The petals kept falling long after the melee ended.
They drifted across the arena like slow rain, catching moonlight until the entire terrace glowed soft pink. Medics moved among the fallen, elders murmured in the high seats, disciples whispered about the nameless healer who had fought beside the disgraced exile.
Mei and Sùyīn stood beneath the cherry tree until the last petal touched marble.
Then a single silver note rang from the highest pagoda—clear, commanding.
A voice followed—amplified by array, yet intimate, as though spoken directly into Mei's ear.
"Lin Mei. Report to Moonshadow Pavilion. Alone."
The crowd stilled.
Sùyīn's hand found Mei's wrist—tight, grounding.
"That's her," she said quietly.
Mei nodded. Her mouth was dry.
"Go," Sùyīn whispered. "I'll be here when you come down."
Mei squeezed once—then let go.
She walked through the parting crowd, up the winding jade steps that spiraled toward the inner peaks. No guards stopped her. No one spoke. Only the petals followed, swirling in her wake like silent witnesses.
Moonshadow Pavilion sat at the very edge of the seventh peak—open on three sides, roofed in black lacquer tiles that drank starlight. A single stone table stood in the center. Two cushions. A pot of tea still steaming. And her.
Lán Xīuyīng waited with her back to the moon.
White training silks. Silver hair unbound now, spilling down her back like liquid mercury. Sword resting against the table—unsheathed, blade catching moonlight in thin silver lines.
She didn't turn when Mei stepped onto the pavilion floor.
"You kept the token," Xīuyīng said. Not a question.
Mei stopped three paces away.
"Yes."
"And the hairpin still clings to life."
Mei touched it—five cracks now, one shard already dark and lifeless in her sleeve. The remaining pieces glowed faintly, like dying embers.
"It has one left," Mei said.
Xīuyīng finally turned.
Her face was calm—perfectly composed—but her eyes held storm clouds. Frost still lingered there, but beneath it something churned. Something alive.
"You fight differently than the girl I sentenced."
"I'm not that girl anymore."
"You never were."
The words landed soft. Heavy.
Mei's breath caught.
Xīuyīng stepped forward—slow, deliberate.
"Draw your sword."
Mei looked at the practice blade still at her hip—the same one she'd carried from Yānchéng.
"This isn't—"
"Draw."
Mei drew.
The steel felt heavier than before. Not because of weight. Because of meaning.
Xīuyīng lifted her own blade—long, elegant, edge so fine it seemed to drink light rather than reflect it.
They faced each other beneath the open sky.
No announcer.
No crowd.
Just wind, moonlight, and the faint scent of cherry.
Xīuyīng moved first.
Not an attack—an invitation.
Her sword arced upward in a perfect crescent—slow enough to follow, fast enough to kill if Mei hesitated.
Mei met it.
Steel sang against steel.
Sparks flew—bright, brief, beautiful.
They circled.
Xīuyīng pressed—forms flawless, intent merciless. Every strike tested, measured, searching. Mei answered—not with borrowed grace, but with everything Sùyīn had drilled into her: ugly footwork, stubborn blocks, breaths stolen between clashes.
A thrust grazed Mei's sleeve—tore silk, drew a thin line of blood across her forearm.
Mei didn't flinch.
She countered—low sweep at Xīuyīng's ankle.
Xīuyīng leapt—light as frost settling—and came down with a descending chop.
Mei rolled aside. Marble chipped where the blade struck.
They separated.
Breathing hard.
Xīuyīng's eyes narrowed.
"You're bleeding."
"You're surprised?"
"I thought the hairpin would carry you."
Mei smiled—small, fierce, bloody.
"It's almost gone. This is me now."
Xīuyīng studied her—long, searching.
Then she lowered her sword. Just a fraction.
"Why come back?" she asked again. Same question as the bridge. Different tone.
Mei let her own blade dip.
"Because the day you read my sentence, you didn't blink. But your fingers trembled. Just once. On the scroll."
Xīuyīng went very still.
"I saw it," Mei continued. "Even through the pain. Even through the qi deviation they forced on me before the exile. Your hand shook."
Silence.
Wind moved Xīuyīng's hair across her face.
She didn't brush it away.
"I was sixteen," Mei said. "You were seventeen. We were both children playing at justice. But I never hated you for it. I hated that you looked away after."
Xīuyīng closed her eyes.
Just for a second.
When she opened them again, the frost had cracked—thin, visible fractures.
"I looked away," she said quietly, "because if I kept looking, I would have broken the verdict. And breaking it meant both of us dead."
Mei stepped closer.
One pace.
Two.
Until only the crossed blades separated them.
"Then break it now."
Xīuyīng's sword trembled—once.
Then she let it fall.
Not surrender.
Choice.
The blade clattered against marble.
Mei dropped hers a heartbeat later.
They stood—weaponless, breathing each other's air.
Xīuyīng lifted her hand—slow, hesitant—and touched the cracked jade hairpin.
Her fingertips brushed Mei's temple.
The last shard pulsed—bright, desperate.
Mei reached up. Closed her hand around Xīuyīng's.
The hairpin gave one final, shattering crack.
The jade split completely—six pieces now, dark and lifeless.
But as they fell—slow, like petals—one shard clung to Xīuyīng's palm.
Warm.
Alive.
Xīuyīng stared at it.
Then at Mei.
She spoke—voice barely above wind.
"Lin Mei."
Not exile.
Not traitor.
Just her name.
Mei's eyes burned.
She leaned forward—forehead to forehead—same way she had with Sùyīn.
But different.
This time it wasn't goodbye.
It was beginning.
Moonlight bathed them.
Cherry petals drifted past the open pavilion—late, impossible, beautiful.
Somewhere far below, Sùyīn waited.
But here—on Moonshadow Pavilion—two girls who had once been judge and condemned finally stood on the same side of the blade.
No frost left.
Only spring.