The Duskwind Inn was quieting down for the night. The lanterns outside had been dimmed, their amber glow casting long, tired shadows across the creaking wood of the front porch. Inside, the air was warm with the faint aroma of old incense and the sharper sting of rice wine spilled earlier that evening.
Behind the receptionist desk, Madam Yi lounged in her chair, one slipper dangling loosely from her toes, the other propped against the counter. She twirled a lacquered pipe between her fingers, though it had long gone out. Her half-lidded eyes drifted toward the door, as if she were watching the night swallow the streets whole.
A stack of ledgers lay open before her, but she wasn't really reading. She was thinking about whether to pour herself another cup or simply go upstairs and collapse into her bedding. Closing time always tempted her toward the latter.
The bell above the door jingled, snapping the quiet.
She turned her gaze lazily, expecting some drunk straggler or merchant too late for proper courtesy. Instead, Arhatam stumbled in, breathless, one arm straining to keep the dead weight of a boy upright. Durandal's head lolled forward, his body limp as if he'd been wrung dry of life.
Madam Yi raised a brow, lips curving faintly at the corners. "Well, well," she drawled, her voice low, husky, and touched with amusement. "Closing time's past, yet here you are dragging corpses into my lobby. Should I light incense for him now, or do you intend to pay extra for the mess?"
Arhatam staggered toward the counter, sweat shining on his forehead, his face pulled tight with urgency.
Her pipe tapped softly against the counter as she set it down. The boy's pale face caught a glimpse of the lanternlight, and Madam Yi's eyes narrowed. That jawline, the messy dark hair, the faint scar by the brow—memory stirred like a ripple across still water.
(That boy… I've seen him before. Yes. He was the one Kazel dragged in, the stray with thief's hands but fire in his eyes.)
Her languid posture vanished in an instant. She rose from the desk, skirts whispering against the floor as she crossed the distance with surprising swiftness. The indolent innkeeper's mask slipped, replaced with precision and care. Without hesitation, she crouched low, brushing Durandal's hair aside, feeling the heat of his skin, the shallow but steady rhythm of his breath.
"Foolish brat," she muttered, though her tone carried no venom.
Her hands moved deftly, as if she'd done this countless times before—checking his pulse, loosening his collar, signaling Arhatam with a sharp tilt of her chin. "Don't just stand there gawking. Get me a basin of water. Now."
For the first time, the weight of her presence filled the room not with languid authority, but with urgency—sharp, commanding, and absolute.
Madam Yi's fingers pressed against Durandal's throat, feeling the weak thrum of his pulse. Relief flickered across her face for the briefest moment, but it hardened quickly into something sharper. She looked up, her eyes like needles under the lantern glow, fixing on Arhatam.
Her voice, calm yet edged with steel, cut through the quiet of the inn: "What happened to him?"
Arhatam, still catching his breath, blinked at her, mouth opening and closing before words stumbled out. "He—he took an arrow to the chest. That bastard cheated in a duel! I—I barely got us out with smoke before they could finish him."
Madam Yi's gaze didn't waver. She returned it briefly to Durandal, brushing blood away from his lips with her sleeve. Then she lifted her chin again, eyes narrowing. "A duel, you say? Foolish men."
The way she asked made it clear she already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear Arhatam's words, weigh them against his trembling stance. Her tone carried no panic, only cold curiosity wrapped in restrained fury.
"Speak plainly, alchemist. Who fired the arrow?"
Madam Yi wrung out the cloth she had used to wipe the blood from Durandal's mouth, her hands steady despite the mess before her. She pressed the damp fabric against his wound, firm enough to slow the bleeding, gentle enough not to wake him. Only then did she speak, her eyes rising slowly to pin Arhatam in place.
Her voice was low, deliberate, like a blade unsheathed in the dark: "Which faction dares to raise its hand against the Immortal Sect?"
Arhatam swallowed hard. He shifted his weight, guilt and fear wrestling inside him. "It was… the Shield and Spear. And—and two of the White Knights stood with them."
Madam Yi's brows arched slightly, but her expression never broke into surprise. Instead, she leaned back against the desk, arms folding, eyes sharp and calculating. "The Shield and Spear?" she repeated, letting the name linger like a curse. "Bold of them. Too bold. Unless someone whispered in their ears that the Immortal Sect is weakened."
"And where," she said, each word crisp as steel, "is your young master?"
Arhatam stiffened, sweat breaking along his brow. He opened his mouth, shut it, then forced the words out. "H-he's not here. Kazel… hasn't returned since he left for the ruins."
Madam Yi's gaze lingered on him, unblinking, as though she could peel away the layers of hesitation and excuses. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by Durandal's ragged breathing. Finally, she set the cloth aside and leaned forward, her eyes gleaming like coals in the dim lamplight.
"Do you believe that Kazel is dead?"
Her words hung in the air, pressing on Arhatam's shoulders like a millstone. He opened his mouth, lips quivering, but no sound came. Shame and fear wrestled in his chest.
Then, from the cot, where Durandal lay pale and broken, a voice rasped through clenched teeth.
"No."
The word was soft, yet it struck the room harder than any shout.
Madam Yi froze, her eyes widening. Slowly, she turned her gaze to the boy, who hadn't even opened his eyes. His face was slack with exhaustion, but his jaw set firm, his voice threaded with certainty.
Arhatam's throat bobbed as he swallowed, stunned. He had tended to Durandal's wounds, he knew the boy should be unconscious. And yet, there he was—speaking with a conviction stronger than his broken body should allow.
The air thickened, heavy, as if the world itself leaned closer to listen.
Then—
A low, rolling growl shook the heavens.
Thunder.
The lamps flickered. A moment later, a flash of white light streaked through the shutter cracks, followed by the hiss of the first raindrops striking the roof.
"Ugh," Madam Yi muttered, her tone softer, almost wary as her gaze lingered on Durandal. "It's going to rain heavily again."
But inside her, a different storm began to stir. For in that brief, stubborn word, she had heard something more than denial—something that felt dangerously close to a prophecy.
---
Under the mighty black clouds, the heavens seemed to split open with every rumble of thunder. Rain lashed sideways, driven by a howling wind that cut through stone and flesh alike. The open gate of the Immortal Sect groaned against its hinges, flung wide as if to welcome calamity.
And there, in the middle of that storm, stood a young man. His figure was outlined by lightning, hair plastered to his head by rain, garments clinging to his frame as though the storm itself sought to weigh him down. Yet he did not bow, did not falter. His presence carved defiance against the roaring sky.
Beside him, a cloaked silhouette loomed—hood drawn low, fabric snapping violently with every gust. The storm seemed to hesitate around this second figure, as if the air itself feared brushing too close. Shadows hid their face, but the way they stood—still, anchored, patient—spoke of a power that did not need to announce itself.
The two figures stood together at the threshold of the Sect, silent and unmoving as the world tore itself apart around them. The storm was nature's fury, but what approached through those gates promised something far more dangerous.