The Alchemy Cloud Pavilion stood beneath a jade-flecked cliff, its eaves crusted with morning frost and mist like drifting incense curling around stone pillars carved with rare pills.
As Zhao Fan and Maid Yi stepped past the outer wards, disciples knelt in silence, lips sealed in pale fear or reverence.
None dared speak his name aloud, but they all recognized the Young Master of the Zhao family and the sect's holy guest.
Each gaze was a trembling brushstroke on the scroll of fate.
The outer courtyard, once filled with the scent of brewing elixirs and disciple chatter, now sat heavy with unnaturally quiet space.
...
Within the third floor,
Elder Wang sat poised behind a lacquered tea table.
He had changed into his formal robes, white with green hems, the symbol of the Pavilion stitched in golden thread across his chest, though the emblem looked almost ashamed to cling to him today.
His sleeves trembled slightly as he poured the tea: three cups.
