The plain wooden door held a quiet that felt deliberate, as if the wood itself had learned to listen. Lin Xun rested his palm against it for a breath, feeling only the cool of evening through the grain. There was no rattle from within, no hurried footfall, only a faint trace of unfamiliar tea that drifted out like a question.
He knocked.
A thin panel slid aside. An eye regarded them, dark and steady. It vanished, and the door opened just enough to admit them single file. Shen Lan went first, her hand near her sword, her posture relaxed but ready. Lin Xun followed, the folded invitation still in his sleeve though he no longer needed it.
They stepped into a small courtyard paved with old stone. In its center grew a ginkgo tree, its leaves a deeper green than those along the street, as if the air here fed them with more patience. The courtyard walls were lime washed, the surface smooth and pale, catching the last of the day in a soft glow. A low hall stood opposite the door, shutters open to the yard, the interior lit with the kind of light that does not insist on being noticed.
"Welcome," said a man in a robe the color of misted blue. He had the stillness of someone who could stand for hours without tiring. "I am Yao. Please, come in."
Shen Lan's gaze moved over the corners of the court, the shadow under the eaves, the single unmarked door to the right. She nodded once and went toward the hall. Lin Xun followed the line of the light and the faint curl of steam.
Inside, a long table waited, low and simple. There were no banners, no carved screens, no painted fans. On the table sat a clay kettle already warm, a modest brazier, and a set of plain white cups that showed their porcelain without apology. Two others were present. A woman with hair cut to her shoulders and hands that looked capable of work quietly done sat near the kettle. An elderly man rested at the far end, his back straight despite the years written in his face.
Yao gestured. "This is Mistress Wen. And this is Elder Zhao."
Mistress Wen inclined her head. Elder Zhao did the same by no more than a finger's width, as if to waste no movement. His eyes were not sharp the way some elders' eyes are, but clear and deep, the way a pool looks when there is no wind.
"Sit," Yao said. "We keep a simple table here. We call this place the Circle. When we taste, we listen. When we listen, we do not shout."
Shen Lan took a seat to the side, where she could watch both the doorway and the courtyard. Lin Xun sat opposite the kettle and placed his hands lightly on his knees.
"You brewed in the East Market," Mistress Wen said, her tone even. "You did not shout. We noticed."
"I brewed," Lin Xun said quietly. "The people chose. I am still learning to hear what they chose."
"Good," Elder Zhao murmured. "It is work to hear without your own wanting being loud in your ears."
Yao set a kettle upon the brazier. The small flame ticked as it took the weight of the water. "We invited you because of the cup you brewed. Not for its fame, but for its restraint. There are many who can blaze. Fewer can warm."
Shen Lan's gaze stayed steady. "And what does the Circle want from him?"
"To see if the cup tastes the same when poured away from crowd noise," Mistress Wen replied. "And to offer a warning if needed. Some names grow faster than a chest can carry."
Elder Zhao's mouth lifted in the faintest smile. "And sometimes we simply wish to drink a good cup."
Yao turned his palm toward the hearth. "The water is ready. Will you brew for us, Lin Xun? Whatever leaf you choose."
Lin Xun stood. He did not reach for the pouch of Hollow Valley leaves. He untied a small jar at his belt and set it upon the table. Aged leaf, patient leaf, the same he had served at the market. He warmed the pot and cups, poured the rinse, watched the first breath of steam rise like a slender thread. When he lifted the lid a finger's width, the room changed in a way only tea can change a room… the air of it felt closer, the quiet deeper, as if the walls themselves drew nearer to see.
He poured four cups. One for each of them, and one for Shen Lan. They waited.
Yao drank first. He was a careful drinker, not timid, but unwilling to chase the taste before it came to him. Mistress Wen followed, her eyes relaxed at the corners. Elder Zhao sipped with his eyes closed, then rested the cup near his fingertips as though it might speak if he kept it close.
"It sits," Yao said softly. "It does not push."
"It opens," Mistress Wen added. "Not like a gate, like a path… narrow at the start, then widening by the third breath."
Elder Zhao nodded. "And the water is honest. No wishfulness in it. You did not ask it to be what it is not."
Lin Xun returned to his seat. "I try to pour what the leaf wishes to become."
Mistress Wen studied him. "Many say such things. Fewer mean them."
Yao smiled, a slight curve that changed his face without showing teeth. "You will forgive us if we also taste with questions. Why did you accept a public tasting with Eastern Cloud?"
"Because refusing would have given the rumor more power than the cup," Lin Xun said. "And because skill is steadier than noise."
Elder Zhao's eyes warmed. "Your grandfather believed that. He brewed once in a winter market when everyone thought spice would win. He poured a cup of plain green that tasted like clean snow. We still speak of that cup… quiet cups last."
Lin Xun's breath caught. "You knew him."
"We drank together," Elder Zhao said. "Long ago. Not as master and pupil. As two men with cold hands on a cold morning."
Shen Lan glanced at Lin Xun, then at Elder Zhao. "What does the Circle intend after this tasting?"
"Only this," Yao said. From his sleeve he drew a folded slip of paper and set it upon the table. Mistress Wen placed another beside it. "Two invitations. Doors rather than orders. The first is a gathering by the river pavilion in three nights. The trade hall will host it, sponsors will smile, craftsmen will argue in the manner of friends. It will not be light, even if they pretend it is. If you go, bring a cup you can defend from many angles."
"The second," Mistress Wen continued, tapping the other slip, "leads to a man who deals in leaves and stories on the mountain road. He is honest in the way a wild dog is honest. He bites where he bites. If you bring him half truths, he will bring you none."
"We are not sending you," Elder Zhao added, his voice like water over flat stone. "We are showing you where others walk. Refusing to walk is also a path."
Shen Lan turned the first slip so she could read it. There was a small trade hall seal, a careful line of script, a time that would make the lamps bright in the pavilion. The second slip bore only a name and a corner of the city where wall met old road.
"And the warning?" she asked.
Yao folded his hands. "Zhou Ren will not forget. Eastern Cloud does not argue only with cups. They argue with company and influence. Their next cup will shine brighter. Their friends will clap louder. Be ready to brew for those who will not clap until their last sip… and some who will not clap at all."
Mistress Wen poured the last of her cup back into the pot, a small courtesy to the room. "If you choose to brew the Hollow Valley leaf, do not brew it for a crowd. That tea carries a place upon it. Crowds trample places they do not know."
Lin Xun bowed his head a finger's width. "I had no intention of pouring it there."
"Good," Elder Zhao said. "Then perhaps we can speak of the leaf without asking to drink it."
They did not pry. They asked about water, about clay, about heat that is hot enough without being greedy. Lin Xun answered the parts that were cups rather than secrets. He spoke of kettle songs and how a quiet flame can hum, of the way some leaves ask to be disturbed while others ask to be left alone. He found himself speaking of his regulars without naming them… the herb seller who measured time by the weight of his steps, the mother whose child slept better when the room smelled like chamomile, the apprentice who set one foot wrong when he rose and learned to set it right by the end of a pot.
Shen Lan listened. Occasionally she added a word. Once, when Yao asked lightly whether a sword ever stood too near a kettle, she said, "Only when the sword is afraid of being ignored," and her eyes thinned in a way that made Yao laugh softly.
When the pot was empty, no one hurried to refill it. The quiet that followed was not awkward. It was the kind of quiet a good room holds after a story has been told and those who heard it would like it to last.
At length Yao stood. "We will not keep you with more talk. Take the slips. Walk or do not walk. If you choose to come again to this table, bring a different leaf. Not to impress… to show another part of your hand."
Mistress Wen rose as well. "And if you ever need a room where questions are asked softly, this door will be here."
Elder Zhao did not stand. He watched Lin Xun with eyes that knew how to weigh without judging. "Your grandfather would be pleased to know that his kettle song did not end with him. That is all I wished to say."
Lin Xun placed both palms upon the table and bowed, deeper than a finger's width this time. "That is… more than I expected to hear."
"Then we are even," Elder Zhao said, smiling just enough to be seen.
Yao led them back through the courtyard. The ginkgo leaves shifted once, though there was no wind in that moment, and a few pale motes fell like slow snow. At the door Yao paused. "Be careful with the people who come smiling to defend you," he said. "Some defend themselves instead."
"Understood," Shen Lan said.
They stepped into the lane. The panel slid, the door closed, and the Circle vanished behind the pale wall as if it had pressed itself into the stone. The street was as it had been. Laundry lines drifted above small courtyards. A child chased a paper hoop with a stick, laughing as it hopped the cracks in the paving. A cat watched them pass, then decided they were not worth watching.
They walked without speaking for a time, taking the long way back. The city carried evening in its hands now. Voices soft, lamps lighting, steam rising from cook pots. The world did what it always did, and that, more than any warning, let the tension in their shoulders ease.
"Will you go to the river pavilion?" Shen Lan asked at last.
"Yes," Lin Xun said. "And I will not bring what I cannot defend."
"And the mountain road broker?"
"Perhaps later. He bites where he bites… I would rather not offer a hand until I see the teeth."
She nodded, pleased. "We will need a cup that speaks clearly, even if someone tries to talk over it."
"The aged leaf, yes," Lin Xun said. "But I will not pour the same cup. The market tasted a path that widened by the third breath. At the pavilion, they will expect the same. I will give them a turn in the path instead… a second opening after the first has closed."
"A quiet surprise," Shen Lan said.
"The only kind worth brewing," Lin Xun replied.
They reached the Emerald Leaf as the sky deepened from blue to the color of cooled iron. The sign still hung in the door latch from earlier. He turned it and let the bell's gentle chime announce their return to the empty room. The shop smelled like what it always smelled like at day's end… wood warmed by steam, a hint of old clay, the last breath of a pot that had been poured to the dregs.
Shen Lan set her sword by the wall and coaxed a small flame to life beneath the kettle. Lin Xun placed the two slips upon the counter, side by side. Ink and paper, no bigger than a hand, yet heavy with the promise that someone would be waiting on the other side.
He pulled down the jar of aged leaf and another of Spring Rain. He added a third, Golden Hearth, for weight, though he knew he would use less of it than his hand wanted. He moved by habit while his mind wandered along possible balances. A touch more of the bright leaf to open the path sooner. A soft thread of the roasted leaf to settle the finish. Heat a little lower, water a breath cooler. Let the steam rise without rushing. Let the cup release its true shape in the second sip instead of the third.
Shen Lan watched the line of his thoughts cross his face. "You will be ready."
"I will be ready," he echoed.
They drank a modest pot and did not speak much while doing it. The cups warmed their fingers. The steam left small halos on the cool air. When the pot was empty, the room felt as if it had nodded.
Lin Xun banked the brazier and turned the sign to closed. He gathered the slips and tucked them beneath the counter. Outside, a cart rattled past and a voice called taro cakes while the tray still has heat. From the lane beyond the window came the soft rhythm of footsteps, then laughter, then silence.
He stood for a moment at the door before dark, feeling the day settle into him. The win at the market, the quiet in the Circle, the two doors now open, the memory of an elder who had known his grandfather's kettle song. It folded together like paper that keeps its crease.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," Shen Lan answered.
He slid the latch. The last of the light faded, leaving the shop to its own familiar dark. In that dark, he could almost hear the sound of water just before it sings… not yet boiling, not yet quiet, simply ready to rise.