Mingxi opened the great wooden doors himself. Inside, foxfire brightened in recognition of her presence. The elders stood waiting in a loose half-circle—somber, respectful.
Mingxi bent his head toward her. “I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
Her fingers brushed his hand—a small, grateful touch she didn’t fully realize she’d made until it happened.
Then she stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind her, leaving Mingxi and Minghua alone in the hall.
Minghua leaned toward her brother with a conspiratorial whisper, “She’s brave. You know that, yes?”
Mingxi didn’t answer; he simply watched the closed doors, his jaw set but his eyes warm.
The doors slid shut behind Poppy with a soft thud that felt far louder inside her chest. From the center of the chamber, foxfire hovered in slow, steady pulses, illuminating the elders’ faces in shifting blue gold.
Elder Lan stepped forward first, her expression composed but gentle.
“Lady Penelope,” she said in greeting. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”
Poppy dipped her head. “I am ready.”
Elder Huailin gestured toward the central moon-seal. “Please stand where you feel most comfortable.”
She stepped to the edge of the seal—close enough to be respectful, far enough not to stand in the exact center.
Lan exchanged a look with the others and then spoke with careful clarity.
“We will not revisit the trauma of the ritual itself today,” she assured. “There are… other angles we must examine before we attempt a full reconstruction.”
Poppy exhaled, relieved and tense all at once.
Elder Zhenhai folded his hands. “We must understand your parents. Their intent. Their knowledge. Their preparations.”
Poppy nodded once, her throat tight. “What do you need to know?”
“Whatever you can recall,” Huailin said softly. “Not what happened in the ritual, but what led to it. Their beliefs. Their behavior. Their fears.”
“My parents were proud,” Poppy began slowly. “Always worried about appearances. Standing. Control.”
Lan nodded, noting every word.
“They were strict,” Poppy continued, “but… different with me than with Lysandra.”
Elder Yaojin’s brow furrowed. “Different how?”
“They adored her,” Poppy whispered. “She was everything they wanted. Beautiful. Composed. Gifted. I think they expected me to be the same, but I wasn’t.” She hesitated. “I was… difficult. At least, that’s what they called it. Too emotional. Too curious. Too loud. Too much.”
Lan’s eyes softened. “You were a child.”
Poppy’s breath shivered, and she nodded. “My father believed magic was a tool,” she continued. “Something to shape. To command. He studied old texts, but only for advantage. Not reverence.”
“And your mother?” Huailin asked gently.
Poppy blinked down at her hands, remembering the soft perfume of her mother’s hair, the cold way she smoothed Poppy’s sleeves.
“She wanted perfection,” she whispered. “Lysandra had it. I didn’t.”
The elders didn’t interrupt.
“They trained us in rituals,” Poppy said. “Small ones at first. Candle focus. Breath control. Sigil reading. Lysandra excelled. I… didn’t.”
