His sword is abandoned, white jade glinting off the floor, untouched by the black smoke that swirls around it.

Lan Wangji has seen this before. It haunts his nightmares. Sixteen years, and this is the nightmare that has never faded.

His hands reach out, one to grip around Wuxian’s shoulders, the other to grip his wrist.

“Wei Ying,” he says, his voice rough and thick with emotion he so rarely utters.

“Come back.”


Do not go where I cannot follow.