Past dusk, the fields of Guilinhe village were empty and the solar energy collected throughout the day was humming in dim, warm lights along the wooden street posts. Wenzhan ignored the balking bows of the few passing villagers and wandered to the far southern corner of the village. There, he slammed the counter of a tiny outlet shop. Orange lanterns swung below the worn shop canopy, loosening floating dust in the enhanced sharpness of his peripheral vision. Past the counter, a large shadow shifted behind the rows of stock.

“Yeah, comin’,” said the shopkeeper, grunting as he stumbled over a sack of rice. A moment later, he spotted Wenzhan and straightened his casual slouch. “Master Guan! What can I—”

Wenzhan slapped four large coins onto the countertop. “Tiange, cold.”

“Cold, yeah, right away…”

The shopkeeper disappeared into the backroom of the outlet. A few moments later, he reappeared with a round bottle of strong liquor, the glass perspiring from its storage in the cool undercellar. That pleased look on the man’s gruff face stuttered as he saw Wenzhan’s expression. Or maybe it was when he smelled the alcohol already on Wenzhan’s breath. Wenzhan grunted a curt thanks and then plopped down on the mud steps of the shop, tossing the cork and tossing a long draft down his throat. The liquid burned, immediately easing that hideous feeling in his gut.

He had hit Anjie. He had hit Anjie, of all people—for nothing more than gently grasping his shoulder and trying to calm him down. For not even raising his gentle voice when he pressed on why Wenzhan had skipped the college lectures for the dozenth time. He’d knocked his brother’s hand off like it was a vile thing, and that soft hurt in his brother’s eyes cut Wenzhan to the bone. But how could he say that it wasn’t Anjie, it was Wenzhan who was the vile one? That Anjie shouldn’t sully his beautiful hands on his wretched little brother.

He tossed another draft back. Eventually, another. Dazed, he knocked his head against the shop pillar. Once. Twice. Thrice—

And hit something soft.

Wenzhan looked up. Jinyue stood over him, his palm protecting Wenzhan’s skull from the hard wooden pillar. Wenzhan must be terribly inebriated, an exacerbation of his state from earlier in the evening, to not have noticed someone come up right next to him.

He looked down quickly. The image of perfect, flawless Jinyue, down to the precision of his braided hair with not even a strand out of place, was hard to bear. Wenzhan was painfully aware of his own shorn hair, his skewed clothes. But he couldn’t hold anything against his brother, who quietly sat down at his side and took the liquor bottle from his hands.

“Jin—”

Jinyue lifted the bottle to his own lips and drank. A line trickled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his clean white sleeves. The liquor was tinted yellow, and so his crane white was tainted yellow. Afterward, he handed the bottle back to Wenzhan.

“It isn’t wise to drink alone.”

Wenzhan didn’t say anything.

Jinyue placed a gentle hand on Wenzhan’s shoulder, as Anjie had done. And yet, it felt nothing like Anjie’s touch. It didn’t scald. It didn’t strike the urge to run away.

“I won’t ask what’s wrong. But Wenzhan, you don’t have to fight it alone.”

Wenzhan shook his head. He drank.

“I do,” he whispered. “I really fucking do.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened. “Look at me, Wenzhan. Look. I’m sure Anjie would say the same, but he isn’t here now, so I’ll say it.” He gripped Wenzhan’s hand, his earthen eyes firm. “I am your brother. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care why. If you need me, I’m here for you.”

His throat dried. Lungs filled. Wenzhan tore away and buried his face in his hands, the liquor spilling on the ground, his nails digging into his scalp.

“You don’t know,” he said, voice breaking. “You have no idea.”

“I know my little brother,” said Jinyue. “I know how much he treasures our big brother. And I know he would never treat Anjie like this without good reason.” Jinyue tilted his head forward, touching Wenzhan’s shoulder again. Softly, he said, “Wenzhan, if you want me to know, I will say that it’s not your fault. If you don’t want me to know, I will say as I have been saying. I will always be on your side.”

Wenzhan broke into tears—ugly, choked tears. Through the heavy inebriation swirled a horror that Jinyue’s sincerity was a thorough one—that he knew. And the horror slowly nudged a weight off his back. He let his brother pull his larger form against those prim white robes. He buried his eyes over his brother’s shoulders, soaking the layers through.

Come morning, he was going to regret this weakness. Wenzhan had not cried on his brothers’ shoulders since their parents passed. He had taken painstaking care, especially in the last few years, to recraft who he was among the Guan siblings. Not the vulnerable third. But for now, he felt ten, comforted in the kind embrace of his stronger brothers.

“Don’t tell him,” he whispered. “Please don’t tell him.”

Jinyue stroked his shorn hair and hushed him. “It is not my place.”

“He’ll hate me.”

“He would never.”

“He’ll hate me.”

“He loves you.”

Wenzhan sobbed. They sat like that for long time. Eventually, speaking. Of what, Wenzhan was not sure, because his voice came out in slurs and mumbles and his ears took words in warped cuts. He vaguely felt the dirt road beneath his feet, the rich evening breeze of the valley forest. The white sleeves in his clutch. Everything else, came morning, slipped from his memory.

Dawn light filtered through the sheer curtains of the master bedchamber, casting a warm hue to Anjie’s sleeping profile. It was not that Anjie had a cold aura, but asleep, he was more like the spring river than the summer hearth. He’d moved a little in his sleep, loose hair sprawling over the pillows. Smiling mischievously, Wenbo pinched two loose locks between her fingers and carefully folded the strands beneath his nose, making a terrible moustache. The strands pricked his smooth skin. His brow drew in a faint wince, and a small noise escaped his lips. His fingers stretched forward. “Mu…”

His eyes flickered open.

Wenbo giggled, dropping the fake moustache.

As if surprised to see her, Anjie blinked. A pause later, he smiled softly.

“Ah-Bo. What are you doing?”

“Making you a mustache. Are you awake?”

“I’m awake.”

Wenbo hopped off the bed and tugged down his covers. “Can we play?”

Anjie pushed upright, rubbing his eyes. “What do you want to play?”

“Cranes!”

He laughed, a sound still tinged with sleep. “Go and get changed. I’ll meet you in the training hall.”

Making a gleeful noise, Wenbo ran back to her own room and dove into her wardrobe, tossing aside wrinkled clothes until she found her light black garments. The training halls were in the east wing of the estate, and at the dawn hour, the ring of rooms were heavily occupied by the habitual morning exercises. The training hall, the one Anjie meant, was located in the far east center, a polished room reserved for the First Lord alone. In terms of decor, it was sparse. A single painting draped down the back wall, a red-crowned crane arched in a proud stance. Wenbo plopped down in front of the painting while she waited for her brother, her eyes tracing the elegant lines of that magnificent form.

Wenbo had seen the crane on the backs of her two older brothers. She was seven when they inked it into Jinyue. Many other warriors of the house wore it as well, and at least a dozen had gotten theirs within Wenbo’s memory. Feng Sueyi, an older crane with the same light copper eyes as Anjie and Aunt Baisun and Ziyuan, once said that the new cranes were fake cranes, that they hadn’t earned the ink—that one only needed to look at their human eyes to know they were imposters of the sacred bird. Wenbo remembered that moment vividly: they had been holding evening practice, and Jinyue was helping Wenbo with her lunges. Her second brother had never looked as pained as when those words drifted over.

Wenbo mentioned the incident to Anjie later. The next day, Anjie took Feng Sueyi to the Guan ancestral hall, where they burned incense for the deceased. They were in there alone for a long time. When Feng Sueyi walked out, his chiseled face was stark, and he prostrated himself in front of Jinyue, begging forgiveness. Nobody ever talked about fake cranes after that.

Wenbo didn’t understand it all. She just knew that the crane was a special mark, that it made a person a true guardian of Guilin. That it took no more and no less than Anjie’s approval to be bestowed the image, and that if she had her eldest brother’s approval, she had nothing in the world to fear.

“Just you wait,” she said to the lofty bird. “I’ll catch you soon enough.”

The crane only stared with its proud, untouchable eyes.

Soon, soft footsteps approached. Beaming, Wenbo turned around. Her brother arrived in black training garments, his hair braided neatly down his back. He held out a large flask, which slushed with liquid.

“Did you remember to drink, Ah-Bo?”

She took the flask and downed the water. Together, they stretched and warmed-up. This was the part that Wenbo grimaced over, impatient as she was to get started. But Anjie insisted on the little things and took his time enjoying the slow pace. In the background, the courtyard birds chirped and the stir of morning training thrummed. By the time they finally took the wooden swords off the racks, Wenbo was jittery with excitement.

‘Cranes’ was not so much a game as it was hard sparring. Anjie went easy on her, of course—Wenbo would not be learning much otherwise. Still, she was thrilled at every tiny success, every hard clack of wood. These days, Anjie rarely sparred seriously with anyone other than his righthand Ziyuan. In fact, he rarely sparred at all with anyone aside from Ziyuan, Jinyue, and Wenbo. He seemed happy to oblige requests, but the requests were few. Several months ago, a young crane had wistfully mentioned how he would love to try his skills against the First Lord. When Wenbo, eavesdropping, chirped why not ask?, the man had broken into a laugh.

Sorry, milady, but I’m not his sister, he said. He doesn’t have the time to baby me.

It appeared to Wenbo that the general consensus was that her brother would be ‘babying’ anyone who challenged him. How foolish. After all, she thought, if they didn’t grow out of being babies, with or without her brother’s help, then was Anjie supposed to be the only adult in the house?

At least there was Ziyuan. And Jinyue. Wenzhan, on the other hand… Her third brother preferred stabbing trees in the valley forest to proper exercises in the estate. The last time she saw Wenzhan spar was about a year ago, against Jinyue. Totally wild and formless. Wenzhan had lost, but he broke Jinyue’s sword and the nearby weapons rack in the process.

In the end, Wenbo was not able to land a single blow on Anjie. Collapsing onto the floor, she said, “One day, I’ll win.”

Anjie stared at her as if surprised. After a moment, he broke into a happy laugh.

“Of course you will. You’re the fiercest little lady I know.”

“But,” said Wenbo, pushing upright, “you don’t actually know too many fierce little ladies, do you? I think it’s just me and Ruo-Jie. And Lulu, but she’s not little at all.”

Anjie smiled and knelt, fixing her mussed hair. “You’re right. The fiercest person, then.”

Wenbo beamed, a satisfied warmth filling her chest. Anjie placed a hand on her cheek, speaking softly.

“Keep that ferocity, little crane. I’ll be waiting for the day.”

They tidied and had breakfast in the private tea room afterward. Dinner was a family affair, and lunch was taken at everyone’s own convenience. Breakfast met somewhere in the middle, usually attended together by Anjie, Ziyuan, Jinyue, and Wenbo. Aunt Baisun slept in too late to join, and Wenzhan came or didn’t at his own whim. Today was a no for Wenbo’s third brother. Jinyue arrived later than usual, catching the tail end of Anjie and Wenbo’s dining. Her two brothers talked briefly about affairs to be taken care of during the day, and then Anjie sent her to change into her school clothes.

In the Guan household, there were four children of primary school age, Wenbo included. Two had already gone ahead, but Ruotian, Sanhai’s niece and Wenbo’s far removed cousin, lingered behind to wait for Wenbo. Wenbo found the older girl sitting in the main courtyard, a book opened in her right hand, her back straight and her hair braided in elegant plaits. As Ruotian sighted Wenbo, her left eyebrow arched smoothly and her mouth opened to comment. Before the words left her lips, her eyes darted past Wenbo.

Ruotian stood up quickly. “An-Gege.”

“Ah-Tian. Are you ready to go?”

“You’re coming with us today, An-Gege?”

“I have some business in town, so I’ll walk you.”

Ruotian’s lips pulled into a smile. Wenbo could see the corners pursing, trying to stay prim and ladylike. But the older girl’s eyes brightened and flickered to Wenbo, clearly delighted to have her brother’s company.

It was a half-hour walk from the Guan estate from Guilinhe village to the primary school in the Rizhai town. On the way, the Guilinhe villagers smiled and waved at the trio. One man working the morning fields hurried over to press a bundle of fresh vegetables into Anjie’s hands, his tanned skin already sweat-sheened and his nails stained with dirt. In the market area of the Rizhai town, an old woman waved down the two girls and gave them each a large, hot doughnut. Wenbo wolfed hers down while Ruotian, a few minutes later, passed her doughnut to a small townboy.

When they arrived at the school, the children crowded the windows and doors to see the First Lord Guan. After Anjie left and Ruotian joined her own class, Wenbo’s classmates surrounded her in a flurry, asking after her absence yesterday. She happily basked in the attention, spinning a wild exaggeration of her morning illness the day before.

Later in the day, the teacher announced that they were beginning an autumn project on family. He handed out their notebooks and then instructed the students to write a paragraph on their concept of family. His instructions hung with an ambiguous silence afterward, his fan folding behind his straight back and his eyes sweeping the room with a quiet expectation.

Wenbo pressed the end of her pen to her lip, thinking. After a moment, she smiled and dipped the tip into the soft parchment.

Family, she wrote, is the people you share your food with.

“Wenzhan. Zhanzhan. Hey, Wen-Gege.”

Wenzhan winced, slowly feeling the ache of his neck, the throb behind his eyes. Soft fingers touched his exposed forearm, and a familiar breath ghosted his ears with the scent of peonies. “Wen-Gege, if you don’t wake up, I’m going to take your belt.”

He swat his arm at the voice. The warmth at his side peddled back. With a grunt, he lifted his head where it rested on his arm, and his arm prickled with the numbness of being pressed to the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he blinked to an empty lecture room and the afternoon light burning the edge of a metallic table.

Sighing, he rubbed his face.

“Shame. I did kind of want your belt.”

The woman next to him pulled over a chair and sank into it, facing him. Wenzhan gave her a sideway glance, irritated at her all-too-pleasant voice.

Lin Suzha. A year under him, a transfer to the Guilin provincial college since last winter. The only person at the college with the nerve to rouse him from his napping. It was not a justified nerve in the moment, when Wenzhan was still off-kilter from the morning hangover and a half-nudge from snapping at any company. He didn’t remember all of last night. Just the part where he hit Anjie. Just the part where he sobbed over Jinyue’s nice white robes and more or less admitted to his second brother’s suspicions.

Wenzhan really did not want to speak with anyone for the next month.

“You got water?” he said.

“Sure,” said Suzha. She tugged over a decorated bag on the desk and fished out a flask, which she tossed to Wenzhan. He downed all of the water, which was not enough to clean his mood. Suzha said, “Something happened this morning?”

He stood, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “No.”

“Yesterday, then.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Suzha followed him out of the lecture room. The college was winding down at the late afternoon hour, the corridors sparse. Even so, the few that glimpsed him averted their gaze. Once, they did that out of respect for his status as a lordling of House Guan. These days, it was just nervous distaste.

“It matters to me,” said Suzha. “Hey, Wenzhan. Wenzhan!”

“I’m going home.”

Her hand wrapped around his wrist. He didn’t resist as she maneuvered him against the wall. As she was about to speak, a student drifted past them. She seemed to think better of making a visible scene and soon pulled him into the adjacent empty classroom. The door shut with a heavy draft.

Wenzhan slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall. Suzha watched him for a hanging moment, her earlier humor and ease gone. Perhaps it was the eastside dim of the classroom. Or perhaps it was because they hadn’t talked properly in days.

“I heard from Luxian,” she said eventually. “Well, ‘heard’ is putting it lightly.”

Wenzhan cocked an eyebrow. “What, you don’t like it?”

Suzha scoffed and shook her head at him. They glared at each other.

Then she closed the distance in two strides. Her fingers wrapped around the fabric of his broad shoulders, and her mouth covered his. She tasted like summer plums. Instinctively, Wenzhan shut his eyes and kissed back.

A moment later, Suzha pulled away. She hissed over his lips.

“Stupid boy. I don’t care who you fuck. But she has a boyfriend. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t thinking? You fucked someone’s girlfriend without thinking?”

“I didn’t know.”

Suzha groaned in exasperation, stepping backward and pressing a hand to her forehead. Narrowing her eyes at him, she said, “Luxian’s been waiting for you outside. What are you going to do?”

Wenzhan shrugged. “Talk. Fight. Whatever he wants.”

“I think you know what he wants.”

“Shouldn’t keep him waiting, then.”

Suzha grabbed Wenzhan’s arm as he made to leave.

“Wenzhan. Don’t do anything stupid. You know you’re the one in the wrong here.”

He had nothing to say to that. Suzha was right, and for all his crass behavior, Wenzhan had been raised well to know right from wrong, wise from stupid. But some things he could not control, some wrongs he could not escape, and he had decided years ago that if it was going to be this way, he’d let it be this way. Right? Wise? Fucking someone’s girlfriend, fighting someone’s boyfriend? What were those small transgressions anyway, but an outlet for the steam of a much greater one?

He pulled his arm from Suzha’s grip. She had no place to chastise him.

Without another word, he left the room. Suzha sighed and followed.

As she had warned, Luxian was waiting in the empty open corridor beyond the building exit. He was alone, a brawny man matching Wenzhan in size. When Wenzhan appeared, Luxian pushed off the pillar he leaned against and leveled a cold, hard look. They stood opposite each other for a silent moment.

“You wanted to talk?” said Wenzhan.

A pulse rippled through Luxian’s jaws. “Talk?”

“Better for you,” said Wenzhan.

“Better for me?” A humorless chuckle shook Luxian’s form. “You think that you can take whatever you want, say whatever you want, fuck whoever you want because you’re a Guan?”

“I fuck whoever wants me to fuck them.”

“Guan Wenzhan!”

“Luxian, is it?”

The man snarled. Took three wide strides forward, a fist curling. The hit landed empty, and with a grunt, Luxian went stumbling back from a languid kick.

“You sure you want to fight?”

Suzha touched Wenzhan’s shoulder. Frantically, “Wenzhan—”

Luxian roared. Wenzhan shoved Suzha out of the way. For all his skill and trained build, Luxian was but a stick of wood compared to the modified warriors of House Guan. Wenzhan may not have endured the traditional final procedure—and never would, now that Anjie was First Lord—but he had been recrafted in other ways since birth. He retaliated the assault in reserved motions, knocking the other man carefully back and withholding his strength for a short time.

Then Luxian said, “Guan? The Guardian House? Don’t fuck with me, Wenzhan. You’re a shame to that name.”

A blow landed on Wenzhan’s cheek. He stumbled back, spitting blood onto the ground. After a stunned moment, he felt a laugh crawl up his throat.

“You’re right. Guan? Yeah. Don’t fuck with me. I never wanted to be one.”

Luxian threw a fierce kick. With ease, Wenzhan grabbed his leg and sent him toppling back. The man sprawled on the ground with a grunt. Suzha hurried to Luxian’s side and knelt.

“That’s enough,” she said. “You’re only going to hurt yourself.”

Wenzhan was turning to leave. In his peripheral, Luxian spat at Suzha’s feet.

“Don’t they call him the First Guardian?”

Wenzhan froze.

“Some damn guardian he is, letting his own brother piss all over the place. Can’t even take care of his family—”

Bone cracked along Wenzhan’s heel. Blood splattered. Luxian rolled back with an ugly cry.

“Don’t. You dare. Talk about him.”

Clutching his mouth, red trickling down his jaw, his fingers, Luxian pushed upright. “Don’t I? Didn’t he raise you? He’s the reason you turned out like this, isn’t he?”

“Wenzhan, Wenzhan, don’t—”

He knew it was goading, intentional, maybe even deliberately planned. And yet, he could not help the way those words bled into his arteries, swallowed up his head. Seeing red, Wenzhan lunged forward. He did not hold back anymore.

Fighting, he didn’t have the graceful, avian mastery of his brothers—once, yes, but he had long since grinded the style out of his bones. Anything to set himself apart, anything to dilute his Guan blood. His hair, his clothes, his harder body, his rougher martial work. Anything to be just a little less the brother of Guan Anjie.

Yes, his brother was the reason he turned out like this. But how dare the words come from the mouth of a stranger, a man who seemed to know nothing about the First Lord of Guan and the First Guardian of Guilin, who had the audacity to forget—or to be ignorant of—all that his brother had done for this place.

He’s the reason I turned out like this?

“Witless dog, he’s the reason you’re alive!”

Luxian screamed. Filled with an untamed fury, Wenzhan beat the man wet and raw.

It was only when Suzha covered the man’s body with her own, in tears, that Wenzhan finally came to his senses. His throat dried at the blood, the shivering form on the ground. He stepped back. A small ring of horrified spectators retreated with him, as if afraid they would be next. Head drumming a thunder, he staggered out of the college grounds.

“What did I do?” he whispered down the dirt path. “What did I do?”