Mingjun murmured, “Of course you will,” earning a swift elbow from Minghua.
Minghua leaned close and whispered to Poppy as she stood, “Don’t let them intimidate you; you’re stronger than any of them.”
Mingxi overheard and quickly admonished her. “Minghua.”
“I’m helping!”
They stepped out into the hall. The Shrine was quieter, more somber—foxfire dimmer, air heavier. Mingxi walked half a step behind Poppy, guarding her back.
“Remember…” he said quietly. “They seek truth, not guilt.”
Poppy’s hands twisted together. “What if… what if learning more proves I could have saved her?”
Mingxi stopped walking and turned to face her.
“You could not have,” he said firmly. “I would tell you if you were at fault. I would not spare you a truth that mattered.”
Her breath hitched.
“But Poppy…” He stepped closer. “Sometimes we grieve by inventing ways we could have changed the past. It is a kind of self-punishment.”
Her eyes welled, and he lowered his voice. “You do not deserve punishment.”
A tear slid down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb before it fell. Then a shrine attendant cleared her throat sharply from down the hall. Mingxi stepped back instantly, jaw tightening.
“Let’s go,” he said, regaining his composure.
But the softness lingered between them like a held breath.
Chapter 51
The ritual chamber was nothing like the one Poppy remembered from her childhood nightmares. Where hers had been filled with desperate magic and unholy hunger, this one was precise, controlled, sacred.
The circular floor was carved with ancient sigils, foxfire hovering above each rune like a silent witness. A reconstructed ritual circle—chalk lines, ink sigils, beeswax candles—had been carefully laid out based on Poppy’s description.
The elders stood around it, their faces grave.
Mingxi guided Poppy to the center with steady presence but did not touch her. His closeness was comfort enough.
Elder Shenwu’s voice lowered through the chamber. “Lady Penelope Sinclair. You stand where the ritual took place. Describe what occurred.”
Poppy inhaled slowly, breath steady but trembling at the edges. She closed her eyes. “I was here,” she murmured. “On my knees. The cold was everywhere, like something brushing under my skin.”
Foxfire flared softly in response.
“My parents stood there.” She pointed to the outer circle. “And Lysandra came from that doorway. She… she argued with them.”
Elder Huailin traced a glowing sigil across the chalk lines. The floor shimmered.
“When the magic struck her,” he said, “the circle destabilized.”
“Yes,” Poppy whispered.
Rising foxfire projected a ghostly outline of a girl—Lysandra—stepping in front of younger Poppy.
The blast replayed as a harmless shimmer. But the effect…
Poppy gasped. This time, she saw what her grief hadn’t let her understand. The magical explosion struck Lysandra, but the circle did not dissipate. It redirected.
