The inn's door shut with a hollow thud, the blizzard's howl muffled once more.
But the cold hadn't left with the stranger. It sat in the room like an unwelcome guest.
Patrons slowly returned to their seats, voices low, avoiding the three who still stood in the open space cleared by the fight.
A serving girl bent to collect shattered crockery, but her hands trembled.
Xiyue sheathed his sword with deliberate calm, scanning the room once more before looking to Ruo Han.
"You're bleeding," he said.
Ruo Han blinked down at the shallow slice on his arm, barely more than a sting. "It's nothing."
Ling Han sat back down, pulling the nearest wine jug toward him. "That man knew exactly where to hit us without hitting us," he said, pouring generously. "And he didn't even move from his seat. That's not nothing."
"He wasn't here for you," Xiyue said flatly.
Ling Han arched a brow. "No? Then who—"
Ruo Han felt the weight of Xiyue's gaze before he saw it.
And then he understood.
The stranger had looked at him. Spoken to him. The questions in that low, almost friendly tone hadn't been idle—he'd been prying. Measuring.
Ruo Han forced a small smile. "If you're trying to say you're worried, you could just say it."
"I'm saying he looked at you like you were a weapon he wanted to own," Xiyue replied, voice sharper than the sword at his hip. "And I don't like it."
For a moment, the only sound was the fire snapping in the grate.
Then Ling Han raised his cup. "Well, if he wants you that badly, let him try. We'll cut his hands off."
It drew the smallest laugh from Ruo Han, though the unease in his chest didn't fade.
Because the stranger hadn't looked like someone who tried and failed—he looked like someone who waited until the perfect moment to succeed.