The chamber seemed suspended in time.
Not a speck of dust dared settle here, not a single sound rose above a whisper. This was not merely a hall — it was a sanctum. A place where elegance and authority sat intertwined like twin vines.
But what arrested the eye — what captured even Yasha's wandering gaze — were the five towering stained glass windows at the very back of the hall.
Each window soared from floor to ceiling, over three times her height. They weren't just decorations. They were statements — sacred portraits forged in colored light.
The first glowed with shades of burning gold and deep vermilion — depicting a woman with a spear resting over her shoulders, her eyes closed, her expression serene as if asleep, yet her aura crackled with restrained violence.
The second bore a Lady of midnight blues and silvers, dancing barefoot through a storm of cherry blossoms. Her twin blades were crossed behind her back, and her smile was dangerously tender.
The third panel shimmered with emerald greens and ivory. The Lady there knelt with a fan over her lips, her gaze tilted to the lake below, contemplative. Around her, cranes took flight — some bearing letters, some with blades tied to their claws.
The fourth showed a silhouette clad in smoky amethyst and dusk-purple silk, one hand holding a wine gourd, the other a severed chain. Her foot stepped lightly over the head of a collapsed giant.
And the last — the center and largest — depicted the matron of them all. She stood straight-backed in crimson robes that rippled like fire, her hand on the hilt of a blade still sheathed. Her eyes were closed, but the sun behind her was ablaze — as if the world waited for her to open them and decide its fate.
Each pane bled light into the hall, and the colors spilled across the polished marble floor like living paint. Reds brushed against gold, blues tangled with soft violets, and emeralds drifted across Yasha's face as she looked up.
In that moment, it was impossible to tell whether the colors moved from the glass… or if the glass itself breathed.
The lake beyond provided the canvas — its rippling surface reflecting the sun's kiss, sending waves of brilliance through the glass.
It wasn't just beauty. It was memory. Identity. Legacy.
Yasha sank into the plush curve of the velvet sofa, letting its softness pull her into a rare state of ease. She stretched one leg over the other, arms sprawled lazily across the backrest. Her eyes half-lidded. A sigh escaped her lips, almost a whisper. For once, the world could wait.
Sleep began to flirt with her senses—until the faint sound of the main door creaking open stirred her instincts. Her nose twitched before her ears registered the sound. A familiar scent drifted in—sharp plum wine with a trace of smoke.
Yasha's eyes snapped fully open.
A tall figure stepped into view, framed by the spill of stained-glass light. Her presence didn't just enter the room—it poured in.
She was dressed in amethyst hues, her robe sleeveless and pinned to her frame with casual defiance. Beneath it, her arms were wrapped in tight black sleeves that accentuated sinew and strength. A gourd clinked lightly against her hip, swaying with each step. Her hair, long and flowing, shimmered the same shade as crushed violets under moonlight.
She was taller than Yasha by a full head, and yet it was the heavy silence she carried—soaked with old danger and effortless charm—that made the room subtly shift around her.
Yasha blinked once. Then smiled. Wide and slow.
"Well," she murmured, stretching like a cat. "Look who's not dead."
The tall woman stepped further into the sanctum, her silhouette draped in amethyst light. Her presence stirred nothing in the still air — she belonged here, as much as the stained glass and the silence. Her sleeveless robes swayed with each step, her lean arms sheathed in black, muscle-fit sleeves that gleamed faintly under the filtered sun. At her hip hung a gourd, its metallic surface etched with faded runes.
Yasha, already reclined on the long, curved sofa, cracked one eye open as the scent reached her — sharp, fermented, with a hint of heat. Her nose twitched.
"Pesky ghosts can't even leave a scratch," the woman said as she passed, not bothering with a greeting.
Yasha chuckled. "Maybe if you stop chasing the dead, they'll stop chasing you."
The woman dropped beside her with a huff, the cushion giving beneath her weight. She uncorked the gourd and took a deep drink. Whatever was inside hissed on contact with her throat — the sound like steam over stone.
"Nothing new," the woman muttered, her eyes half-lidded, already drifting.
Yasha smirked. "Mm. I wouldn't say that. Something interesting happened in the Fang."
That earned a faint grunt. "Another turf squabble? A merchant scandal? Please — wake me when the tea's hot."
Yasha leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her knuckles. "A boy, probably no older than twenty, walked back into the Fang alone. Bloodied, robes torn, dragging a halberd behind him like it weighed nothing."
"Sounds messy." The woman was already reaching for another sip.
"But not the interesting part," Yasha continued. "The interesting part was what came after. The air split. Blue fire. A cry loud enough to shake tiles off the rooftops."
The gourd stopped mid-air.
"A Blue Phoenix," Yasha said softly, savoring the words. "Descended into the city. It caught the boy in its beak… and took him into the sky."
Now the woman was still.
Her eyes flicked to the side, narrowing. "Blue Phoenix?" she repeated, as if testing the taste of it.
Yasha smiled. "Oh, now you're listening."
The taller woman didn't answer. Her gaze wandered to the stained glass, locking briefly with the leftmost Lady — a figure draped in smoky amethyst, standing over the fallen giant.
Yasha leaned back and crossed her legs. "I figured you'd want to know. It's not every day the sky reaches down to pick someone up."
"Or that the Phoenix bothers to fly at all," the woman muttered, then finally drank.
But her expression had changed. Slightly.
The gourd lowered slowly from the woman's lips. She didn't say anything — but Yasha could see it. That slight tension in her fingers. The pause in her breath. She was listening now.
"Oh, and one more detail," Yasha added, her voice casual as her fingers toyed with a loose thread on the cushion. "That same boy… after he survived the Blue Phoenix's attention…"
She turned her gaze to the stained glass, letting the silence stretch like a bowstring.
"He leveled the entire Second Moon Sect."
That got her.
The woman finally turned her head fully, her amethyst eyes meeting Yasha's with a still, narrowed focus. "Leveled?" she repeated, as if the word itself were foreign.
"Flattened," Yasha clarified with a smile. "Alone. No army. No sect behind him. Just a halberd and a temper."
The taller woman blinked once, her brows faintly furrowing.
Yasha leaned in slightly, resting her elbow on the curved backrest, chin in palm. "You interested now, Liora?"
The name cut the quiet like a blade slipping from its sheath.
Liora exhaled through her nose, not answering.
Yasha's smirk widened. "You've been restless for months, wandering about like a drunk storm. But now? Now your ears finally perk up."
"I'm not interested in children," Liora muttered, but her tone lacked conviction.
"No," Yasha said with a soft laugh. "But you are interested in chaos."
She leaned back again, satisfied. "And that boy — Kazel, they called him — he's pure chaos, distilled into one soul."
The gourd rose again to Liora's lips, but she didn't drink. She stared into the dark liquid for a long while, her mind already racing ahead.
Liora tilted her head slightly. "What's his name again?"
"Kazel," Yasha replied, still half-reclined. "Of the Immortal Sect."
"Kazel…" Liora echoed the name under her breath, like tasting something on her tongue for the first time.
Yasha sat up a little. "What? You know something?"
Liora didn't answer immediately. She took another swig from her gourd. The faint sizzle of whatever liquid was inside filled the quiet.
"You are the second Lady to mention that name to me," she finally said.
Yasha's brows lifted. "Don't tell me he's already famous in some far-off corner?"
Liora shook her head, slow and thoughtful. "I don't think so. Might just be a coincidence."
Yasha narrowed her eyes, a petal slipping between her teeth as she started to chew. "Which Lady?"
Liora turned, her expression unreadable at first—then she smiled.
She smiled.
Yasha's eyes widened ever so slightly. Her heart skipped, and she swallowed the petal, forgetting to chew.
(She smiled…)
Something twisted in her gut. She glanced over her shoulder—drawn instinctively toward the largest stained glass panel towering at the back of the hall.
The Lady in crimson. The matron. The one whose eyes remained closed.
"…Don't tell me she mentioned him."
Liora said nothing.
But the smile lingered.