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The demon had been dealt with hours ago, but Qingming couldn’t sleep.
He sat at the edge of the courtyard, his robes pooled around him like spilled ink, watching the last embers of the barrier talismans smolder into ash. The night was too quiet. It always was, after.
A sound broke the stillness. Not just hoofbeats—something more. A crackling, like a campfire given legs.
Qingming turned.
Standing at the far gate of the compound was a horse. Or something shaped like one. Its mane was fire. Actual, living flame that licked upward into the dark without smoke. Its coat shimmered between cream and gold, and every step it took left faint scorch marks on the stone.
“Well,” Qingming murmured, tilting his head. “You’re not from any scroll I’ve read.”
The creature regarded him with dark, intelligent eyes and snorted. A tiny plume of sparks scattered from its nostrils.
“Who’s your new friend?”
Qingming didn’t startle. He never startled when it came to Boya. The man moved like wind through shadows, appearing at his side as though he’d always been there, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
“I haven’t decided if it’s a friend yet,” Qingming said.
Boya studied the fire-horse with careful calm. “It doesn’t feel malicious.”
“No,” Qingming agreed softly. “It feels… lost.”
The fire-horse took a tentative step forward. Then another. Its burning mane flared brighter, then dimmed, as though it were nervous.
Boya crouched slowly, extending one hand the way he might toward a stray cat. Qingming watched, something tightening in his chest.
“Careful,” Qingming whispered. “The fire—”
“Doesn’t burn,” Boya said, wonder slipping through his usual composure. The fire-horse had pressed its muzzle into his palm. Flames curled around his fingers like warm silk. “It doesn’t burn at all.”
Qingming knelt beside him. Slowly, he reached out too. The creature turned its dark eyes toward him, then nuzzled into his hand as well.
The mane flickered warmly against his skin.
“It trusts you,” Boya said.
Qingming shook his head slightly. “It came to the gate. It was looking for someone. I just happened to be sitting here.”
“You always happen to be sitting wherever lost things wander.” Boya’s voice was low, amused, fond.
Qingming didn’t answer that.
The fire-horse folded its legs beneath itself and settled between them, its flames banking down to a drowsy amber glow. Heat radiated from its body like a stone that had spent all day in the sun.
They sat with it for a long time. Boya’s shoulder eventually came to rest against Qingming’s, light and unhurried, as though it had simply drifted there on its own. Qingming let it stay.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the first bird of morning tested a single note against the dark.
“We should sleep,” Qingming said, making no move to stand.
“Mm,” Boya agreed, making no move either.
The fire-horse breathed slow and even between them, and the courtyard held its warmth long after the last talisman had gone cold.