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Xie-wang stands silent in the corner behind a screen, as still as the night, a scorpion poised as if to strike, and watches Zhou Zishu.
The man's eyes glitter but they're the only thing about him that does; head to toe he is garbed in soft blacks and deep blues which blend him so seamlessly into the dark that if Xie-wang was not already adjusted to it he might miss the figure melting between shadows across the stretch of the grand bedchamber, all but dancing around patches of moonlight. Even that austere, beautiful face is masked, and the infamous flexible sword remains invisibly sheathed.
Shadows without traces is an apt metaphor indeed. Xie-wang can truly only identify him from his eyes--but he knows those eyes, even in such brief flashes. He has studied them.
There is more to study now, in the precise movement of soundless feet and the elegant arc of a flicked wrist and the proud set of shoulders that somehow do not seem at odds with the situation. Creeping, slinking--these would feel unnatural here, Xie-wang gathers.
How utterly strange that a murder in the night should feel so regal. How utterly strange that Xie-wang should feel out of place where he lurks.
Tianchuang's shouling is quick and efficient in his work. Mere moments pass before he slips back out the same window he arrived through, leaving nothing behind but death. Xie-wang does not move to stop him. Zhou-shouling is not his quarry; as of this moment he does not have any quarry, in fact, for they had been hunters after the same game which now lies dead on the other side of the room.
It is rare for their goals to overlap, Tianchuang and the Du Xie, and their two leaders have certainly never met in such a fashion; though they have seen each other before, their relationship is generally a delicate sort of avoidance. Mutually assured destruction. But a tricky job on the very borders of the jianghu is apparently just the setting for a chance meeting like this, and Xie-wang eats it up greedily, catalogues all he observed.
Too much, is his first thought.
Zhou-shouling could not have, Xie-wang realises, been ignorant to his presence. Not if he is as brilliant and competent as Xie-wang knows him to be. Xie-wang must surely have been noticed. Is he good enough to fool even Zhou-shouling? Surely not; surely nobody is. Besides which, he had not sought out his hiding spot in advance. It was pure luck that he glanced out the window when he did, saw the flicker of movement just in time.
But Zhou-shouling gave his corner nothing more than the first blank, sweeping glance. No startle, no recognition, and Xie-wang has notably not had to fight for his life. He untenses the hand clutching at his weapon.
Putting that thought aside, Xie-wang steps out into the room. There is still more to see.
As he makes his way across the floorboards he finds himself putting his feet where he saw Zhou-shouling step, letting his form bend and sway in an echo of the man's dance with the moonbeams. It's a bit unnatural, but with some practise he thinks he can perhaps master it.
He bends over the corpse on the bed and tests it reflexively for breath as if he even has doubts. There is none. What poison had Zhou-shouling used? Based on the angle of his hand, the insertion point ought to be somewhere just behind the ear--
The soft place under Xie-wang's own ear goes cold, the unmistakable press of a blade flaring alive along the back of his neck. He freezes, holding himself still over the dead man in spite of the sudden twinge in his back and adrenaline fizzing through his veins, and hisses out the softest breath.
"Zhou-shouling," Xie-wang murmurs, quiet but pleasant.
"Xie-wang," the reply comes.
The rich voice in his ear reveals just how close behind him Zhou-shouling has put himself. This is not the sword Baiyi. It must be a smaller blade. In his mind's eye, Xie-wang maps out an approximation of Zhou-shouling's posture.
"Did you forget something?" he asks lightly.
A faint breeze from the re-opened window stirs the drapery above the bed. It changes the shape of the shadows around his downturned face. Xie-wang does not hold his breath.
His reflexes are fast; he is not named as he is for nothing. Could he deliver a significant blow to Zhou-shouling before he was killed himself? Or is he truly caught? There is a thrill in not knowing, and it mingles with the adrenaline, chases the smooth tones of Zhou-shouling's voice down his spine and sinks into heat at its base.
"I haven't decided yet," Zhou-shouling says. Xie-wang holds impossibly more still. Was that a hint of humour? In the icy perfection that is Zhou Zishu? In a threat dropped without hesitation or subtlety? It was. His heart beats a bit faster. "What business do you have with Yu-daren?"
Xie-wang is not above lying. He'd take any one of his secrets to his grave without even blinking. But in this instance, honesty is uncomplicated. This job has nothing to do with Yifu.
"He cheated the wrong person."
"He has a reputation for honesty."
Their tones remain mild as a spring breeze and from the outside it would surely sound like a conversation over tea rather than one held at knifepoint.
"He does."
It was that reputation that allowed him to cheat, of course. Only a poor cheater is known for it.
Xie-wang sinks into the discomfort of his position, trying to absorb the pain rather than fight it; his shoulder has finally begun to ache, his hand at an odd enough angle that it threatens to tremble.
The steel at the base of his scalp has grown skin-warm. He focuses on the pressure of it and imagines what it will feel like if it begins to sink into flesh.
It doesn't.
Instead it vanishes, leaving cool air to brush over the sensitised skin. Xie-wang whips around only a breath later, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, but the room has already been vacated. Not even the whisper of cloth tells him which way Zhou-shouling exited this time. The window remains open.
His mouth drops ajar slightly. That--that should not be possible. Had Zhou-shouling not only allowed himself to be observed the first time, but made himself more visible intentionally? Xie-wang may never know. Heat pools heavier in his core and he swallows to keep himself under control. Under no circumstances is he going to reach up and lay his fingers over the place where the blade touched his neck. But he doesn't bother to hide the small smile that slips onto his face as he adjusts his sleeves and stretches his shoulder.
He should probably tell someone about this encounter. Yifu, or one of the Four. He should. But he thinks he will not. He would hate to be questioned when he informs them of his intent to personally take over the territory along the border.
Xie-wang looks around once more. The room is empty. The room must be empty. But just in case, before he lets himself out he turns back with a little flourish.
"Zhou-shouling," he whispers into the stillness. "A pleasure, as always."