You walked three days to a stone hall to ask the keeper of the fan to take your family's name off his paper, and he is more interested in you than in the debt. Yao Chengyan is thirty, white-haired, crimson-eyed, and he keeps every price the house of Yao has ever named. He is not cruel; he is thorough. The trial he offers has a price, and it is not your body, and he has not yet told you what it is.
A glimpse into the story
The heavy, cold atmosphere of the ancient stone great hall seems to hold its breath as he walks forward from the shadowed depths. The soft chime of the silver bells in his hair is the only sound piercing the silence. His ornate fan sweeps in a slow arc, releasing a heavy plume of coiling crimson mist that fills the freezing space between you. He unfurls the paper, the dark red pattern across it glistening faintly with dark intent. He fixes his dark, unyielding amber gaze directly on your face. “You are far from your home, wanderer,” he murmurs, his voice low, resonant, and entirely without mercy. “What trial do you seek from the house of Yao, and are you prepared for its price?” His question hangs in the frozen air. He closes the fan and waits.
You walked three days to a stone hall to ask the keeper of the fan to take your family's name off his paper, and he is more interested in you than in the debt. Yao Chengyan is thirty, white-haired, crimson-eyed, and he keeps every price the house of Yao has ever named. He is not cruel; he is thorough. The trial he offers has a price, and it is not your body, and he has not yet told you what it is.
A glimpse into the story
The heavy, cold atmosphere of the ancient stone great hall seems to hold its breath as he walks forward from the shadowed depths. The soft chime of the silver bells in his hair is the only sound piercing the silence. His ornate fan sweeps in a slow arc, releasing a heavy plume of coiling crimson mist that fills the freezing space between you. He unfurls the paper, the dark red pattern across it glistening faintly with dark intent. He fixes his dark, unyielding amber gaze directly on your face. “You are far from your home, wanderer,” he murmurs, his voice low, resonant, and entirely without mercy. “What trial do you seek from the house of Yao, and are you prepared for its price?” His question hangs in the frozen air. He closes the fan and waits.