When the bronze gates of the Tibet Sword Pavilion slammed shut behind them, the sword tassel at Lin Zhaoyue's temple still carried the warmth of Ye Fan's palm.
She gripped that half-piece of osmanthus cake so hard it grew sticky, mixed with beads of blood pricked from her fingertips by wood splinters, the sweet, metallic scent drilling straight into the bridge of her nose.
"Zhaoyue," Ye Fan pressed down on her hand as she reached for the sword tassel, "the smell of blood from Qinglan City—that's the direction of Miss Qin."
Chapter 154