Yuren couldn't sleep.
Not because of the scroll. Or the sigil. Or the masked intruder who almost smited them both into early reincarnation.
No.
It was Zhaoyan's smile.
Not a full one—he wasn't that generous. Just a faint twitch of the lips, right before he turned away after saying, "Then this time, I'll fight fate."
A single, soul-ruining, brain-short-circuiting smile.
"Stupid," Yuren whispered into the thin pillow. "Why do you have a smile like that? You're supposed to be emotionally repressed."
Zhaoyan, asleep beside him, made a small sound. Maybe a sigh. Maybe judgment from the spirit realm.
Yuren rolled to the edge of the bed and whispered into the darkness, "I am absolutely, completely doomed."
---
The next morning, Zhaoyan was already up, meditating cross-legged like he hadn't spent the night within arm's reach of a spiraling disaster of a man.
Yuren watched him, squinting.
"So just to confirm," he said, voice hoarse, "you weren't possessed by a spirit last night when you said the romantic fate-fighting thing?"
Zhaoyan didn't open his eyes. "No."
"…Cool. Cool cool cool. No thoughts, head empty."
Zhaoyan opened one eye. "Are you—?"
"Fine. Perfectly fine." Yuren pointed at his own face. "This is my emotionally stable expression."
"You're blushing."
"I'm having an allergic reaction to sincerity."
Zhaoyan snorted. Actually snorted. Like an undignified person. Yuren stared like he'd witnessed a miracle.
"Can we rewind and talk about how we were almost obliterated by that masked guy again?" Yuren asked, voice pitching higher. "Like who just shows up mid-mystical prophecy to throw hands?!"
Zhaoyan stood. "They were testing your spiritual resonance. Not mine."
"Oh yay. I love being the main character in a story I didn't ask for."
He reached into his bag and pulled out the ancient moon-marked cloth again, laying it flat on the floor. The ink was even fainter in daylight, but Zhaoyan knelt beside him.
"Seal her flame before the seventh moon," Yuren read again. "Or the world will burn. Still don't know who 'her' is, but apparently she's my problem now?"
Zhaoyan tapped a corner of the cloth, where faint letters shimmered. "There's more. Hidden text. Let me—"
A pulse of energy flickered under his hand. The cloth glowed—then a second message appeared, like words surfacing from memory.
"She is flame born in shadow. Moonmarked, soul-bound. Guard her, or lose the world again."
Yuren's breath caught. "Moonmarked…?"
He looked at his arm. The mark had faded, but the memory of it burning against his skin still lingered.
Zhaoyan stared at him. "You've had dreams. Visions. Haven't you?"
"…Yes."
"About fire. Blood. A woman's voice calling your name."
Yuren froze.
"How do you know that?" he asked.
Zhaoyan looked tired. "Because I've had them too. But in mine… you're the one calling my name."
---
Far away, the masked figure sat before a bowl of still water. The surface rippled—and two images appeared: Zhaoyan. Yuren.
"He's remembering," they murmured. "Too fast."
Behind them, the second masked figure paced.
"We should've killed him when we had the chance."
The first figure looked up. "Would you kill your own blood?"
The second froze. "He's not—"
"He is. Same flame. Same blood. Same curse."
They both turned to the water again.
"She's waking," said the first figure. "And this time, she will not forgive.
To be continued...