She moved—not standing, simply shifting, her body rolling toward him and settling, her side against his, her head finding the angle of his shoulder with the natural ease of someone who has been in physical contact with a person for thirty-three hours and has stopped finding their body unfamiliar.
Chen Yun's weight arrived from the other side. Her chin on his other shoulder.
The demon sword set aside, just resting, her breathing finally at the low even rate of someone whose body was recovering.
The wind was cold.
The sun was somewhere above the plateau—mid-morning, the formation light replaced by actual light—and both women were warm against him and injured and alive and Nascent Soul Early.
"Thank you," Wei Lingyue said.
Quiet. Direct. The tone of someone who has assembled a sentence carefully and has decided that simple is the correct construction.
"And you," Chen Yun said. To him. Also quiet. The flat directness that was her most honest register.
He said nothing.
