Hands on my ribs, I taste iron; "Who are you?" I spat before I could stand. Moonlight slices the reliquary like a blade. Stone steps breathe cold into my bones. The lamp sits where it always sits—on a low plinth, wrapped in prayer-cloth and lacquered seals. Lingyun Peak keeps its treasures under vows and narrow eyes. I keep mine under shadows and hunger. A single breath. I move. The first sentry is only a silhouette—a boy with a novice's braid, all nerves and haloed worry. He thinks the night will swallow me. He thinks wrong. "You're not supposed to be here," he whispers, and his voice scrapes like slate. I smile. It does things; it softens people. My smile spreads, slow and dangerous. "I'm a pilgrim," I tell him. "From the south. My sister's name is Lian. She left a stitch in my sash—did you see it?" He blinks. His grip on the lantern loosens. He steps forward, curious. I step closer. I press my palm to his chest like I would a wound. Heat jumps. A memory of smoke flickers in his eyes. He drops the lantern. Trouble wants light. I want darkness. Everything after that is muscle memory and the little tricks I keep for folk who worship rules. Fingers to rope; rope to hook; the hook finds the sturdiest seam in the reliquary door and slides. My shadow slides after me, thinner than the moon but obedient. The lamp