Galahad's stony face, the evenness and surety of his words, are so like Lan Wangji himself -- or, at least, so like the boy that Lan Wangji once was. He was his uncle's brightest and most dutiful pupil. Lan Qiren could call on him with any question, in any class, and Lan Wangji could stand and answer just like this, back straight and words measured.

He listens, utterly focused. The rabbits are settling, tucking their limbs under themselves, in his lap. They seem to find Galahad a soothing presence, perhaps because they are so used to being with Lan Wangji. The story itself is horrific, another tale of a god who exerts power through dispensation of pain and inscrutable tests. Suffering is necessary, and a part of the ebbing, flowing balance of the universe, but it need not be meted out in this way, as if humans are helpless children who must be cowed and, at once, forces for evil who cannot find their way without punishment.

Lan Wangji's frown has cleared, leaving his own features icy-smooth again, but there is a little hint of how troubling he finds this when he speaks. "Must the universe be ordered by one changeable god? The breath of Heaven is no different from the breath of men."