"Doorway only," I told him, one hand on the east chamber latch. "You plant your feet at the threshold. Your shadow can cross it, but you are not to."
Longzi didn't blink. "Understood."
Deming stood at my left, his half mask catching a thin line of brazier light. Yizhen lounged by the screen like a cat that had learned how to wear silk, sleeves loose, hair tied with something he swore wasn't mine.
Yaozu was a darker shape just behind, attention where it always lived—on whatever I hadn't had time to look at yet.
On the pallet, Lin Wei worked through the first stance with the wooden sword Deming had cut to fit his hands. Tap, set, draw breath. His fingers still trembled between motions, but he didn't drop the wood.
Progress. I counted those more carefully than ministers counted grain.
"Hand higher," Deming prompted, voice low, not pushing. "Elbow close. Exactly. Again."
