In the hush of dawn at Suibian Temple, the world had not yet decided whether it was night or day.

A thin silver crescent hung low above the eastern ridge, pale and fragile, while the first blush of sunrise bled along the horizon like spilled ink diluted in water. The air carried the cool, mineral scent of mountain mist and the faint sweetness of cedar. Somewhere far below, Sailume Bay whispered against the rocks, but up here the only sounds were the soft rustle of Yixuan’s long coat and the occasional sleepy chirp from the tiny black shape nestled in her palm.

She sat cross-legged on the worn stone ledge of the eastern pavilion, back straight yet utterly relaxed, silver-white hair spilling over her shoulders like moonlight made solid. The ornate gold hairpin tilted slightly as she inclined her head, golden eyes half-lidded, watching the slow crawl of light across the tiled roofs and bamboo groves.

In her other hand rested a delicate porcelain cup, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. The tea inside was pale green, almost luminous, brewed from the first spring leaves she had gathered herself the day before. Each sip was measured, deliberate—less about quenching thirst and more about marking time.

Perched on the back of her gloved hand was the Qingming Bird, round and impossibly plump in its dormant state, a glossy obsidian potato with two bright yellow ovals for eyes and a tiny triangular beak perpetually parted in mild surprise. It looked more like a child’s forgotten plush toy than an ancient banishing spirit.

Yixuan’s free fingers moved gently, tracing idle circles along the bird’s smooth back. The creature leaned into the touch with a soft, contented trill—so quiet it might have been only the wind through the eaves.

The moon was sinking now, giving way inch by inch to the coming sun.

She took another sip.