Clop. Clop. Clop.
Hooves thundered against the dirt road, iron shoes striking sparks as if the earth itself resented the intrusion. The night was black and watchful, the moon veiled behind drifting clouds that floated like leaves upon some invisible river. Smoke and shadow conspired with the storm, each gust rattling branches and flinging snow like the flayed remnants of ghosts.
The carriage, dragged at a furious pace, seemed less a vehicle and more a predator. Its sleek black frame cut through the night like a shark through dark water, lacquer gleaming when stray moonlight broke free. Snow fell in soft silence, like dead men descending from heaven, carpeting the path as though heralding a king's return. From afar it might have been mistaken for a mythical lightning bug adrift in the void, gold trim flashing like living fire.
Inside, one flame alone kept vigil. A single candle, amber and steady, flickered against the storm's fury. Its glow painted the cabin in warm tones, making the velvet seats glow like embers, shadows swaying across the travelers' faces in a rhythm as intimate as breathing.
Clank. A porcelain cup touched its saucer, gentle as a chime.
"You seem rather interested in that girl…, what was her name again?"
The voice was smooth and teasing, touched with velvet malice. Its owner reclined lazily, their head nestled against Jasmine's bosom as if the world owed them such comfort. They inhaled deeply, audibly, as though stealing the scent of her skin, then looked back at her with mock curiosity glittering in violet eyes.
"Luna," Jasmine said at last, purple eyes rolling heavenward. She reached for a biscuit, biting into it with slow precision. The gown she wore flowed like spun moonlight—silver-white fabric that caught the candle's glow in shifting waves. Gone was the militaristic attire she favored, replaced with something softer, though not gentler. Her hair, pale as frost, had been bound in a bun so precise it spoke of discipline even in leisure.
The two sat side by side, ivory lace lining their seats. Across from them, the opposing bench sat empty, waiting, as though daring some phantom to claim it and intrude upon their quiet tea ceremony.
"Yes. Luna." The other repeated the name, chuckling as if rolling it across their tongue to taste its flavor. Folding long fingers beneath their chin, they tilted their head. "Any particular reason?"
Jasmine's gaze cut to them, sharp as the crack of ice. "What do you think?" she countered, her tone dry, her cheek resting against one hand as the other stirred her tea. "You spoke with her more than I did. If I spoke to her at all."
A pause, long and silken, stretched between them. The carriage creaked, the storm muttered against the glass, and still the silence lingered, like a harp string pulled taut and waiting to snap.
"Curious," the violet-eyed companion said at last, fingers idly tracing the rim of their cup. "Interesting in her own way. A little flame, burning despite the cold." A glint of moonlight slipped through the window and struck their amethyst earring, making it gleam like a shard of fallen star.
"We should consult the records. The old histories, the whispers of the Arcana. Things are never what they first appear." They dipped a biscuit into their tea, breaking it neatly between their teeth. A cough followed, faint but genuine, and they cleared their throat before asking with casualness too sharp to be innocent: "How's his arm, by the way?"
"He has his fingers back," Jasmine replied curtly, setting her cup down. The sigh that left her lips afterward was heavier than the words themselves. "It's better."
For a moment neither spoke, only the storm filling the silence.
"It's a shame we had to return home," Jasmine murmured, her voice softer, wistful. She turned her face to the window. The countryside rushed by—trees rendered as shadows, fields melting into darkness, every so often touched by a mercy of moonlight that made their silhouettes bloom silver. "I was looking forward to the market."
"Perhaps next time." The companion's giggle was light, mischievous, and mocking all at once. "You'll keep me company again, won't you?" They leaned in close, lips drawn in a mock pout, expression playful, almost childishly coy, though their eyes burned with something older, something dangerous.
---
Elsewhere
The air was thick with sandalwood, its fragrance painting the chamber with invisible brushstrokes. Lanterns and candles bathed the room in molten gold, casting long shadows across silk panels embroidered with cherry blossoms. The tatami floor gleamed faintly, like beach sand in twilight. Somewhere, hidden by paper screens, the sound of running water mingled with the rhythmic thunk of bamboo striking stone.
Dì Wǔ Jīn Lóng sat in quiet authority. His voice, when it came, was smooth as ink spilled across parchment.
"The Church revealed itself? Not one of the human leaders?" He turned a page, long black hair sliding like silk across the sleeve of his richly chestnut coloured robe. His golden eyes—reptilian, slit pupils sharp against amber irises—narrowed slightly in thought. "A paladin was sent."
The pipe between his fingers glowed faintly as he drew upon it, raspberry-sweet smoke curling skyward before dissolving into nothing.
"I suspected as much," he murmured. "That place always concealed more than it revealed. Why maintain resources for a land without purpose? Why guard ashes as if they were treasure?" His voice trailed into silence, the only answer the patient bamboo: once, twice, thrice.
A guest knelt across from him, elegant, composed, their movements wrapped in etiquette. They sipped green tea slowly, waiting.
Jīn Lóng's gaze lifted again. "Do you think those girls are the reason? For that land still being tended? You said it was destroyed." His tone carried no urgency, only the weight of inevitability.
The guest shifted. "It was, my lord. By all accounts, yes. And yet—"
"No matter." He cut them off with the lift of a hand. "The excursion bore fruit. Not the lemon I had hoped for… but a pear will suffice." A faint curl of a smile touched his lips. "Regina. Luna. Intriguing."
He set the pipe aside with the grace of a swan folding its wings. Upon the low table sat a wooden box, dark purple lacquer etched with swirling patterns. He traced its surface once, then lifted the lid. Gold coins glimmered within, their brilliance smug, their light daring even the stars to rival them.
"Pass my greetings to your clan head," Jīn Lóng said, extending the box. The guest bowed low, accepting with both hands, their forehead nearly touching the mat.
Jīn Lóng did not look at them. His golden gaze was elsewhere, far away. "There should be something in the records. On this… minor Arcana." His fingers tapped the table once, twice, rhythm joining the bamboo's patient beat. "Perhaps he will know something."
The guest said nothing. They finished their tea, rose, and bowed again before departing.
Thud. The sliding door closed, sharp and final, like a war drum struck once.
The dragon lord drew again from his pipe, filling the chamber with the fragrance of wild raspberries. He sat in silence, still as a mountain, yet the gold in his eyes gleamed like firelight in the dark.
Outside, the bamboo struck stone. Once. Then again. Then again—endless, patient, relentless.