For a moment or two longer, Lan Wangji continues to observe silently as Galahad works. He recognizes his own likeness, even upside-down, and allows himself to indulge in the memory of a fifteen-year-old Wei Ying presenting him with a drawing of himself, a flower behind his ear.

Curious, he holds up a hand, mimicking the gesture that the drawing is making. "What is that?"