The next morning, Qin Mo woke to Ao Ling chewing on his sleeve. He laughed softly and offered a sliver of spiritual herb; the dragonling snapped it up and preened as if he had slain a tiger.
"Listen," Qin Mo said. "You must hide. There are eyes here that will sell you for a better lunch."
Ao Ling stared at him solemnly, then nudged Qin Mo's palm until the man's fingers rested against the small, warm brow. Something old clicked between dragon and man. A faint azure brand—no more than a dew-drop—bloomed on Qin Mo's wrist.
A pact, simple and childish, yet written in a language older than the sect's mountain.
Under the willow, Qin Mo drew an array not with pebbles but with the breath of leaves. He threaded it through root and shade so that only those who had sat under this tree and listened would see the nest in its arms.
He cut his thumb and placed a bead of blood on the bark. "I am Qin Mo. This is Ao Ling. We ask for shelter. In return, I will feed your roots and sing to your leaves until you are old as the world."
The willow sighed. A single leaf fell into his hair.
Tang Yurou arrived humming, saw the scene, and stopped. Her gaze flicked to the brand on his wrist. Then she looked at the willow, at Qin Mo's bleeding thumb, at the quiet smile on his face. She did not ask.
Instead she said, lightly, "There's talk that Elder Bai of the Sword Hall will attend the spring trials. If your quiet pills make a loud splash, you could win a personal recommendation."
Qin Mo tied a scrap of gray cloth around his thumb. "That would be useful."
"Useful?" She snorted. "It's a golden ladder." She tilted her head. "You climb ladders like you were born on a roof."
He thought of roofs of stars and the blade that fell through them. "I was born under one."
Her smile faded to something thoughtful. "Who hurt you?"
"Once," he said. He glanced up at the sky. "A friend."
Tang Yurou studied his face as if learning a recipe. "We'll fix that someday," she said after a beat. "But first, we win some pills, and I buy you noodles that are not watered grief."
He laughed. It felt better than it should.
When she left, Qin Mo sat cross-legged and let the thin qi of the lower realm pour into him as if into a broken cup. He didn't reject its smallness. He loved it. He welcomed it. He mended.
Within, the Myriad-Dao Wheel turned twice. Tiny laws woke, yawned, and remembered their names. He brushed the edges of time and space and tucked them back to sleep. To rush was to repeat an old mistake.
He opened his eyes. Ao Ling slept in the crook of roots. A breeze carried a scent of sandalwood and rain that did not belong to this mountain. It belonged to a night that ended in a kiss of steel.
Qin Mo set his jaw. "I'm coming," he said to a sky that pretended not to hear. "But first, I'll grow a forest so deep no net can fall without being caught."