Sixteen models, one chapter. Pick two.

Before dawn, Lin Shuang had already swept the training ground once.

This was her third year at the Cold Pavilion. For the first two years, she had swept the rear courtyard, where there were more fallen leaves and fewer people. This year, the steward had transferred her to the training ground, where there were fewer leaves and more people. More eyes watching the swords—and more eyes watching her.

She merely kept her head down and swept.

Shen Wujiu, the Eighth Sword, practiced every day at the Hour of the Tiger, without fail. Just as Lin Shuang reached the eastern corner, he began his opening stance. She did not watch him. She watched his shadow on the ground. Shadows were more honest than people. A person could hold back; a shadow could not.

In that opening movement, the shadow’s shoulder tilted half an inch.

Lin Shuang’s broom paused, then resumed sweeping.

“You. The sweeper.”

She did not look up. Whenever someone called for “the sweeper” on the training ground, they were never referring to her alone.

“I mean you.”

She raised her head. Shen Wujiu had lowered his sword and was looking at her. He was not someone who liked looking at people. In the past three years, she had seen him look at swords, at the sky, at the distant mountains—but never at a sweeper.

“Senior.”

“You stopped just now.”

“There was a pebble on the ground.”

“No, there wasn’t,” he said. “You saw it.”

Lin Shuang said nothing. The training ground was silent save for the distant sound of the kitchen fires being lit. She remembered what the steward had once said: At the Cold Pavilion, eyes belonged on swords, not on brooms.

“Your shoulder tilted half an inch,” she said.

She regretted it the moment the words left her mouth.

Shen Wujiu did not grow angry. He slowly sheathed his sword, as though pondering something. Then he said something she had never imagined she would hear, not in all her three years there.

“Tomorrow, at the Hour of the Tiger, come an hour early.”

He turned and left. Lin Shuang stood there for a long time, gripping her broom. Dawn broke, and people began arriving at the training ground. By the time someone passed beside her, she had already lowered her head again and resumed sweeping.

There had been no pebble.

She had swept the ground clean.

Before dawn broke, Lin Shuang swept through the practice grounds.

This was her third year at the Cold Pavilion. The two years before, she had swept the back courtyard, where fallen leaves were plentiful and people were few. This year the steward had reassigned her to the practice grounds—fewer leaves, more people. More eyes watching the swords, and more eyes watching her.

She kept her head down and swept.

The Eighth Sword, Shen Wujiu, practiced swordsmanship every day at the hour of the Tiger, without fail. When Lin Shuang swept to the eastern corner, his blade was just beginning its rise. She did not watch him; she watched his shadow on the ground. Shadows are more honest than people—people can hold back, but shadows cannot.

In this upward stroke, the shadow's shoulder tilted half a cun.

Lin Shuang's broom paused, then continued.

"You who sweep the ground."

She did not look up. "You who sweep the ground" was something many were called on the practice grounds, not just her alone.

"I mean you."

She raised her head. Shen Wujiu had sheathed his sword and was watching her. He was not one who liked to look at people. In these three years, she had seen him watch swords, watch the sky, watch the distant mountains, but never once had she seen him watch someone who swept the ground.

"Senior."

"You paused just now."

"There was a stone on the ground."

"There was not," he said. "You saw it."

Lin Shuang said nothing. The practice grounds were quiet, only the sound of fire being lit in the distant kitchen. She remembered what the steward had told her: at the Cold Pavilion, eyes belong to swords, not to brooms.

"The shoulder tilted half a cun," she said. Immediately, she regretted it.

Shen Wujiu was not angry. He returned his sword to its sheath with slow movements, as if considering something. Then he spoke words she had never imagined hearing in three years.

"Tomorrow, at the hour of the Tiger, come half a time period earlier."

He turned and walked away. Lin Shuang stood holding the broom for a long time. Day broke, and people began to arrive at the practice grounds. When they passed her, she had already lowered her head again and resumed sweeping.

There had been no stone. She had swept it perfectly clean.