Xi Ru's hut felt like a living scroll—walls crowded with glyphs, stories bleeding into corners, and dust thick with forgotten truths. That night, after a meager meal of steamed rice and fermented turnip, the old scholar lit a single oil lamp and unfurled a forbidden tapestry he had hidden beneath the floorboards.
Baoqin sat cross-legged in the center of the hut, her face drawn but steady. The light danced on her cheeks, giving her the glow of someone much older.
"This is called the Map of Heartsing Flame," Xi Ru said, carefully rolling the silk open. "Woven not in the capital, but by the ink-weavers of the west—keepers of the first fire myth."
Lianfang leaned closer, her brows furrowing. "That symbol..."
"Yes," Xi Ru said, tapping a crimson spiral etched at the tapestry's center. "That is the sigil burned into the first phoenix's fall. See how it winds inward? The flame was never meant to rise. It was meant to contain."
Wenyan, seated near the back with a cup of bitter tea, watched Baoqin's face. She wasn't reacting with wonder. She wasn't awed. She looked… burdened.
"This has something to do with me," she whispered. "I can feel it. The symbol is in my dreams."
"You've seen it?" Xi Ru asked, sharp now.
Baoqin nodded slowly. "On the wall. In the temple. But also in the sky, when I was small. I thought it was a star… but it moved."
Xi Ru's face turned grave. "Then we're further along than I feared."
He turned to Wenyan. "The Order isn't just trying to awaken the phoenix inside her. They're trying to merge her with it. Permanently. No vessel. No separation. Just fire incarnate. A living god."
"That's impossible," Lianfang said, standing abruptly.
"No," Xi Ru said. "It's happened before. Once. In the southern isles, long before the current dynasties. A girl burned a nation by weeping."
Wenyan rose. "What do we do?"
"We train her. Mind and soul. The vessel must be stronger than the fire it carries. Otherwise…"
Baoqin looked down. "Otherwise I'll destroy everything."
"You won't," Wenyan said firmly. "We'll help you carry it."
The next morning, training began.
Xi Ru guided Baoqin in ancient breath patterns lost to time, while Lianfang taught her fluid sword forms designed not for war, but for balance. Wenyan kept watch, ever alert—his senses tuned to distant thunder and shifting shadows. At night, they sat by the fire, reciting lullabies from Baoqin's mother. The girl cried sometimes. Not out of pain, but from remembering love.
By the fifth day, her aura was steadier. Her hands didn't shake. Her sleep came without tears.
But just as peace began to settle over the willow grove, a quiet knock echoed at the door.
Xi Ru stood and opened it.
A boy stood in the moonlight—no older than ten, barefoot and breathless. His tunic was torn. His lip bled.
"They're coming," he gasped. "Riders from the west. They wear gold masks."
Wenyan's blood ran cold.
Lianfang had her sword unsheathed before the door shut.
"How far behind you?" she asked.
"An hour," the boy said. "Less, maybe. They… they burned Reedwater."
Xi Ru cursed under his breath and reached for a hidden blade he hadn't touched in twenty years.
"Then we have one hour," Wenyan said, turning to Baoqin. "Are you ready?"
She stood, voice quiet but sure.
"I don't want to run anymore."
Outside, the wind had changed direction, carrying with it the scent of scorched jasmine.