In the year of the Return to the Ruins, snow buried the destitute city. Shen Yan often stared blankly at the iron seal in his palm. The fragment of the sword's spine had long since been stolen by Blackwind Stockade, and the silver markings on the old locust tree were turning to ash, inch by inch.
Su Mang could no longer hear the ironware's cries. When Wang Dachui collapsed beside the anvil, he was still clutching iron filings. He rang the New Year's Eve bell. Its toll mingled with the sound of iron breaking, like someone muttering, "It can't be saved."
When the last strip of blue cloth drifted into the snow, no one remembered that a sword bone had once wanted to bloom.
