The qiankun pouch in Wei Wuxian's hand still radiated warmth from his sister's touch. "Spend it all," she had insisted, her voice trembling with decades of withheld care. He stared at the embroidered lotus on the pouch—identical to the one his mother once carried.
"Gege."
Wei Xuan's fingers tightened around his wrist when he mentioned Cloud Recesses' bitter cuisine. Her pulse fluttered like a caged sparrow. "Do your palms turn blue in winter?" she asked abruptly, wood-element energy seeping into his meridians before he could react.
Lan Qiren cleared his throat outside the door. Wei Wuxian marveled at how quickly his sister rearranged her features—tears evaporating into the porcelain smile of a filial daughter.
"Toxin residue requires examination," the old scholar declared, mistaking Wei Xuan's sudden pallor for fragility rather than fury.
Wei Wuxian's grin froze. Toxin?
His sister's nails dug crescent moons into his palm—a silent plea. Behind them, frost crept across the window lattices despite the spring afternoon. Wei Xuan's breath fogged the air imperceptibly, her core temperature plummeting as suppressed memories surged:
Apocalyptic winters. Rotting teeth sinking into frozen flesh. The sweet stench of gangrenous frostbite.
"Let's visit the medical pavilion," she murmured, steering Lan Qiren away with practiced grace. Wei Wuxian lingered, staring at the frost patterns now spiraling across his wine jar.
When he lifted it, the ceramic shattered in his grip—not from spiritual energy, but the cold.