The moon over Eos-Prime was a cold, silver eye, casting long, sharp shadows across the gardens of the Pavilion of the Waning Moon. Lady Sela walked through the manicured gravel paths, her slate-grey robes rustling like dry leaves. She did not come with a contingent of guards, nor did she radiate the aggressive metallic Qi of her Sect. She came as a collector of secrets, her seven iron hairpins hidden beneath a facade of silk and grace.
She paused at the entrance to the pavilion, noting the Shadow-Kaelen standing like a statue by the door. She felt a shiver of wrongness—a void where a man's presence should be. But she ignored the man, her focus shifting to the open balcony where the scent of fresh ink drifted on the breeze.
"A scholar who paints in the dark," Sela said, her voice a soft, cultured chime as she stepped into the central chamber. "Either you have the memory of a god, or you are painting a world that doesn't exist."
Wei Chen did not turn from the table. He was in the process of rolling up the map of Thorne's soul. "The world is made of vibrations. Ink is merely a way to weigh the sound. Night has a different resonance than day; it is more honest."
Sela moved through the room with the practiced elegance of a noble class lady. She bypassed Liara, who remained a silent indigo pillar in the corner, and came to stand across from Wei Chen. She looked at the painting—the jagged, harsh lines of the mountain held in check by soft, sweeping ink washes.
"You speak of honesty, yet you are the most guarded man I have ever met," Sela remarked, pouring herself a cup of the cold tea. She watched his sightless face, looking for the telltale twitch of a lie. "Elder Jiro thinks you are a displaced noble from the Middle realms. I think you are something far more dangerous: a man with no history."
"History is just a story told by the survivors to justify their crimes," Wei Chen replied, finally turning toward her. His silver gossamer blindfold caught the moonlight, making him look like an ethereal judge. "I am here for a stone and a library. My history is of no consequence to the Iron-Thorn."
"Everything is of consequence when it sits in the Sect Master's throat," Sela countered. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I know who Kaelen was. He was a gutter-rat with a silver tongue. The man standing at your door... he has the face of Kaelen, but he has the soul of a grave. Who are you, really?"
Wei Chen smiled—a thin, elegant expression that reached his eyes but held no warmth. "I am a man who understands that your Sect Master's Spirit Soul is rotting from the inside out. I am the harmony he bought. If you disturb that harmony with your curiosity,the resulting explosion will not care who I am. It will only care who is left to burn."
Sela felt the weight of his words. It wasn't a threat; it was a cold, mathematical fact. She set the tea down, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. She had come to interrogate a refugee, but she felt as though she had been caught in the web of a spider whose silk was made of starlight.