ashes, ashes
The nights had grown quieter since the fall. No more hymns from the mountaintops, no more incense curling over the water. Even the winds that swept through Wangshu’s marshes felt different—hollow, as if the land itself had forgotten how to breathe.
Xiao stood at the edge of the cliff, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The air smelled faintly of smoke. He didn’t move until he heard the footsteps—light, hesitant, the same rhythm he’d memorized centuries ago. He could tell it was you long before you spoke.
“You always find the highest place,” you said softly, voice nearly swallowed by the wind.
Xiao didn’t turn. “I was not hiding.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Your words came with a smile he could hear but not see. You came to stand beside him, the orange glow of your sleeve brushing against the black of his own. When the breeze shifted, a strand of your hair lifted, catching briefly on his shoulder before slipping free. He almost reached for it—almost—but let the motion die before it began.
For a while, you both said nothing. The stars above you blinked faintly, uncertain, like eyes still adjusting to a darkened world.
“You’ve been watching again,” you said finally, without accusation. “The trees still burn where I pass.”
Xiao’s jaw tightened. “You draw attention to yourself.”
“I draw warmth,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He didn’t respond. Your fire had always unnerved him—not for its heat, but for the way it refused to die. When the last wars ended and the other adepti turned to dust, your flames kept flickering, soft and stubborn, a candle left burning in an empty shrine.
He wanted to say that it gave him comfort. Instead, he said nothing, and the silence grew heavy between you.
You leaned forward, elbows resting against your knees. “Do you ever think it’s strange,” you murmured, “that the gods are gone, yet the karma remains?”
He turned toward you then, just slightly. The faint light from your fire—gentle embers that drifted from your hands as you spoke—cast a glow across your face. It caught in your lashes, lit the moisture in your eyes until it shimmered like glass.
“Yes,” he said. “But karma is not divine. It is the residue of what we were.”
“And what are we now?”
His answer came too fast. “Burdened.”
You smiled at that, though it didn’t reach your eyes. A soft wind pressed against your hair, sweeping it across your cheek; a few strands stuck there, catching on the faint sheen of your skin. Without thinking, Xiao reached forward and brushed them away. His fingertips hovered just above your face, not touching—then, barely, they grazed your cheekbone.
The warmth of you startled him. It wasn’t fire-hot; it was human-warm, the kind that made his pulse stutter, the kind that didn’t belong to immortals.
You looked up at him, eyes wet but not yet crying. “You still flinch when you touch me,” you said, and your voice was quiet enough that he could almost pretend it was the wind.
“I don’t—”
“You do.” You smiled again, faint and patient. “It’s all right. I flinch too.”
He drew his hand back, flexing it once before folding it behind him. The silence stretched, brittle as glass.
“I went to the ruins,” you said after a while. “Where Guizhong’s bell used to stand. The stones are cold now. I thought maybe if I lit something—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted. “You’ll draw spirits.”
You gave a soft laugh. “Let them come. I’m tired of being the only one who remembers.”
That stopped him. He looked at you fully this time, eyes narrowing as though you’d said something dangerous. Maybe you had. The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of ash. He realized then that the faint glow around you wasn’t just your aura—it was real, tiny embers drifting off your skin, fading before they hit the ground.
“You’re burning yourself,” he said, a sharpness creeping into his voice.
“I’m trying to keep warm,” you replied. The words were simple, but they made his chest tighten.
He remembered, suddenly, how you used to sit by the riverside after battle, your flames dimming as you cleaned the blood from your hands. He remembered the way you’d press a hand to his shoulder when his mind filled with voices, grounding him with that same heat. He’d never said thank you. He never thought he had to. You both assumed there would always be time.
Now the night stretched before him, infinite and cold.
He stepped closer before he could think to stop himself. “You should rest,” he said, though it came out like a plea.
You turned your face toward him, close enough now that he could see the faint reflection of himself in your eyes—small, distorted, flickering in the firelight. “Rest from what?” you asked. “There’s nothing left to guard. No gods to serve. No prayers to answer.”
“There is Liyue,” he said, almost reflexively.
You tilted your head, and the faintest hint of amusement crossed your lips. “Liyue does not remember us.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to—wanted to insist that duty was its own form of memory—but the words stuck in his throat. You were right. The world had moved on.
He had not.
A gust of wind swept past then, scattering a few glowing petals from a nearby bush. They caught in your hair, golden against the dark strands. You didn’t notice; you were staring out over the valley, where lanterns still flickered faintly below, distant as stars.
He reached out again, slower this time. His fingers brushed one of the petals from your hair. You turned toward him as he did, and his knuckles grazed your cheek. Your breath hitched, soft and audible in the quiet. His eyes caught the faint shimmer on your lashes, the trembling line of your mouth as if you were holding something back—words, tears, maybe both.
When you spoke, your voice was steadier than he expected. “Sometimes I think we stayed too long.”
“You’re wrong,” he said. “If we hadn’t—”
You shook your head gently, and his words faltered. “I mean,” you said, “we were made for an age that no longer wants us. Maybe the kindest thing we can do is fade.”
“Fade?” His voice cracked, sharp as glass. “You would vanish while I—”
“While you what?” you asked softly. “Stand watch over ghosts?”
He fell silent. The wind answered for him.
Then, slowly, you stepped closer, until the space between you was a breath. Your hand lifted, uncertain at first, then firmer as you pressed it against his chest. He could feel your heat even through the layers of his garment; it seeped into him, unsettling and alive. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d become until that moment.
“Xiao,” you said quietly. “Do you remember the first time you told me your name?”
He nodded, barely. The memory rose unbidden: blood, wind, the crash of stone, your hand reaching through the smoke. Xiao, he had said, though it wasn’t the name given to him. You’d smiled then, as if he’d offered you something precious.
“I remember,” he said.
“You said it like it hurt.”
He looked down at you, eyes flicking over your face—the curve of your mouth, the faint soot smudge near your temple, the way your lashes trembled as you blinked. “It did.”
Your hand lingered against his chest. “Does it still?”
He wanted to lie. He wanted to say no, to give you something gentle in this cruel world. But honesty had always been his curse.
“Yes,” he said, and the word came out like a breath torn in half.
You smiled again, softer this time. “Good,” you whispered. “That means you’re still here.”
The distance between you closed, though neither could have said who moved first. Your forehead came to rest against his, and he could feel your breath against his mouth—warm, steady, carrying the faint scent of smoke and almond. For a heartbeat, everything else fell away: the ghosts, the gods, the years. There was only this—skin, heat, the faint tremor of your lips hovering just above his.
You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t have to. The moment hung there, complete in its incompletion.
When you finally drew back, your hand slipped from his chest, leaving behind a faint trace of warmth that faded too quickly. You looked at him one last time, the way one looks at a painting they will never see again.
“I’m going to the mountains,” you said quietly. “Where the fire runs beneath the rock. I’ll sleep there awhile.”
He knew what that meant. He also knew he couldn’t stop you.
“Will you wake again?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” A pause. “But if I do, I hope the world will be kind.”
He reached for you then—not to hold you, but to touch your sleeve, to anchor himself in the small proof of your presence. The fabric was warm beneath his fingers. When he looked up, your eyes met his, reflecting the faint light of your fire. For a moment, it almost looked like they were crying.
He said nothing. You didn’t need him to.
You turned and stepped back, the wind catching your hair, lifting it like flame. The air shimmered briefly around you, the edges of your form dissolving into light. He watched as the glow faded, leaving only the scent of smoke and a few sparks drifting upward into the night.
When the last ember died, Xiao was alone again.
He stood there until the stars began to blur. His hands were empty, but when he closed them, he could still feel the ghost of your warmth against his palm. The wind moved through the grasses, whispering through the silence. It sounded almost like your laugh—soft, impossible, gone before he could be sure.
Xiao tilted his head back and let the night wash over him. He didn’t pray; there was no one left to hear. But for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel cold.