The final night in the residence did not pass as Nana had hoped.
Sleep came to her at first, thin and fragile, enough to quiet her thoughts for a time, but it did not last. She woke without knowing why, as though something unseen had roused her back into wakefulness.
She lay still, dread tightening in her chest.
Beside her, Taotao slept deeply, his breathing heavy and uneven, his soft snores rising and falling in the dark. She considered waking him, just to break the silence, just to prove that the world was still as it should be.
But the thought passed.
Tomorrow. No, today. If only morning would come faster, it would all be over.
They had counted the days. They had endured them. Come sunrise, the promise of a better life would finally be within reach.
So why did the thought that morning would not come persist?
Nana turned onto her side and pulled the covers over her head, shutting out what little of the room she could see. If she could not see the darkness, perhaps she could forget it. Perhaps sleep would return.
It did not.
Time stretched, and she could feel its passing through her. Her body grew more restless, her thoughts circling the same uneasy point.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow
Eventually, she pushed the covers off with a sharp motion, her patience thinning into irritation. With a quiet huff of frustration, she rose from the bed and crossed to the window. The latch gave beneath her hand, and she thrust it open without care.
Moonlight poured in at once.
It was too bright, unnaturally so, casting the world outside in silver and shadows. The moon hung high and full, unmoving. She closed her eyes and whispered a small prayer.
Then she turned back to the bed and, without hesitation, struck Taotao across the shoulder.
He woke at once, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. His hand shot out from beneath the covers, clutching a small bundle of talismans, several of them gripped tightly in his fist.
Nana paused at the sight, momentarily thrown, but the strangeness of it failed to hold her attention. There was something more pressing.
“The sun won’t come up,” she said.
Taotao blinked, disoriented, his thoughts slow to gather. “What?” he managed, his voice thick with sleep.
“We’ve been sleeping for hours,” she said, her voice rising. “But the sun won’t come.”
Taotao frowned, trying to make sense of her words, but his mind still lagged behind her urgency. Before he could respond, another sharp blow landed against his shoulder, jolting him further awake.
“The sun...” he repeated, more clearly this time, though the meaning still escaped him.
Nana’s patience snapped.
“Good-for-nothing!” she burst out, the fear beneath her frustration finally breaking through.
That was enough to bring him fully back to himself. The last traces of sleep fell away as he pushed himself upright, alertness replacing confusion.
“What is wrong, my dear?” he asked, his voice softening despite the rudeness of his waking.
At his tenderness, Nana faltered.
The anger drained from her as quickly as it had come, leaving something far less controlled in its place. Her composure cracked, and before she could stop herself, tears rose to her eyes.
“I can’t sleep,” she admitted, her voice unsteady. “I slept for a while, but I can’t anymore. I keep waiting for the sun to rise, and it won’t.” Her breath hitched slightly. “When will this nightmare end?”
Taotao reached for her without hesitation, drawing her closer, his hand resting lightly against her back in a steadying gesture.
“Shh... it’s nothing, it’s nothing,” he murmured. “Some nights are long, that is all. The sun will come, as it always does.”
He spoke with gentle certainty, the kind meant to soothe rather than convince.
“I know you are eager,” he continued, a faint warmth in his voice. “Tomorrow, our new life begins. But even that is not enough to hasten the sky. The moon will not move faster for us, nor will the sun rise at our command. Time does not bend for anyone, my sweet.”
His words settled over her, and for a moment, they seemed to have the intended effect. Nana’s breathing eased, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she leaned into him.
After a pause, she spoke again, more quietly this time.
“Then why does it feel like we’ve been asleep for more than half a day?”
Taotao smiled faintly, though she could not see it in the dim light.
“Your mind is playing tricks on you,” he said. “Nothing more.”
He guided her gently back toward the bed.
“Come,” he added. “Let us lie down again.”
She did not resist.
As she settled beneath the covers, Taotao glanced down at the talismans still in his hand. Without drawing attention to it, he separated three from the rest and placed them into Nana’s palm, closing her fingers around them with quiet insistence.
“Hold these,” he said simply.
Nana looked at him, a small, tired smile touching her lips as she accepted them without question.
He adjusted the blanket around her, tucking it in with a care that bordered on habit, ensuring she was properly covered before lying down beside her once more.
The room returned to stillness.
Yet beyond the window, the moon remained fixed in the sky, bright and patient, unwilling to yield its place.
More time passed.
Taotao lay on his side, his eyes wide open now, no longer able to sleep. He looked at Nana.
She had not closed her eyes either.
She lay rigid beneath the covers, her gaze fixed directly on him.
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He offered her a small smile, something meant to reassure, to steady. But it faltered the moment it formed, betraying the doubt he could no longer hide.
Nana saw it.
She said nothing.
The silence between them stretched until Taotao found himself speaking despite better judgment.
“The sun should be rising by now,” he said quietly.
Nana did not respond. Not because she disagreed, but because answering would make it real. What had lingered at the edges of thought had now settled into something undeniable.
They looked at one another in the moonlit room.
Something is wrong.
Not subtly, not even remotely. pressed against the room itself, heavy and unmistakable, settling into the corners, into the air, into the space between them.
Taotao pushed himself upright and turned fully toward Nana, his expression drawn tight with unease.
“Something is wrong with the sun,” he said.
Nana’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not the sun,” she whispered. “It’s the little demon.”
Her gaze hardened, fixing on him.
“I can feel it, Taotao. That thing has trapped us.”
The words settled between them.
Taotao’s face paled, the weight of the thought sinking in all at once.
“We should burn the talismans,” he said.
Nana nodded automatically.
“Yes.”
Taotao drew out flint and steel from under the pillow, the metal glinting faintly in the dim light. Nana’s eyes flickered briefly toward it, a small crease forming between her brows—an unspoken question as to why she had not taken enough measures to be just as prepared.
But the thought passed quickly. Time was of the essence.
They moved from the bed to the small table near the wall, where Taotao struck the flint.
Once.
Twice.
Sparks flew, brief and useless, dying before they could catch.
He tried again, more forcefully this time, but the result was the same. Nana’s patience snapped. She snatched the flint from his hands and struck it herself, once, twice, again and again, each movement sharper than the last.
At last, a spark caught.
A small flame flickered to life, fragile but real.
Relief passed through them, but before Nana could bring it to the talisman, the flame sputtered and died.
They stilled.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then they tried again.
This time, Taotao held the talisman ready, his hand steady despite the tension coiling through him, while Nana worked to coax another flame into being. It caught again, brief and trembling, only for a sudden gust of wind to tear through the room.
It came sharply through the open window, far stronger than any natural breeze, and extinguished the flame instantly.
Nana and Taotao exchanged a look.
Taotao moved at once to the window and slammed it shut.
Nana whispered a small prayer and tried again. Her hands trembled now as she worked, and a small flame flickered weakly, fighting against something unseen.
“Now,” Taotao urged, bringing the talisman closer.
The moment the paper neared the flame, it died.
No. It simply vanished.
They froze as the understanding settled over them.
It would not work.
No matter how many times they tried, they would not be allowed to burn a single talisman.
Taotao exhaled sharply. “We should go to the kitchen, there must be fir—”
Nana screamed.
The sound tore through the room, sharp and sudden. She lunged toward him, clutching at him with both arms, pressing herself tightly against his chest as though something had reached for her.
Taotao caught her instinctively, his arms closing around her.
“What is it?” he demanded, his voice low and urgent.
She could not answer. Her breath came fast and uneven, her grip tightening around him.
“I saw it,” she said at last, her voice breaking. “There at the door... Eyes, yellow eyes...” she whispered.
Taotao’s body went still.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the door.
There was only darkness.
* * * * * *
Sunlight poured into Ling Feng’s private room, spilling across the low table where he sat and catching in the strands of his red hair, leaving them faintly aglow. It did not merely illuminate him, but rested with quiet warmth upon his face, something he enjoyed.
Before him, arranged with precision upon a piece of satin cloth, lay the fire obsidian hairpin, a small wooden comb, and a copper mirror.
Ling Feng reached for the comb.
His fingers moved slowly over its surface, tracing the engraved peony etched into the wood. He lingered there, his touch softening as memory stirred. The present loosened its hold on him, and for a fleeting moment, his thoughts drifted elsewhere, drawn into something distant.
That fragile distance shattered when a scream cut through the air.
Nana.
Ling Feng exhaled, a measured breath carrying neither surprise nor urgency, only the faintest note of indifference.
He did not rise.
Instead, he began to draw the comb through his hair. The motion was slow, each stroke smoothing the strands as the sunlight continued to rest against him. There was a certain ritual to it.
With practiced ease, he guided the loose strands away from his face, exposing the sharp angles of his features and the gold cuffs on his ears.
Reaching for the obsidian pin, Ling Feng gathered a portion of his hair and secured it at the back of his head, holding the arrangement firm while the remaining length fell freely down his back.
He picked up the copper mirror and studied his reflection, making small, precise adjustments to the position of his ear cuffs, ensuring their alignment was just so. Only when he was satisfied did he lower his hands, returning each item to its place before setting them aside altogether.
To one side of the table lay a neatly tied stack of papers.
Ling Feng’s attention shifted to them. These were not his. He had taken them from Songhe’s private room. He reached for the bundle, untying it with care rather than impatience, as though even in theft, order must be preserved.
He selected the topmost sheet and began reading.
His eyes moved steadily across the lines, absorbing each word with quiet focus. The letter seemed to have been written a long time ago. It was from Grandmaster Qiang Zhenwu.
The sharp sound came again.
Another scream.
This time, Ling Feng paused, the paper held lightly between his fingers as his attention shifted outward.
He listened.
“We... we have to run,” Taotao whispered, his voice strained.
“I can’t,” Nana sobbed. “I... I really can’t. My legs... they won’t move.”
A brief silence followed before Taotao spoke again, steadier this time, forcing resolve through the weight of his fear. “I’ll carry you. Get on.”
There was hesitation, then the faint rustle of movement as she climbed onto his back.
Ling Feng listened without expression, though the scent of their fear reached him easily.
Only a short while ago, the same pair had spoken of him in lowered voices, convinced that it was he who was afraid.
The memory of their little conversation returned briefly, and with it came an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze.
Disdain.
How easily they had settled on that conclusion. How convenient it must have been to believe it.
Now, their composure had unraveled under so little pressure. And yet, three days remained until Songhe’s return.
Three days.
From what he had just heard—the panic in their voices, the way her body refused to move, the way Taotao’s resolve had to be forced into place—they would not last that long.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Without another thought on the matter, Ling Feng lowered his gaze and returned to the letter in his hand.