Vivian

Lotus Peak was cold. It was harsher than she remembered but not a completely biting cold but something fresh and clean. The kind of cold that sank in slowly and refused to leave, like silence you’d forgotten how to fill.

Vivian Li stood at the edge of the upper terrace of her cabin, looking out across the valley where a foggy mist rolled over white stone ridges and paper-thin waterfalls streamed from impossibly high cliffs. The monastery sprawled across the valley tucked into the mountain like it had always been part of the stone, But despite its size the walkways were narrow, its chambers modest.

This was done purposefully as here, there were no banners of affiliation or crests of the nobility. There was only time and discipline.

Her quarters were small—barely wide enough for a cot, a sword rack, and a meditation alcove. She liked that. Too many homes were built to be admired.

This one was built to be endured.

Perfect.

She trained the moment she arrived.

Some wanted to greet her. She ignored it. Others moved for ceremony; she didn’t have time for any of that nonsense. She settled for a whispered approval from the attending monk. She was handed a linen tunic, a pair of gripped boots, and a practice blade etched with breath-suppression seals.

She took it all without speaking.

Now, an hour past sunrise, she moved across the frost-kissed stones of her complexes inner court, her breath slow and shallow, the blade in her hands silent as it sliced arcs through the chilled air.

Movement II: Piercing Edge.

A signature Li form. The jewel of her house. Her inheritance.

Precision layered with power. Control centered in chaos.

Every movement built upon the last. Every strike drawn from the spine.

Her body moved without thought now—only muscle memory and breath though she did have to hold back, her class of swordsmanship didn’t chase flow. It cleared flow, flow through momentum and connection.

It should’ve felt perfect.

It didn’t.

“You swing like someone with somewhere else to be.”

The voice cut in from behind her, breezy and amused.

Vivian’s blade stopped mid-arc.

She turned.

The girl standing at the edge of the court wore no boots, no uniform. Her hair was a riot of fire-colored waves barely tamed by a golden comb. Her smile was a challenge. In each hand, she held a folded embersteel fan, edges catching the morning light like flame-tipped daggers.

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Vivian recognized her.

Strong. Fast. Unapologetically wild and absolutely gorgeous.

One of the Four. Where Vivian was ice; she was fire.

The girl gave a dramatic bow. “Liu Anmei, Laughing Flame of Emberflower Pavilion, Sworn Blade of the 13th Crescent Duel Ring, and—” she leaned in with a wink, “your new neighbor.”

Vivian didn’t bow.

“Li Vivian,” she said. “Heir of—”

“I know who you are.” Anmei twirled one fan lazily. “Everyone knows the Ice Queen of the Li Family.”

Vivian’s jaw flexed. “Don’t call me that.”

“Too late,” Anmei sang. “It’s kind of perfect.”

They stared at each other for a beat—two swords drawn in spirit, if not in steel.

Then, without warning, Anmei launched herself into the center of the court with a spin and a laugh, fanning both arms wide before dropping into a sweeping combat stance.

“Let’s spar.”

Vivian raised an eyebrow. “We just met.”

“Exactly.” Anmei grinned. “No stakes, no grudges. Just your pretty footwork against my devastating charm.”

“I don’t spar for sport.”

“Then call it training.” Anmei’s eyes gleamed. “Or better—call it honesty.”

Vivian didn’t move.

Then she slid into stance, blade steady, spine aligned.

Anmei’s smile widened. “Ooooh. Now we’re talking.”

Their first exchange was clean.

Anmei launched forward with a flicker of footwork so fast it left vapor in the cold morning air. Her fans snapped open mid-stride, catching the light like wings. She moved like fire—twisting, spinning, laughing under her breath.

Vivian didn’t move until the last moment.

Then she stepped aside with surgical precision, letting Anmei pass in a blur, and pivoted into a clean arc of her own. Blade high, breath held, spine steady.

Anmei’s smile widened as she flipped mid-air, landed light, and spun again.

“You’re so pretty when you’re trying not to react,” she teased.

Vivian didn’t answer. She didn’t need to answer.

She moved.

Piercing Edge wasn’t built for flourishes. It wasn’t showy. It commanded space. One line of breath-linked strikes, pressure layered into every footstep. Her blade snapped forward with bone-cutting precision.

Anmei side stepped the first, swayed around the second, then blocked the third—not with her fans, but with her knee.

Vivian’s eyes narrowed.

That wasn’t just unorthodox. That was reckless.

“Are you improvising?”

“Always,” Anmei laughed, stepping inside Vivian’s guard and spinning away with just enough space to avoid a retaliatory cut. “Come on, Ice Queen. You’re strong. But you’re boring.”

Vivian pivoted hard and brought her blade around in a low sweep.

Anmei leapt, twirled midair, and landed crouched with both fans spread wide like wings.

“See?” she grinned. “Predictable.”

Vivian moved before the grin finished forming.

No breath. No hesitation.

A step-in feint followed by a palm-check and a mana-pulse blade strike designed to knock Anmei off balance. A kill-sequence, modified from Movement VI.

Anmei slid under it, rolled, then popped back up behind her.

“Better,” she said. “But still stiff.”

Vivian turned slowly, blade low.

Her breath was steady, but her shoulders were tight.

She hadn’t been outpaced.

But she’d been out-read.

And Anmei wasn’t even trying to win.

She was… playing.

They circled each other for a moment, breath fogging in the cold.

Then Anmei flipped her fans closed and tucked them into her belt.

“That’s enough,” she said. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated, but I’m hungry.”

Vivian sheathed her blade without a word.

Anmei walked over, hooked her arm around Vivian’s before she could protest, and started dragging her toward the mess hall.

“You’re going to eat with me,” she declared. “And you’re going to tell me how a glacier like you ended up married to a man who literally makes spells talk.”

Vivian stiffened and narrowed her eyes. Ethan? She wants to talk about Ethan? “I’m not discussing my marriage.”

Anmei rolled her eyes. “Ugh, fine. But you can’t stop me from having opinions. Your husband? Delicious. In a brainy, probably-knows-where-his-towels-are kind of way. The way he kneeled in front of your father to save your lovers life. It really got me going.”

Vivian muttered, “Easy for you to say. He doesn’t chase.”

“Good,” Anmei said. “Means he might actually be worth catching.”

Vivian didn’t reply.

But her pulse hadn’t quite slowed since the spar.

And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about getting better.

She was just thinking.