Snow churned under their boots as they burst from the inn, the cold air thick with killing intent. Frostpeak's reinforcements were already spilling into the street — a dozen, maybe more, their weapons glinting in the moonlight.
Xiyue shoved Ruo Han behind him without looking.
Xiyue: "Stay low, don't speak."
Feng Lian's smirk was pure provocation.
Feng Lian: "I'd tell you to stay low too, but then no one would admire my form."
Xiyue: "Move your damn feet."
They moved — and the street exploded into motion.
Xiyue's blade was precise, every strike a measured kill, cutting paths that Feng Lian's firestorms swept clean. Where one left a gap, the other filled it without hesitation. It was infuriatingly seamless, like two halves of a single style they'd never practiced.
A spear of ice shot toward Ruo Han — Xiyue's sword split it in two at the same instant Feng Lian's flame consumed the fragments.
Feng Lian (without looking): "You're welcome."
Xiyue: "That was my kill."
Feng Lian: "In your dreams."
They spun around each other, a storm of steel and fire, cutting a bloody path through the ring of enemies. Even Ruo Han, crouched against the wall, could feel the rhythm between them — not trust, not yet, but something dangerous enough to mimic it.
More enemies dropped from the rooftops, and Xiyue barked,
Xiyue: "South ridge. We run on my mark—"
Feng Lian: "Our mark, sweetheart."
And before Xiyue could snap back, they both moved — a synchronized strike that cleaved the line open, fire and steel bursting through the snow like dawn breaking.
Ruo Han didn't know whether to be terrified… or mesmerized.