The silver-tinted twilight of the night sky filtered through a room in the Ling Clan's palace through the heavy silk curtains, casting long, dancing shadows across the polished floor.
The air was shrouded with the scent of burning spirit-incense and the bitter, medicinal tang of the "Soul-Knitting Salve" Haoran had applied to the unconscious shadow guard.
Qing'er's eyelids fluttered, her breath hitching as she groggily opened her eyes.
Every fiber of her being felt as though it had been threaded with burning hot needles; the dark gold lightning of the world's core had left a lingering, numbing ache in her Saint-realm meridians.
She found herself in a sprawling, opulent chamber, lying upon a bed of cloud-silk that felt unnaturally soft against her bruised skin.
"Where...?" She spoke, feeling the dryness in her throat.
"Are you alright?" a voice asked. It was calm, steady, and carried an undertone of rare, quiet concern.
