothing to hide the many teeth in his mouth, nor the sharpness of his features, the strange glow of his eyes. 

‘You do not even know what he is,’ the sais-pas says, wonderingly. ‘Why would you do all of this, when our own courts betrayed us?’

‘I don’t care what he is,’ Wei Ying says simply. He pulls out the dragon pin and presses it against his pinky. He finds thread in the pocket of his jeans and begins to wind it around his finger. ‘I love him. That’s reason enough.’ 

Lan Xichen shakes his head. He reaches out and catches Wei Ying’s hand before he can wind the thread a third time.

‘You do not need that,’ he says. 

He lifts his free hand, stained as a painter’s brush when capturing the ocean or perhaps the sky, and passes it through his hair. From behind his ear, he pulls a single feather the color of seaspray. He hands it, shaft-first, to Wei Ying.

‘What is this?’ Wei Ying asks, balancing it between his fingertips.

Xichen smiles a closed-lipped smile. It is the only real smile he has ever offered in Wei Ying’s presence, and it seems as though his mouth is not used to the motion. 

‘It is my penance for misjudging you,’ Xichen says. ‘Break the feather’s shaft, and it will take you to what you most desire.’ 

Wei Ying stares at the feather for a moment, and then at Xichen. He does not know what this means, but he understands the weight of it. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and snaps the feather in two.

~

Snow falls, fat as swan feathers and settle upon the dark, craggy rocks standing like splinters above the pale water. Snow carpets the cliffs above, dusting over the bridges and roads and walls and castle ruins. The sky above is bleached of color. Wei Ying cannot tell if it is morning or evening.

He faces the black mouth of the cave. A thin stream of brackish water feeds down from its maw, spilling over black pebbles embedded in sand. His boots are wet and the water is freezing, but Bosmorial’s pearl burns within Wei Ying’s ribs.

Wei Ying puts the broken feather in his pocket and he walks forth into the cave. 

It runs deep. Wei Ying walks in darkness, pulled forth only by the remnants of the feather’s spell. The sound of the ocean echoes hauntingly against the slick walls of the cave. He can feel the slip as he moves from the known world into the folds of the Unknown. 

The tunnel bends in a hairpin turn – first left, then right, then left, and then it shoots up over knee-scraping rocks that form a dangerous staircase. Working in the garden and lifting A-Yuan onto his shoulders has made him strong. He pulls himself up, handhold over handhold, his feet finding sure purchase as he climbs. Perhaps Xichen’s spell protects him. Perhaps it is something else. There is old magic here, but it does not belong to sais-pas . It is too wild and slippery. 

This place has drunk the blood and tears of generations and generations of witches. Wei Ying walks among the echoes of his species, and they walk with him.

After the climb, the cave opens up into an amphitheater of a chamber that slopes downward, ending in a circle of smooth stone. Standing lanterns ring the center of the amphitheater, and in the middle, a broken mirror lies on the floor as though pushed over. Lan Zhan stands before the mirror, his hands shackled behind him – and holding the end of those heavy chains in both hands, dressed in glittering chainmail and creamy-white breeches, is Guangyao. 

The sais-pas turns, and flashes a dimpled smile. ‘Well,’ he chirps, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the cave. ‘I guess I didn’t keep you busy enough.’

Wei Ying makes his way down slowly. He casts his gaze upon Lan Zhan, who is staring at him in what might be horror or anger. He can’t tell. 

‘You,’ Wei Ying utters. ‘You poured poison into my cup at the ball.’

Guangyao laughs. ‘Oh, I didn’t poison you. My father poisoned the cups – yours and Mingjue’s. He doesn’t know that poison can’t kill either of you.’

Wei Ying steps up to the ring of lanterns. ‘You didn’t want me dead?’ he frowns. 

The sais-pas cocks his head. ‘But why would I want you dead?’ he asks. ‘I have no grudge against you.’

Wei Ying steps past the ring of lanterns. From here, he can now see that there is a pool of water on the other side of the amphitheater, half-obscured by two boulders. It glows with a strange light. 

‘Wouldn’t you gain from my death?’ Wei Ying pries. 

‘No,’ replies Guangyao. ‘I mean, you are a convenient distraction for my father. He’s greedy, and he thinks he can make himself more powerful with your Grimoire. It will mean nothing to him, though – he has the magic of his crown. Nothing can defeat that.’

Wei Ying reaches out with his right hand and drags it lightly through the closest flame. It is real fire, not magic. It does not burn him, of course – neither heat nor cold can touch him, as he is. But it leaves a trace of soot over his palm – a remnant of a long-gone tree compressed by heat and pressure and time, turned to coal and now ash.  

Guangyao’s bright eyes watch this with a strange kind of hunger. ‘Hm,’ he says. He tugs on the chains. Lan Zhan stumbles forward. 

Wei Ying takes a step forward, but Guangyao holds up a finger.

‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘Come closer, Mr. Wei, and I’ll kill him.’ 

He yanks at them, and Lan Zhan nearly falls to his knees. Wei Ying cannot imagine what would hold Lan Zhan like that, without the power of his true name – and Wei Ying has never, never, never let anyone hear it from his lips. 

‘It’s funny what someone’s willing to tell you,’ Guangyao grins, ‘if you ride their dick well enough. Mingjue, Xichen – they all spilled their secrets to me. And now I know what binds the all-powerful protectors of dragons. I know what saps them of strength, and what will kill them.’

Ice creeps through Wei Ying’s chest. He looks at Lan Zhan, who shakes his head grimly. Go, he seems to say through his piercing gaze. Run, Wei Ying. 

‘Why?’ Wei Ying asks, breaking eye contact with Lan Zhan. ‘Why hold them captive? Why kill them?’

Guangyao leans his weight into his right hip, wrapping the end of the chains over his forearm. He taps his fingers over cheek. ‘Why-y?’ he asks, dragging out the syllable. ‘Because, Mr. Wei, the Lans aren’t just protectors of dragons. They are keepers of the seasons. Turner of tides.’

He punctuates each sentence by yanking on the chain as he steps back, tugging Lan Zhan closer to the glowing pool. Each word takes him further from Wei Ying. Lan Zhan does not interrupt Guangyao. He does not fight. He does nothing at all but look at Wei Ying pleadingly.

Wei Ying cannot understand what he is meant to forgive. 

‘The Lans,’ grits out Guangyao, taking yet another step toward the pool, ‘make the oceans. They summon the rain and snow that falls and collects in rock and deepens and breaks cliffs apart. Humans called them gods, Mr. Wei. They made palaces of stone for them , when they only ever built little rickety shrines for us.’

It doesn’t matter much what we call ourselves , Wen Qing once said. We allow you to cage us in names and definitions because it makes you less afraid of us.

‘Why does that matter?’ Wei Ying asks. 

‘Because they make it so that magic flows,’ Guangyao snaps. He takes a step, then another, then another, until he is at the edge of the pool. ‘And my family needs it collected in dams and traps. We need magic locked in debts and stone and artifacts, or we will not have enough to hold on to power.’

His voice shakes, and he bares his teeth in a grimace. The pool behind him glows with incandescent light. 

‘Power,’ repeats Wei Ying. 

He thinks of the ruins of Scholar’s Sanctuary. The mosaic in the floor. The molten stone. Mottled blood and broken limbs. Bodies rotting in a pit. It is a lonely thing to be what we are. A dragon beating its wings against a cage. Fire licking bright tongues over wallpaper. Dr. Faust’s eyes, glassy as marbles. A lotus with a snapped stem. A map that no longer shines with color. As they have died, so has our world.

‘Power,’ he says again. 

He looks down at the soot smeared across his palm. From within his pocket, he pulls out the broken feather. He turns his gaze upon the sais-pas at the opposite end of the cave, once so beautiful, now contorted with rage. 

‘Guangyao,’ says Wei Ying. ‘Your father is dead. Your palace is in ruins. I have broken your dams and destroyed your levies.’ 

The sais-pas ’s face goes blank. He stands tall, his shoulders back. ‘I see,’ he whispers.

And then with a single motion, pulls at the chains, dragging Lan Zhan toward the glowing pool.

Wei Ying pushes the broken feather into his soot-stained hand. The world folds into itself and unfolds like clever corners in an origami crane, and he reappears at the edge of the water, his heels hanging over the lip of the pool. Quick as a flash, he wrenches the chains free from Guangyao’s hands. 

One nudge at the magic, and the chains deteriorate into white ribbons. Lan Zhan’s arms spring free. Eyes blazing like coals, he lunges forward and swipes at Guangyao with bared claws. The smaller sais-pas ducks away with a yell. As he spins, he sweeps out his foot, catching Wei Ying by the ankles and sending him tumbling down into the water.

‘Wei Ying!’ calls Lan Zhan, reaching out to try and stop Wei Ying’s fall.

It is too late. 

It was always too late. Their lives will always twist with blood, rain, brine, death, desire.

The water is as cold as death. As it touches Wei Ying’s skin, he suddenly remembers the suffocating press of a too-tight lock of a carseat on his chest, smoke filling the metal prison that was once his father’s car, and the stench of burning flesh mixing with molten plastic and rubber, and his mother’s neck, bent back, her eyes open and glazed over like marbles, and blood drying over the fuzzy covers of the passenger seat. He knows he will disappear, like foam upon the shore.

And then, very suddenly, he remembers a jar of scales beneath his bed.

He recalls the exact way they looked when the light hit them – sparkling in a million colors, brighter than a rainbow.

Son of Cangse, what will you be?

Something within him flips – or perhaps takes a very careful side-step. He is not a witch made of muscle and sinew and bone and marrow. He is a prism and the world filters through him.

Wei Ying stands in the water, and magic spills from him like oil slipping over water, shimmering and iridescent in the light that burns at the crown of his head and at his hands.

‘What kind of witch are you?’ gasps Guangyao, eyes wide with fear.

Lan Zhan sinks to his knees, one hand clasped over his chest, the other clutching at the tip of the boulder. 

Wei Ying climbs up from the pool, rivulets of icy water dripping down from his sodden scalp and into his eyes. Magic continues to bleed from him, dripping from his fingers and from his mouth, spilling from him in gallons and gallons. 

‘No,’ whispers Guangyao, backed up now against a boulder. ‘No.’

‘Yes,’ says Wei Ying. 

He grasps the front of the sais-pas ’s shirt, through the thin chainmail. With liquid strength, he drags Jin Guangyao forward and into the pool. The sais-pas gives a garbled scream as his body touches the water, half of it lit in pale blue, the rest covered in thick, shimmering magic. Where the water touches his skin, it cracks, and becomes translucent as the sais-pas turns from warm flesh into something hard and crystal-clear. The scream dies before it can fully form.

All that once burned will burn again. All flesh and carbon will return to the earth and be remade as diamond. 

And that is what Jin Guangyao has become – pure, hard diamond, lifeless as he sinks beneath the oil spill of Wei Ying’s magic. 

‘There,’ whispers Wei Ying. ‘Now you have power.’

~

By the time Wei Ying and Lan Zhan pick their way out of the cave and back onto the beach, the clouds have pulled back from the sky. The sun dips, round and fat like an orange at the horizon. In the distance, beyond the break, a flash of silver bodies break from the blue expanse of the water.

‘Rabbit-ears,’ whispers Lan Zhan. ‘The first dragons of spring.’

Wei Ying laughs, and finds tears in his eyes. He wobbles on his feet, and Lan Zhan catches him by the waist. 

‘So turns the mantle of the earth,’ Wei Ying recites. He feels raw, like skin rubbed too hard after a hot shower. ‘Like the turning of the tide.’

Lan Zhan turns sharply. ‘What?’ he says.

The shimmering bodies of the rabbit-ears disappear into the surf. 

‘As rock becomes sand,’ Wei Ying continues, pulled along by the song’s current, ‘so it will again become rock.’

The rabbit-ears leap from the water once more, and then something enormous crashes upward with it, long and shining in a hundred shades of jade in the warm glow of the sunset, long fronds of dark green splaying from its back like wings. The full length of a blue whale, the dragon climbs and climbs, and with it the rabbit ears follow like a school of silver minnows, swimming as easily through air as in water.

Wei Ying leans into Lan Zhan’s steady weight. The sais-pas stares up at the dragon as it circles above them in a lazy figure eight, mouth agape. 

‘It will come and it will go,’ whispers Wei Ying, his eyes stinging with unshod tears, ‘until the wheel crushes down.’ 

‘Wei Ying,’ gasps Lan Zhan, his eyes fixed upon the dragon’s green coils as it winds above. ‘That is Lothraël.’

The wind has a warmth in it that kisses Wei Ying’s cheeks. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the sea, sweet and gentle as the rocking of a cradle, soothing as his mother humming late at night by his bed. 

‘How?’ Lan Zhan murmurs, pressing his face into Wei Ying’s hair. They are both trembling like trees in a storm. ‘How?’

Wei Ying digs his fingers into Lan Zhan’s arms, and they sway together. 

‘Everything that once burned will burn again,’ he says. ‘Lan Zhan, I can bring them back. I can bring them all back – every lost dragon, all the Old Folk. I know how.’

Lan Zhan withdraws. He holds Wei Ying’s face between his hands, and they both watch each other for a moment. Then Lan Zhan releases Wei Ying, and instead takes his hand. 

Wordlessly, Wei Ying follows Lan Zhan as they step from one place into the other, slipping effortlessly across miles and miles. One breath, they are here, the next, they stand before the path that winds up the cliff, and above them, the Marine Biology cottage perched like a roosting bird. Up, up they go – Lan Zhan walking ahead and Wei Ying following, their hands clasped together. 

They walk past the cottage, on the chalk path half-buried in snow, past the gate at the fence, and through the Institute. It is quiet between the buildings. Perhaps the place is abandoned. Wei Ying doesn’t care. All he can do is watch the shape of Lan Zhan’s shoulder, the breadth of his back, the rise and fall of his chest. 

They end up where they began: at the pale bench beneath the oak, facing the slope that bows to the sea. The sun is gone now, and the light is tinged lilac as dusk falls. Lan Zhan sits carefully at the far left of the bench, and with his right hand, pulls Wei Ying down to sit beside him.

Wei Ying places his right hand on the smooth curve of the bench, feeling the grain of the wood. He turns to look at Lan Zhan, glowing like palest jade in the blue hour. If he wanted to, he could unfold the whole world like a giant map and inspect its innards – but he does not. 

Instead, he leans his head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

The ocean rolls gently in. 

Chapter Text

Grimoire of the Witch Ying Wei; To Teleport Anywhere You Want

• Take a thing that once danced in the sky
• Take a thing that once lay in the dirt
• Bring them together

~ 

Eugene stands on the gravel road before towering wrought-iron gates, shielding his eyes from the blazing summer sun with his hand. There’s a click at the intercom as the gates swing open with a lethargic creak, revealing twin lines of pine trees that sway in the light breeze. 

He’s been told to bring all his luggage with him, which thankfully isn’t much – just a single suitcase and a messenger bag he’s slung over his shoulder. The wheels of his suitcase bounce over the gravel path, tugging at the tired muscles in his neck and shoulder. 

At the end of the path stands a white building with slender marble pillars and green windows, and on the front steps stand two black-clad figures, one much taller than the other, both as pale as milk. 

The taller one approaches Eugene first, taking two steps at a time. He’s tall enough for Eugene to have to crane his neck to meet the man’s eyes, and normally that would make him nervous, but the man is already smiling brightly at him.

‘Here,’ the tall man says, reaching for Eugene’s suitcase, ‘I’ll take your bags.’

Eugene hesitates for a moment. The man is dressed far too nicely to be moving a battered suitcase around. What kind of research institute dresses their porters in three-piece suits? 

‘It’s alright to be a bit scared,’ the man adds kindly. ‘I was too, on my first day.’

Eugene smiles nervously back at the tall man and hands over his suitcase. 

‘You just go up those steps,’ says the man, nodding toward the building and the woman who waits at the top of the steps, staring at them both unblinkingly. ‘Dr. Wen will tell you what to do. Good luck!’

Eugene heads up the steps, but when he pauses to turn around and thank the man, he’s vanished. Confused, Eugene continues his way up the steps until he meets the woman. There are rubies in her ears and shimmering at the cuffs of her crisp, white shirt. She takes a long look at him, then gestures for him to follow her through the open double doors into a small lobby with a marble floor. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a flower made of palest silver.

‘Bend, please,’ she instructs him. Her teeth, Eugene realizes, are made of metal.

He dips at the waist, and she pins the flower to the lapel of his tweed jacket. She tidies his collar, smooths out the wrinkles on his shoulders, and nods for him to stand up straight. Eugene is unnervingly reminded of his elder sister.

‘There,’ says the woman with metal teeth. ‘Try to keep that on, will you?’

‘Um,’ gulps Eugene.

She smirks. ‘Oh, relax. I won’t eat you.’ 

The woman – Dr. Wen, Eugene supposes – pulls open a second door, revealing a great hall lined with wooden benches facing a raised stage built of dark wood. Eugene thanks her politely and steps through. 

He finds a seat not too far from the back, but not too far from the front, and where he doesn’t have to push past many of the scattered people already sitting in the hall. (He ends up on a long bench by himself, staring at the back of a girl’s head who has way too much curly, bright red hair, which is fine, really, but he wishes he had less social anxiety.)

He distracts himself by looking around the hall. It’s one of the most beautiful buildings he’s been in since his nephew’s commencement at Chester Cathedral (his sister married up ), and very unlike any other place he’s ever worked or studied in. Eugene’s never been a top-performing student – never managed to place first in any scholarships, never quite good enough to make it through Oxbridge interviews, shuffling instead through the Russell Group chain catching colds from too much mold growing in his cheap student housing, too tired from his three part time jobs to put in that extra hour of studying. 

But he was good enough to get into this place. That, he’s particularly proud of.

There is an intricate stained glass window behind the stage – shards of green and blue and orange and yellow all composed to form a hawthorn tree. When Eugene looks up, he can see that the ceiling has been painted to look like a canopy, with stars shimmering between green leaves on a violet evening sky. 

‘No angels,’ he murmurs.

‘None,’ agrees a voice to his left. ‘No organized religion here.’

Eugene nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks down to find that a group of newcomers have sat down beside him. The one closest to him – the one who spoke – is a young man dressed in a smart gray suit over a knitted vest of cornflower blue. When he crosses his legs, Eugene notices that his socks are the same cheerful color. 

‘Hello,’ says the young man. When he smiles, his cheeks dimple. ‘Hope you don’t mind if we join you.’

Eugene peers over the young man’s shoulder. The other two young men in his group are dressed just as well – Eugene reminds himself not to compare his jacket to theirs, budgets are different after all – though the one in the purple suit is pointedly ignoring them both and rifling through a pamphlet with a deep frown. They all have the same silver flower pinned to their collars. 

‘Oh, um, not at all,’ says Eugene. He looks at their faces, and even if he shouldn’t assume anyone’s background, he takes a gamble. ‘I’m Xuanyu Mo. But usually people call me Eugene.’

The man in cornflower blue tries to hide his smile. ‘You’re giving us your real name?’ he asks, his tone lightly chiding. ‘Eugene, we’ve just met.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter what we call him,’ huffs the grumpy one in purple. He turns over the page in his pamphlet. There are peonies embroidered into his sleeves. He looks ridiculous. ‘He’s a Pioneer.’

‘What he means is, nice to meet you,’ says the third man, leaning over to offer Eugene his hand. ‘I’m Jingyi. This is Sizhui-’ he adds, patting the man in blue with his free hand, ‘-and that obnoxious queen is Rulan.’

  ‘Oy!’ protests Rulan, smacking Jingyi with his pamphlet. ‘Rude!’ 

‘Pot, kettle,’ huffs Jingyi.

‘You’ll have to excuse my friends,’ says Sizhui, still smiling at Eugene. ‘They can get excited around new people.’

‘What is a Pioneer?’ asks Eugene, shifting in his seat so he can better face the others. 

‘Someone new to the Institute who has no prior formal introduction or personal link,’ says Sizhui, with the cool precision of someone who’s spent too long traversing academic roles. ‘It’s a term used in comparison to Legacies like us.’ 

He looks younger than the others, Eugene notices, barely old enough to be in first year. Maybe he’s one of those child geniuses who skip grades and start uni before they hit puberty. He tries not to feel a surge of jealousy and guilt. He’s brushed shoulders with enough of Sizhui’s type over the years, so he should be used to it by now – but he’s not.

‘What are Legacies?’ Eugene asks, trying to distract himself.

‘Nepo babies,’ Jingyi supplies. ‘My uncle is teaches here, Sizhui’s dads head their own departments, and his royal highness Rulan-’

‘Oy!’

‘-is joining his father’s research project,’ continues Jingyi, unperturbed by the outbursts to his left. ‘It’s sickening, honestly. He’s got no originality.’

‘I’m sitting right here,’ complains Rulan, folding his arms over his chest. 

‘They do this often,’ says Sizhui, his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

‘Academic dads,’ says Eugene, who’s not good at processing a lot of new information at once. ‘That’s cool.’

‘It has its perks,’ agrees Sizhui, nodding. ‘Though they can get a little overbearing.’

They quiet down as soon as a door opens on stage. Through it steps a tall man dressed in a pale blue linen suit that looks almost white. Behind him follows an intimidating man impressive in both stature and posture, who strands just beside the door with his arms folded and face grim.

The tall man stands at the center of the stage for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the gathered people sitting on the benches. He is impossibly, ethereally beautiful, and his smile is so very kind.

‘Legacies,’ he says. ‘Pioneers. Welcome to the Hawthorn Institute. I invite you all to rise.’

Clutching his messenger bag, Eugene stands. 

‘This is so exciting,’ whispers Jingyi.

The man on the stage unclasps his hands. He takes two steps forward, and claps his hands.

A flurry of white-feathered birds burst from beneath the benches. Rulan gives a little yelp, and Sizhui laughs, but Eugene can only watch, clutching his bag with his heart in his throat. The flurry of their wingbeats is almost deafening as they soar up, up, silhouetted like a stream of moonlight against the painted ceiling. Together, the flock of birds begin to dive – but before they can get close, they explode into hundreds, thousands of petals.

As the first petal touches Eugene’s shoulder, his tweed jacket turns ivory. He looks around as the room fills with heady perfume and jasmine petals drifting like snow. Everyone, every single person standing in the room is clothed in white. 

He turns, then, to his new friends.

Jingyi is grinning from ear-to-ear as white eats away the navy of his suit. ‘Welcome to the Unknown, Eugene,’ he says.

~

The tall man who took Eugene’s suitcase takes them around the campus on a walking tour. He introduces himself as Mr. Wen – no need to call me Dr., you’ll get confused with my sister – and he explains that has an administrative role on the Pastoral Committee. 

‘That means I make sure you’re all happy and settling in well,’ he adds. 

‘We’ve been to public school,’ says a girl at the front. ‘We know what that means.’

‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ says Mr. Wen, and smiles at her. He has rows and rows of jagged teeth, like a shark’s. 

The girl goes pale, and she immediately moves to the back of the group. 

‘Serves her right,’ huffs Rulan under his breath, arching his eyebrows meaningfully at their little group. ‘I don’t know why we keep letting toffs in.’

‘ You’re a toff,’ Jingyi points out.

‘I went to a state school,’ the other frowns, looking offended. 

‘Yeah, but in what car?’ Jingyi grins. ‘What car does your mummy drive, Rulan?’

‘Boys, please,’ sighs Sizhui, shaking his head in disappointment. 

He gives Eugene a meaningful look as if to say, aren’t they silly? – as if they’re friends and Eugene’s good enough to be included in special inside jokes. Warmth, gold and glowing, spreads in Eugene’s chest. 

Every building they pass on their tour is more spectacular than the next. There’s a tower shrouded by a copse of trees, an enormous glittering greenhouse, and beyond it, a long row of buildings that run down the hill with domed, copper roofs. 

‘That’s Horticulture,’ says Mr. Wen, pointing at the greenhouse. ‘And down that way is Arts and History. All excellent places to work.’

As they pass the greenhouse, they cross paths with two people heading up the hill from Art and History. The shorter of the two, a woman in a butter-yellow sweater, tan trench coat, and red wellies, interrupts her conversation with her companion to wave at the group.

‘Rulan!’ she hollers. ‘It’s not too late to transfer to History!’

‘Oh my god,’ mutters Rulan, his face turning pink. ‘Aunty Mianmian, please .’ 

The woman’s companion, a man in a fantastic green jacket embroidered with blooming flowers, laughs so hard he nearly trips over his feet. ‘You still have the entire pre-course to change your mind!’ he calls, once he’s righted himself. 

‘Oh my god ,’ says Rulan. 

Jingyi cackles as he throws an arm around Rulan’s shoulders. 

‘You’d make an excellent archivist,’ yells the woman as the crowd of white-clad newcomers head past. ‘Think about it!’

Eugene wonders what it might be like to have an anchor so steady no storm can throw you from safety. He does not look very long at the two members of the Hawthorn Institute as they pass him, and he makes every effort not to stare at the two boys as they tease each other. He stares instead at the tall and broad back of Mr. Wen as he leads ahead. 

They approach a solid, red-brick building with stained glass windows, along which there is a staircase that they climb as a group. This leads up to a courtyard, with five buildings that look inward. A girl with skin the color of a rose peers down at them from a balcony. There are leaves growing upward from her long, unbound hair. 

Eugene stares at her for a moment. She smiles down at him and blows him a kiss. 

‘And that’s Laws and Politics,’ says Mr. Wen, pointing at the girl’s building. 

Eugene realizes he probably missed something important. Sizhui, Jingyi, and Rulan are all looking at him, the latter with narrow eyes. 

‘You can’t trust dryads,’ Rulan says seriously. ‘Even if they look nice and smell nice.’

‘Or pixies,’ Sizhui adds, smiling like he’s telling another joke. 

‘This way please,’ says Mr. Wen, his eyes trained on the four of them. 

He gestures toward a narrow set of steps that cut up between the gap between Laws and Politics, and the building closest to it. It is a narrow fit – they have to go up in single file. Eugene’s shoes slip on a step, and as he nearly goes careening down onto cold stone, a hand snatches out and grabs him.

‘Careful,’ says Rulan, frowning. He’s remarkably strong for someone so slender. 

At the end of the climb is a huge balcony, maybe the size of Eugene’s house. Beyond, the dark cliffs cut over pale beaches and into azure waters. It is so beautiful here , Eugene thinks, as he looks over the water and toward the cotton-ball clouds dusting the horizon. As pretty as paintings. 

‘Do you like it?’ asks Rulan, appearing rather suddenly at his elbow.

Eugene faces the other young man. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he replies honestly. ‘I mean, magic or not, it’s so beautiful here. So calm.’

Rulan’s eyes study his face for a moment, and there’s an eerie sort of knowing there, behind the delicate, elfin features and private-school-esque charm. ‘Wouldn’t you rather see gold and glory?’ he asks, and there’s something strange in that phrasing. ‘Aren’t you here to earn power that is rightfully yours?’

But even if there was a trap waiting in his words, Eugene has no interest in the bait. He does not want gold, nor does he want magic, nor does he care very much about the girl on the balcony beyond the leaves that grow from her hair. He knows why he came here. 

He casts his eye down over the rockpools half submerged by high tide, the slivers of sky shivering there, protected from the waves by rock. He thinks of the one time he went to the beach with his mother, the way she looked at him as though searching for someone – that horrible sadness in her eyes when she could not find gold beneath the silt.

‘Everything out there,’ Eugene says, waving vaguely behind him, ‘is loud and fast and people keep clawing at each other to climb higher. I want a place that… isn’t that.’

Rulan smiles then, a shaft of pure sunlight breaking through the clouds. ‘You sound just like my dad,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ says Eugene, bemused. ‘Thanks?’

Rulan just chuckles. ‘You’ll see what I mean.’

~

He moves into his dorm later in the afternoon. Sizhui volunteers to help him unpack, and even climbs flight after flight of dizzying stairs that spiral endlessly upward. The room is right beneath the roof. The headboard of his bed rests just beneath a slanted window that opens upward. At night, he’ll be able to see the stars. 

Sizhui carefully arranges Eugene’s books in the built-in shelves on the wall, while Eugene admires his private bathroom, complete with a little brass bathtub with clawed feet. His sink faucet is shaped like a tiny dragon, so that the water flows from its mouth when the tap is turned on.

‘This is a really nice room,’ Eugene tells Sizhui, as he pops his head back out of the bathroom.

‘It is,’ agrees Sizhui. He slides another book into place. ‘My father lived in this building too, briefly.’

‘Briefly?’ frowns Eugene. 

‘Yeah,’ says Sizhui, placing the last book on the shelf. ‘It’s a long story. I’ll invite you to dinner some time and my dads can tell you all about it.’

He then starts unpacking Eugene’s clothes and hanging them in the stand-up wardrobe. Eugene stares at him for a while, this beautiful, perfectly poised boy in his crisp suit hanging up Eugene’s charity shop jumper as casually as if they’d been friends for years. 

‘Sizhui?’ he says, cautiously.

‘Yes, Eugene?’ Sizhui replies, turning back to face him politely. 

Eugene takes a deep breath. He tries not to think about silt in a gold pan. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’

Sizhui looks at him for a moment, one hand upon the door of Eugene’s wardrobe, the other tucked in his trouser pocket. ‘What you said to Rulan earlier,’ he says, after a beat. ‘The known world does not fit you too well, does it?’

Eugene feels like a bug beneath a stone, suddenly revealed and exposed in harsh light. He sits down on the edge of his bed. He tries to cover his unease, and shrugs. 

‘Well, I don’t know,’ says Eugene. ‘My mum worked very hard to get me every opportunity, you know? I try my best to find my place in the world and make her proud, and she’s very proud I made it here, even if she doesn’t really know what this is, and it’s the first gig I’ve landed that pays well, and. You know how it is,’ he finishes lamely. 

Sizhui sits down next to Eugene on the edge of the bed. He looks at the open wardrobe, at the few tattered items hanging there – the evidence of the crevice that yawns between them and their upbringing. 

‘Xuanyu,’ says Sizhui, using Eugene’s given name for the first time since their first introduction, ‘I’ll say something that won’t mean anything right now, but you’ll understand soon enough. This place, this room, our friendship – these are things meant for you.’

And then he gets up, and kneels back down next to Eugene’s suitcase.

‘Now,’ he says, flashing a dimpled smile, ‘where do you want your socks? They didn’t give you a chest of drawers, and I’m not keen on having them piled at the bottom of your wardrobe.’

Eugene blinks, and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘Um, I was just going to make a hammock with my scarf and keep them there?’ 

‘Fascinating,’ says Sizhui. ‘You have to show me how you do that.’

~

The very first pre-course lecture on their color-coded schedule is Literary Review. Jingyi makes sure to save them a seat four rows from the back, and he even passes Eugene a pen when his ballpoint stops working. 

The lecturer is three minutes late. He throws the doors open with both hands so hard they slam shut behind him, strides directly to the podium, deposits his bag at the side with a heavy thump, throws his coat onto the desk there, and begins to unknot his scarf – ruby-red, the only color on his all-black attire. He looks young, with hair down to his chin, and despite the smart cut of his suit, he’s wearing boots with the laces looped around his ankles. 

The lecturer pulls from within his charcoal suit jacket a small spool of twine, a feather, a tiny jar of what might be dirt, and a dog-eared pocketbook. He sets the objects at the top of the podium, and holds the pocketbook in his right hand.

‘Good afternoon all,’ he says, flashing them a brilliant smile. ‘I’m Dr. Wei. I sincerely hope I get to work with some of you after the pre-course, but I’m certain I’ll see you around campus. My door is always open, and if it isn’t, you can find my email address on your assigned reading list.’

He slaps his pocket book against his palm. Eugene sits a little straighter in his seat. 

‘Right,’ grins Dr. Wei. ‘Magic! There are three sources of truth for magic. Your basic building blocks are Treatises. If you don’t know your Treatises well, and you attempt a ritual, you will lose a finger – or worse.’

He levels a meaningful look directly at Rulan, whose ears burn red.

‘So you will read. Your. Assigned. Reading.’ He punctuates his words by rapping his pocketbook against the podium.

‘I only skipped homework one time,’ Rulan grumbles under his breath, glowering at his notes.

‘Second source of truth are Almanacs,’ Dr. Wei continues, waving with his pocketbook. ‘Almanacs are sources of information on the Unknown. Some of you will be Almanac writers, and for that, I salute you, you sordid little masochists.’

The lecturer winks at Sizhui, and the boy beams as though being given a compliment. Dr. Wei then starts to reel off the location of various libraries with additional copies, how to request special copies, and where to register for their library cards.

Halfway through Dr. Wei’s explanation of why you should never enter the History Library between the hours of 3 am and 5:30 am, Eugene nervously puts his hand up.

Dr. Wei pauses in the middle of his sentence. He shifts his weight, rests his elbows on the podium, and looks at Eugene expectantly. 

‘Um,’ says Eugene. His voice echoes through the lecture hall loudly – too loudly. ‘What’s the third source?’

The lecturer laughs then, as light and bright as a summer breeze. The air around him shimmers in technicolor, like rays of sunlight refracting through hanging crystals. The air smells of brine and wildflowers, as though they are not in a dusty old hall at all but wandering down a cliffside over the ocean. 

‘What an excellent question,’ Dr. Wei remarks. ‘Thank you for asking, Mr.-?’

‘Mo, sir,’ says Eugene. ‘My surname is Mo.’

Dr. Wei grins from ear to ear. ‘Pleasure, Mr. Mo. To answer your question, the third source of truth for magic,’ he replies, holding up his pocketbook, ‘is a Grimoire.’

~

Head of Pastoral’s List of Silver Pin Assignments: 

• Lan Sizhui - Almanac Writer: Marine Biology; Dragons Lesser, Greater and Major
• Lan Jingyi - Field Research Assistant: Marine Biology; Dragons Lesser, Greater and Major
• Jin Rulan - Project Research Assistant: Physics; Immaterial Physics and Magical Matter
• Mo Xuanyu - Writer: Fern Cottage Cooperative / Cornwall Coven