They stayed three days by the river.
Li Qiang's side had taken a blade meant for Ziyan. Feiyan's shoulder still bled through her wrappings, though she tried to pretend otherwise, gritting her teeth each time Shuye changed the bandages. Even Shuye moved more slowly than usual, his right arm bruised dark from blocking a staff blow that would have snapped bone.
Ziyan tended them as best she could, washing cuts with bitter herbs, boiling small draughts of numbing tea. Each time she laid a hand on Feiyan's or Li Qiang's brow, the phoenix mark glowed faintly, sinking some of its warmth into them. It left her dizzied, but she said nothing.
The girl never left her side. When Ziyan sat by the river to wash linen or rinse the blood from her hands, the child perched beside her on a stone, legs tucked up, doll balanced on her knees. Once, Ziyan tried to hum an old traveling song. The girl tilted her head, eyes shining with such fierce, searching curiosity that it startled her.
"You've never heard a song before, have you?" Ziyan asked softly.
The girl shook her head. Then, hesitantly, she reached up and touched Ziyan's throat — not pressing, simply feeling the small tremors there. When Ziyan laughed, it was ragged with exhaustion but real. The girl's lips twitched into something almost like a smile.
"Then we'll teach you many," Ziyan promised. "Until you can't remember the silence anymore."
On the fourth evening, just as the sun began to bleed itself into the river, a shape stepped from the trees. Feiyan's blade was half out before she froze.
Duan Rulan stood there, cloaked in a plain traveler's robe, hair pinned back without a single ornament. Her face was older than Ziyan remembered, every line cut deeper by grief and long nights without rest. But her eyes were bright — and wet with unshed tears.
Ziyan rose slowly. "You survived."
Rulan bowed her head. "Long enough. Long enough to see you undo what I never could." Her gaze shifted to the girl. "And long enough to feel my daughter's spirit finally stop wandering."
Ziyan stepped closer. "It wasn't just Zhao. It was everything that fed him — every greedy official, every silent minister who looked away. You fought them alone."
"And you fought them with your heart still intact," Rulan said quietly. "That is the difference between us."
She reached inside her sleeve and drew out a small, lacquered box. "Inside are seals to every ledger, every merchant contract I ever held. Codes for messengers, slips for the tax officials I bribed, tokens that will open doors from here to the southern ports. All of it — now yours."
Ziyan blinked. "Why would you give me this?"
"Because my work is done. My daughter can rest. And I… I have nothing left worth setting traps for." Rulan's mouth curved into something like peace. "I will retire beyond the old borders, perhaps take up a little land and plant trees. Let my final years be spent under quiet leaves, not scheming behind palace screens."
She stepped closer, taking Ziyan's hands. "You are young still. And your flame is not meant to die here in smoke. Take these, and build something better. Or burn down what remains. Either will be more honest than what stands now."
Ziyan nodded, throat tight. "Thank you. For everything. Even the debts I wish I never had to pay."
Rulan's eyes softened. She leaned in and pressed her forehead briefly to Ziyan's, then turned and vanished into the trees without another word.
Later, under lanterns made from old rice-paper bowls, they sat by the river with the girl between them. Li Qiang and Shuye dozed. Feiyan cleaned her blade in slow strokes, occasionally glancing over with a protective scowl that had long ago replaced any attempt at smiling.
Ziyan ran her fingers through the girl's hair. "I can't keep calling you 'little one' forever. Or 'child.' Would you like a name?"
The girl tilted her head. "A name?"
"It's what ties you to life. To people who love you. Even if no one else remembers, someone always does."
The girl seemed to think. Then she leaned her head against Ziyan's shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. "Then you choose. And I will keep it always."
Ziyan swallowed, then whispered, "Lian'er. It means lotus — something that grows from the mud but stays pure and bright. And Li, like my own name, so you'll never be without family again."
The girl — Lian'er — smiled, slow and fragile, but true. Her small hand wrapped around Ziyan's, squeezing once, as if sealing a promise that went deeper than blood.
Far away, in a dim marble chamber slick with incense smoke, Zhao knelt on cracked tiles. His robes were torn, his eyes hollow. Before him stood a man in a black mantle, a mask of pale lacquer covering all but his mouth. Silver eyes gleamed through the slits.
"I know I failed," Zhao rasped. "But give me time — I will find the girl, I will finish this. The phoenix mark is awakening, I can still—"
Steel flashed. The masked man moved without haste, driving a slender blade between Zhao's ribs. Zhao's breath caught, then burst from him in a soft sigh. His body crumpled like wet paper.
The man watched without emotion as blood spread across the tiles. When he withdrew his blade, it made no sound.
"Time is precious," he murmured. "And you squandered yours on petty fears. We have waited centuries for the right vessel to awaken. The girl is the key. The phoenix merely opens the gate."
He wiped the blade clean on Zhao's sleeve, then turned and vanished into the dark, footsteps fading like the hush of falling ash.
Back by the river, Ziyan lay awake, Lian'er's breath soft against her collarbone. Feiyan slept nearby, blade still across her lap even in dreams. Li Qiang and Shuye leaned against one another, snoring lightly.
Ziyan stared at the moon's reflection rippling on the water. For a moment, it almost seemed to smile — a silver curve, delicate and knowing. Her mark pulsed, a faint echo of everything that still waited ahead.
She tightened her hold on Lian'er. "Whatever doors they think you'll open, little lotus," she whispered, "I'll be standing there first."
Lian'er murmured something in her sleep, small fingers curling into Ziyan's robe.
Above them, the old lanterns swayed on their brittle poles, whispering in the night wind. But whether they whispered warnings or blessings, Ziyan could no longer tell.