Master Shen Qiyang did not rise when the messengers arrived.
He sat cross-legged on the jade dais, fingers ink-stained, brush hovering above a scroll made from something that was not paper. The air around him hummed—subtle, disciplined, lethal. Talismans hung in precise alignment along the walls, each one calibrated to a different frequency of spiritual deviation.
“Speak,” he said calmly.
“They’ve appeared in the western mountains,” the messenger reported, kneeling so low his forehead touched stone. “A woman who bends fractures. A man wrapped in shadow. The wards—”
“—recognized her,” Shen finished, finally setting the brush down. “Of course they did.”
He rose, tall and spare, robes the color of winter ash. His eyes were not cruel. They were curious.
“The Mandate trembles,” he murmure
