"And when I do not stop my wicked ways, my crooked, wayward tricks?" Wei Wuxian asks, knowing and bitter. "When I do not pick up the sword? What then?"

His smile is such a tired thing, a jagged slash across his face. He polishes Suiban weekly, as best he can - even just holding the blade like that is draining, leaving him weak and shaking for far too long.

"How long will you save me from the ferrule your clan demands?"