Ling Qi did not feel her best when next she stepped through the veil of dream. Her chest still ached with healing bone, and her arm was still restrained under heavy plaster and held tight to her chest in a sling. It would be a week or so before she could move it freely again.

But she was not going to ignore a debt she owed.

“Honestly, if the ol’ bonebag was gonna do immediate harm, he’d have done it,” Sixiang commented from above her shoulder. Sixiang was wounded as well, but wounds manifested differently in a bodiless spirit. Their presence felt thin, and their voice occasionally warbled on the wind, its volume and tone turning strange.

“Yes, but I won’t be totally off my guard,” Ling Qi said thoughtfully, looking out into the infinite shadow forest that represented the Sect in the liminal realm. She took comfort in the golden light that gleamed through the canopy, the acrid scent of lightning hanging ever present in the air. Even her mind could not conjure nightmares of the fox’s presence here under the eyes of the Sect Head’s dragon companion.

Instead, she regarded the plain and unassuming door which led into the twisted prison of time. It stood there in the soft grass, outlined by the mist of the forest, unsupported by frame or hinges. It was all but invisible unless she faced it from the front, appearing only as a thin black line from the sides.

“Visiting him of my own will is probably the safest thing I can do,” Ling Qi continued. “A person can get desperate, I think, when they’re alone too long.”

“You’re not wrong. Just consider your words carefully, alright?”

“I know a spirit doesn’t have to mean harm to do it.” Ling Qi reached for the door. Then again, neither did a human. That was just life. She took a deep breath. “I’ll be careful.”

The door opened silently under her hand, revealing a black void in the world. Ling Qi took a step and disappeared inside.

The prison remained as it ever was, a wide underground chamber half-filled by sluggish black waters. The air was clammy and damp, and no light penetrated its recesses. This mattered little to Ling Qi, who stepped from the door-shaped void in its far wall in a gentle rustle of cloth.

“Dutiful.”

Ling Qi inclined her head as a rasping reedy voice impressed itself in her mind, bypassing mortal senses entirely. The shell of the spirit, the black bones of the horned skeleton, remained in the center of the lake on a small muddy islet. Brown and green creepers and vines grew through his bones, growing from between its ribs, pushing out of its jaws, and blooming in empty eye sockets. They rustled as the blossoming skull shifted to greet her.

“I’m not one to delay in paying my respects. Thank you again for your assistance, Honored Elder.” Ling Qi bowed low at the waist, as much as she could manage in her current state.

“I didn’t get the chance last time, but let me add my thanks too, old timer,” Sixiang added, appearing over her shoulder. Though the muse’s form wavered and faded, they bowed too.

“Polite juniors. Come and sit by the shore. A story is owed.”

Ling Qi rose smoothly, ignoring the prickling twinge in her ribs, and gave a small nod. With a flick of her wrist, she withdrew a plush cushion from her storage ring and set it on the damp shore, before sitting down and settling herself in. She kept herself cross-legged and straight-backed, respectful as one should be with an elder.

The skull very slowly twisted to follow her motion, petals drifting down to settle upon the water.

“It began when I learned a friend was considering some extreme methods of cultivation, and I cast around for anything I could do to help…”

The spirit made not a sound as she began to speak, but the shadows gathered close around her as if she were a flame in the darkness.

Through the whole of her tale, the silence was only broken by her voice and the occasional interjection by Sixiang. She spoke of their entry into the realm of the fox and the feeling of hunger and consumption. She spoke of the shrine and the memories of betrayal and twisting and the ghost child.

She began to lay out the tale, carefully picking her words as she used them to paint a story. She understood implicitly that this was not a place for the dry recounting of facts. She was careful to comb her own thoughts, internally conversing with Sixiang to make sure the memories weren’t vanishing. She checked the flow of her qi, and though she felt a faint tug on her energy as some of the qi she breathed out slipped into the waters, it was only a trickle.

It was a little theft, like one from a young urchin slipping coopers from a fat purse bulging with silver. Ling Qi didn’t allow the cadence of her tale to be interrupted by what she had noticed. She met the stare of blooming eye sockets, seeing the glittering green sparks and motes of light that flickered there, and read a smirking challenge.

She spoke of being confronted by the fox as they fled with the ghost child, and deftly, oh so deftly, she extended her cycling qi beyond flesh, letting streamers of mist drift as she stole back drops of liquid darkness and thought to replace what was taken.

A pittance, no more. Surely not enough for the elder to notice.

Green sparks glittered in the dark.

As she continued telling the story, her meridians felt tense, not quite exhausted but fatigued. Every mote of power snatched from the skeleton’s hands inspired a more subtle response until she needed Sixiang to assist her in noticing the stolen bits of power vanishing from her spirit. Every breath and every cycle of her qi saw little disturbances, sometimes not even thefts but simple disruptions to her qi that would, if left unchecked, snarl her cultivation for hours or days.

By the time she poured out the tale of Su Ling’s stand, sweat was beading on her brow, and she had long since ceased to have any chance to counterattack in this game of qi theft.

“And that is where the honored senior’s assistance came in, granting escape in the chaos,” Ling Qi finished, her eyes darted about, gleaming silver. She remained tense for the next theft, but it never came.

“A thrilling tale. Junior, these wounds have unsettled you terribly. Observe closely any disturbances in cycling.”

Her next session of cultivation was not going to be as productive as she liked. She hadn’t been able to keep up with the spirit’s disruption. At the same time, the beads of energy she had taken weighed heavy in her dantian, dream and darkness and wind, potent and dense, ready for assimilation into her dantian.

She had a feeling she would come out better despite the irritation.

“The junior thanks the kind senior.” Ling Qi lowered her head. “Did the tale satisfy?”

“Flare. A tale should stir the heart. Your words are lacking.”

Ling Qi frowned. She thought she had dressed it up a little, nothing false but a little exuberance of detail to make it more compelling. “I did not wish to lie, Honored Senior.”

“Fools and amateurs lie. The master forges the ores of truth into the alloy of narrative. Stories are the ties that bind men together. Stories are power.”

“That seems like a dangerous path,” Ling Qi said.

“The sword is deadly, yet men wield it.”

Ling Qi took the point. “How might I improve my stories?”

“To begin, know thy audience.”

Ling Qi narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was being made fun of. “Then, Honored Senior, may I know the name you would like to be called by?”

Bones and dry vines creaked in the dark. A skull tilted in curiosity.

“There was once a man with many names. He, too, learned to be a thief of winds, but the winds were long stolen, and a master must earn new titles.

Thief of Minds. Thief of Hearts. Thief of Stories. Breaker of Ways. Arch-Heretic of the Dreaming Way.

But names, too, are stories. Was he ever real at all? Or was he a phantom that lived in the minds of the mighty? Was he less or more, a man or group? Perhaps an old grandfather had gone mad, stewing in his regrets, wearing a mask that had become his face.

Who can say?

This one is only an echo bouncing forever in the solitude of a cell.”

Ling Qi swallowed thickly as the resonating whispers crashed over her mind. They were far fewer words than she had spoken, but she could not ignore the shiver of uncertainty that traveled up her spine. She wondered not for the first time if she was stepping too far. But that was a question for those who did not intend to see their path to the summit of cultivation.

Sixiang muttered.

“An echo… That will do. The junior may call this one Elder Huisheng.”

“As the senior likes. But if I may ask, why do the elders of the Sect not guard you more closely?”

Green sparks danced, and a black petal fell, crisping under the devouring fire until it blew away as viridian dust.

“The junior tries to get an old man rambling. The debt is paid. I have been generous.”

“You have,” Ling Qi agreed. “I apologize for my presumption. Is there anything in particular I should search for in a story?”

“Does Xiangmen stand?”

“Of course it does,” Ling Qi began incredulously. “Oh, the city, you mean. Yes, the city stands. I have heard it is very prosperous.”

There was silence for a time, just the rippling of water and the whisper of wind.

“Tell of the Dreaming Court, the galas of the Moon, when you return. Even here, the shock when the throne of Tsu was taken resounded.”

Ling Qi shared a look with Sixiang and bowed her head again. “It will be done, Elder Huisheng.”

She had already been planning to slip aside with Sixiang when she had the chance during their visit to Xiangmen. Best not to complain when goals aligned.

She felt the spirit's observation upon her as she stood and bowed again, her cushion vanishing back into her ring. "What will you trade for the tale, elder?"

Sixiang laughed in her head. There was no point in not being bold.

Bones creaked and rattled like dry laughter and crunching leaves.

"A story. A lesson.”