Jiang Cheng has to let his hands rest on his throat, touching the skin there, as if he could feel the thorns pushing through to cut into his fingertips. It's not something that Lan Xichen hasn't seen before - the symptoms were familiar and he'd been forced to share it when he had first come begging for the archives - but he doesn't want to make more of a show of it. He doesn't want the other Sect Leader to recognise the flowers and who they belong to.

It's a conversation he simply cannot let himself have, knowing the rejection could quite literally kill him.

Instead, he waves off the concern, forcing his hands back down to his lap, letting his eyes drink in the children. It's comfortable, seeing his a-Ling play around with other children his age. Maybe he should take him out of Lotus Pier more often, away from the peering gazes of Guangyao's spies and the weight of knowing too much about how painful his future will be.

"I'm fine," he shakes his head. "And I don't need your compliments, I assure you. I know what Yunmeng has achieved." Bowing his head, he forces himself to swallow back the pain in his throat, the way he can taste the metallic echo of blood on his tongue. He's not sure how much longer he can do this, how much longer he can survive before his lungs cannot draw in air.

Jiang Cheng closes his eyes and allows himself to be painfully honest.

"I do not think I have much longer, Zewu-jun."