Coming out of Wangchen Tower, Xiao Nanhui’s heart was heavy, and she felt a vague, inexplicable unease.

She understood the reasoning Yaoyi had laid out. Some old matters were not untraceable — they simply could not be traced. Those were wounds. To tear them open was to bleed.

Xiao Zhun knew this deeply, which was why he almost never spoke of those old events in front of her.

She believed she understood Xiao Zhun’s nature. A man forged on the battlefield was upright and resolute but lacked flexibility — she herself was the same. She had been shaped by Xiao Zhun, and Xiao Zhun was much the same way.

The imperial court was another kind of battlefield, where no one carried a sword or a spear, and you could not see a single move being made — yet when the round ended, someone would be cut down from their horse. The outcome was the same.

Xiao Zhun was not suited for that kind of battlefield. Xiao Nanhui knew it, but could offer no help, only worry.

By now it was midday. She could not say how it had happened, but the bright sky that had been clear just a moment ago had suddenly darkened. She squinted upward and saw a solid line of black cloud advancing from the distance like a vast formation.

The skies of Quecheng were truly capricious.

Uncle Chen had not yet sent anyone to fetch her — Xiao Zhun would not be back for some time. If she wanted to make her prayers at Yongye Temple, she would have to leave the city now, or she would not return before the gates closed.

Well, she would go alone then.

Xiao Nanhui’s birthday wish this year was: may Xiao Zhun remain safe and sound.

In truth, ever since the day she first came to know him, every birthday had carried only that one wish.

And in every year that had passed, it had been answered.

So Xiao Nanhui believed the temple was efficacious.

At least it had been so until now.

This year’s beginning had not been auspicious, but there would still be a happy ending.

There would be, wouldn’t there?

— ✦ —

Yongye Temple stood on Shuxi Mountain, thirty li east of Quecheng. Though the temple itself was small, it drew many worshippers.

Legend had it that when the temple was first built, its name had been Yongye Temple — named for the ancient place called Yongye, upon whose land the temple was founded.

Yet from the moment of its completion, Yongye had been afflicted by calamity after calamity. First, year upon year of floods swept away the villages at the foot of the mountain; then came seven years of severe drought; then the unrest of Chizhou brought relentless years of war. In one such conflict, a great stone rolled down and crushed the temple gate, caving in half the structure. The plaque above the entrance was damaged, and of the original two characters, only one survived — ye, “undertaking.” The head monk took this as a sign of heaven’s will and had the plaque left as it was, repairing only the gate.

From that day on, the temple’s name changed. And with that change, something extraordinary happened — Yongye was never visited by disaster again. Though no great monks resided within its walls, the temple proved remarkably efficacious, not in bestowing blessings, but in averting misfortune. In short, if a person feared they were about to fall into calamity, they would come to Yongye Temple and pray for protection. Three sticks of incense were all it took to turn ill fortune into good, and danger into safety.

With such a reputation, the temple never lacked for worshippers.

Yet it was best to come early, not late. Those who arrived after midday, like Xiao Nanhui, were rare.

A young monk accepted Jixiang’s reins and tied the horse to one side. A carriage stood nearby alongside a few other horses — Xiao Nanhui glanced at it without much interest, then hurried up the stone steps toward the temple gate.

The sky remained overcast. Inside the courtyard, clusters of golden blooms were at the height of their flowering, yet without sunlight, they had lost some of their luster. Unlike other temples that planted pine and cypress, Yongye Temple had kept the golden camellia trees that had been there when the temple was first built. Camellia trees were notoriously difficult to tend, and golden ones rarer still, but the soil and water of Yongye Temple suited them perfectly — without any careful cultivation, they bloomed fragrant and full every year.

Xiao Nanhui looked around and felt a flutter of joy in her eyes, yet thinking of Xiao Zhun’s absence, the pleasure was somewhat dimmed.

She sighed inwardly and walked straight toward the main hall. The dark clouds that had drifted in from the southwest seemed to have drawn closer still, pressing down over the upswept eaves of the hall, casting over everything an inexplicable sense of weight. From a distance, Xiao Nanhui noticed someone standing at the entrance of the hall — a figure in fine clothing, standing with hands clasped behind their back. Her sharp eyes caught the moment they turned slightly, angling the long sword at their waist to the other side of their body.

She looked away and thought little of it. Quecheng was the imperial capital, and those of high standing were everywhere. Some noble families preferred not to advertise their identities when they went out, and so would avoid wearing anything that might identify them.

The temple was in a remote location, she supposed — so they had brought their weapon along for protection.

The thought drifted through her mind as she passed the figure and walked on.

Inside the hall, the sutras banners hanging overhead blocked out much of the light from outside, and the room grew dim. A cool, clear air swept against her face. The flowers outside had been almost too sweet — and in the close atmosphere before rain, a faint bitter scent seemed to cling to the air inside.

Xiao Nanhui let her eyes adjust, then walked directly to the prayer cushion. She took out a plain handkerchief to wipe her hands, then lit three sticks of incense.

The ancient incense — blended with musk and snow lotus — carried a warm, pungent fragrance that cut through the lingering bitterness in the air. Xiao Nanhui drew a slow, deep breath and began to murmur her prayers for Xiao Zhun’s safety.

From somewhere in the side chambers, the intermittent tap of a wooden drum fell quiet. In the stillness of the main hall, only her low voice remained.

She began with the campaigns, then moved on to Xiao Zhun’s officers and generals, and at last to the mansion and to Xiao Zhun himself. She did not know how much time had passed, but at some point the hand holding the incense trembled — ash that had burned halfway down fell onto her skin, and it stung with heat. She considered carefully, decided she had forgotten nothing, then bowed her head reverently three times and pressed her forehead to the floor in prostration.

When she rose and turned, she found her gaze drawn to the oracle box resting beside the incense table, and she hesitated.

In this age, people put their faith in gods and in the Buddha. Xiao Nanhui had watched those who prayed to the gods and found it all rather troublesome and expensive. She had turned instead to the Buddha. Whether she truly believed, she could not honestly say — but before every battle, Xiao Zhun always paid his respects to both gods and Buddha, and over time, Xiao Nanhui had come to regard this as necessary herself.

Drawing oracle lots, however, was something she had never done. She did not understand fate or the workings of heaven, and knew only that every person had their lot in life — and that the more one tried to calculate one’s fate, the thinner it wore. She had always considered herself to be a person of meager fortune, not one who should test it further. Yet today, for some reason she could not explain, Yaoyi’s words had been circling in her mind all morning, and the moment she saw the oracle box, they surfaced again.

If he were to know now — would those people let him live?

The world was unpredictable — the Xiao Family was proof enough of that. If people could foresee what was coming, could they not avoid what others called fate?

Xiao Nanhui did not know. But when she came back to herself, the oracle box was already in her hands.

The octagonal wooden box had been polished smooth from years of use, and the hundred bamboo lots packed inside gave it a solid, weighty feeling.

Xiao Nanhui closed her eyes, murmuring her prayer as she began to shake the box.

Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle.

A slender bamboo lot slowly worked its way to the top of the box. With her eyes still shut, Xiao Nanhui gave one firm flick of her wrist — and the lot shot out of the box.

She opened her eyes and had to resist the urge to laugh.

On either side of the Buddha statue at the front of the hall hung enormous sutras banners that reached from ceiling to floor — except that a few inches from the ground, there was a gap, and through this gap her lot had sailed and landed on the other side.

This was the main hall of Yongye Temple. The scripture platform behind the Buddha was strictly off-limits to anyone other than monks. Xiao Nanhui stretched out her arm to reach for the lot, but no matter how she tried, she could not quite grasp it.

Then, from deep within the hall, came the faintest sound of footsteps.

Xiao Nanhui’s movements stiffened. She had not realized there was anyone else inside the hall.

Could it be Abbot Yikong? Or perhaps the monk assigned to watch over the hall? But whenever a monk was present inside the hall, he would usually step forward to help worshippers recite a few passages of scripture when they came to offer incense.

Perhaps it was only a young novice who had just entered?

Xiao Nanhui bent slightly and peered through the gap beneath the banner.

In the dim light, she could make out a pair of boots moving slowly closer, then stopping a few steps from where she stood. Then a slender hand wearing prayer beads reached down and picked up the bamboo lot.

Those boots were certainly not the footwear of a temple monk. But those prayer beads — their quality was the kind only a person of serious religious practice would possess.

Suppressing her curiosity, Xiao Nanhui still said politely, “I did not realize you were here, Master. I apologize for the disturbance.”

After a pause, a voice came from behind the banner.

“It is no matter.”

Just those two short words — but they made Xiao Nanhui pause.

The voice was far too young. It was impossible to associate it with the old monks who sat in endless meditation. Yet young as it was, the voice carried a quality utterly devoid of sorrow or joy — calm and still as an old monk’s, with no emotion to be read in it at all.

Before she could fully collect herself, that voice spoke again. “What matter has brought the pilgrim to seek a lot?”

Xiao Nanhui hesitated a moment, then answered honestly. “I am asking about the safety of a family member.”

There was a brief stillness from behind the banner, then the voice said, “Since you have already prayed for safety, there is no need to ask again. To pray and then ask is to not truly believe.”

Xiao Nanhui felt a flush of embarrassment. The person had evidently heard all her murmuring earlier — yet she also had to admit the observation was not wrong.

A hand reached out beneath the banner, pinching the bamboo lot, and returned it to the oracle box with precise ease — so quickly that Xiao Nanhui could not make out which lot it had been.

“The pilgrim has climbed the mountain to come here of her own accord. Why ask only about others, and not about yourself?”

Xiao Nanhui thought for a moment, then answered plainly. “I don’t know what I would ask.”

In her twenty years of life, she had spent her first seven years simply praying to survive. After the age of seven, all her safety had been provided by Xiao Zhun — so she prayed for his safety. As for herself? She truly did not know what more she could want.

The person behind the banner did not seem surprised. In the same level tone, he said, “Merchants ask about fortune. The ill ask about their ailments. Officials ask about their prospects. Women ask about marriage.”

Marriage. Would her marriage be to Xiao Zhun? Today was her birthday, and she had never before dared to wish for anything extraordinary — yet today felt somehow different.

People were like that, she supposed: questions they could not answer for themselves, they placed before the gods and hoped for a reply.

After a moment’s hesitation, Xiao Nanhui picked up the oracle box again. She shook it carefully for a long while before a single lot fell out. She glanced at it.

Forty-nine.

The fourth month, ninth day — her birthday.

She cast the divining block: one face up, one face down.

A middle draw. An accepted answer.

The hand behind the banner picked up the bamboo lot and seemed to study it for a moment. Xiao Nanhui’s heart beat a little faster.

Then a thin slip of paper was passed beneath the banner.

She reached out to take it, and her heart sank.

In the center, in three characters: the lowest lot.

Below that, four lines of verse:

A lone lamp glows upon the distant hill, On every side the abyss — the path grows dim. I seek the figure that stands beneath that light, But wind sweeps in, and clouds obscure the moon.

Xiao Nanhui’s fingertips had gone pale. The soft paper crumpled in her grip.

“What did the pilgrim just ask about?”

She replied, her voice flat and dry. “Marriage.”

“The pilgrim’s path in marriage will be a difficult one.”

You didn’t need to tell me that. A wave of something murky rose in Xiao Nanhui’s chest out of nowhere. If not for this person’s prodding, perhaps she would never have drawn the lot at all. She was now thoroughly disinclined to acknowledge the presence behind the banner, having entirely abandoned whatever respect one owed a monk. She stood, smoothed her clothes, set the prayer cushion back in its place, left a small offering of incense money, and turned to leave.

Then the voice behind the banner spoke again — and there was, unexpectedly, a faint trace of something like a smile in it. “Does the pilgrim know the meaning of finding life at the edge of despair?”

That voice of ancient stillness had finally taken on a shade of human warmth — yet Xiao Nanhui felt not the slightest pleasure from it. “If the Master has something to say, please say it plainly, all at once.”

The voice settled back into calm. “In former days, this temple sought blessings it had no right to, until at last it fell into utter ruin. Then it came to its senses, turned from seeking blessings to the work of clearing its burdens — and from that, it was reborn. The pilgrim’s path in marriage will be the same.”

Xiao Nanhui did not reply. She crumpled the oracle paper into a ball, shoved it roughly into her sleeve, and strode out.

The man with the sword, still standing at the entrance of the hall, was watching her with his arms crossed. Xiao Nanhui swept past him without a glance, her steps brisk as the wind. In the courtyard, the golden camellia branches swayed and shook in her wake, scattering flecks of petals like small, scattered sighs.

As she rode out through the temple gate, she could not help but look back at the weather-worn plaque above the entrance.

Yongye. Ye. Burden. Karmic debt.

She had never thought much of it before, but now, however she looked at it, the character felt like an ill omen. Xiao Nanhui quickly patted Jixiang twice on the rump to settle her own nerves, then pulled the crumpled oracle paper from her sleeve and tore it into several pieces, tossing them into the grass.