Sizhui can shoot, of course. Though the Lan emphasise archery less than sword-work or musical cultivation, he's spent hours, days, outside, aiming at straw bales, hitting ever closer to their hearts.

Now, watching his cousin, it doesn't seem enough. Wen Ning is a dead man whose eyes no longer crease when he smiles, but neither do they waver when he sets them on a target and pierces it with arrow after arrow from his bow.

"Were you always this good, qianbei?" he asks.

When Wen Ning replies, "Oh... I'm not so skilled," Sizhui's eyes fill with tears he can't explain.