Li Fan stood there under the tea shop's dripping eaves, the rain still needling down, soaking through his shoulders. The weight of those final words pressed on him like a stone in his chest. It could cost him everything. Not just the key, not just some ancient treasure or forgotten technique—but the fragile trust they'd rebuilt, the people he'd come to rely on. He exhaled slowly, watching the water run in rivulets along the cobblestones.
"We can't do this together," he said quietly, turning back to Rourou and Wei Shun. His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Not if someone's watching our every step, waiting for us to bunch up like easy targets."
Wei Shun shifted against the wall, arms still crossed tight. Rain dripped from the edge of his hood onto his scarred cheek. "Splitting up? In this mess?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Feels like walking into the trap with our eyes half-shut. But… yeah. I get it. We spread out, maybe we cover more ground before they can close the net."
Rourou unrolled the map again on the counter, her fingers tracing the faded lines like she was trying to read tea leaves. She looked tired—really tired—in a way that made Li Fan's gut twist. The three routes stared back at them: the bustling Glassmakers' Quarter, the veiled Temple of Mists, and the rotting silence of the Crane Foundry.
"I'll head to the Temple," she said, folding the map with a quick snap. "The monks there still remember the favor I did them a couple seasons back. If there's anything sacred or hidden in those mists, they might talk to me. Besides…" She gave a small, lopsided smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I move quieter than you two oxen."
Li Fan nodded, grateful for her steadiness. "Wei Shun, you take the Glassmakers'. Your size might scare up some honest answers—or at least make the rats scatter. I'll go to the Foundry. If one path is already closed, it's probably the one they're daring me to walk."
Wei Shun clapped him on the shoulder, the grip firm but lingering a second longer than usual. "Watch yourself out there, brother. That girl earlier… she wasn't just some kid. Moved like someone who'd been taught how to slip a hold. Whoever's pulling strings has reach. And reach like that doesn't play fair."
Rourou paused before stepping into the rain, her hand brushing Li Fan's arm lightly. "This feels bigger than a simple chase," she murmured, close enough that only he could hear. "Like someone's digging up old doubts on purpose. Remember how things almost fell apart before? All those whispers about loyalties and hidden patrons… Don't let them plant new seeds."
He met her gaze, the familiar worry flickering between them. "We bring back whatever we find. Together. No blades at each other's backs."
She squeezed his arm once, then vanished down the western lane.
The Crane Foundry sat hunched by the river like an old wound that never healed. Rain drummed on twisted metal and shattered tiles as Li Fan picked his way through the debris, heart thudding steady but uneasy. Every creak of wood made him pause, hand hovering near his sword. The air smelled of rust and wet ash.
Near the old smelting pit, he spotted it—a single clean boot print in a patch of mud. Too fresh. And just beyond, tucked under a fallen beam, another slip of black parchment. No long riddle this time. Just that coiled dragon symbol, swallowing its tail. The mark of the Eternal Court.
Li Fan's mouth went dry. Those ghosts from the capital, always meddling from the shadows. If they were involved, this wasn't about a key anymore. It was about power. About reminding people like him exactly where they stood.
A soft scrape overhead. He jerked back as a clay tile clattered down and broke at his feet. Scratched into it: The second path burns.
Wei Shun lumbered through the Glassmakers' Quarter, shoulders brushing hanging lanterns that cast fractured colors across the wet street. Folks gave him space. Good. He hated feeling watched, but right now he wanted them nervous.
A skinny apprentice "accidentally" jostled him near a roaring kiln. Something small pressed into his palm. Wei Shun stepped under an awning and unrolled the scrap.
Allies fracture when mirrors show different truths.
The words hit like a dull blade. He thought of Rourou's unexplained trips last year, the way Li Fan sometimes went quiet about certain letters. Was this real, or just poison dressed up pretty? Before he could crumple it, flames roared up from the kiln beside him—too fast, too hungry. Glass exploded in the heat. Shouts erupted as the fire jumped, cutting the street in half like it had been planned.
Wei Shun cursed and barreled forward, but the blaze was already a wall.
Rourou knelt in the quiet incense haze of the Temple of Mists, the air thick and heavy. The old abbot's face was lined with regret as he pressed a jade token into her hand.
"She came before you," he said softly. "A woman of the inner court. Knew your name. Knew your friends. Asked which path you'd pick." The token bore the same devouring dragon. On the back: One path remains. Choose wisely, or watch your circle break as the realm demands.
Rourou stepped back out into the rain, throat tight. The puppetmaster wasn't just ahead—they were walking beside them, whispering in ears, turning old friendships into fragile glass.
High above the river, in a warm, silk-hung room, the woman in imperial robes lowered her spyglass. Reports trickled in from her agents. She smiled, slow and satisfied.
"Let them run," she whispered. "By the time the pieces fall, the board will be mine."