Morning dew still clung to the mountain path, sparkling like glass beads on the leaves as Meiyin wound her way upward. A woven basket bounced gently against her back, lined with cloth and the scent of dried herbs. Her shoes, softened from years of use, barely made a sound on the dirt trail.
The crisp scent of pine needles and crushed grass filled the air, laced with the distant promise of rain.This was her favorite time of day,when the village below was just waking, and the world hadn't quite remembered how to be loud.
She paused beside a narrow stream, bending to wash her hands. Her reflection shimmered on the surface: pale skin, eyes a little too silver to be ordinary, hair that spilled down her back like ink. Her adoptive father often said she looked like a ghost-child, plucked straight from a storybook.
But her features were warm. Her cheeks held color. Her lips curved easily into smiles. She didn't feel like a ghost. She felt alive.
"Almost there," she murmured, patting her cheeks dry and standing again. Her father, Master Qiao, had asked her to gather more tuánhuā root before the rain came. He'd been treating a boy with fever,one of the new families who'd arrived from the neighboring province last month. Nothing serious, but she took pride in helping. Her father might be the best healer in Yunping Village, but she liked to think she was his best student.
The trail narrowed as she climbed higher, winding around a grove of wild plum trees in early bloom. White petals fluttered down like snowflakes, clinging to her sleeves and hair. She laughed softly, brushing one from her nose.
She didn't hear the groan until she nearly stepped on it.
At first, she thought it was a deer.
Then she saw the blood.
A dark figure was slumped between the roots of an old cedar tree, half-hidden beneath tangled undergrowth. His robe was torn and stained deep red, his arm twisted beneath him at an unnatural angle. He was breathing barely but unconscious.
Her basket dropped with a thud.
Meiyin stared. A dozen instincts screamed at her: run, call for help, get Master Qiao. But the healer in her pushed forward, already kneeling in the leaves.
"Hey—can you hear me?" she asked, pressing a hand to his cheek. Feverish. Skin clammy and pale.
He shifted. A pained breath escaped him.
And then his eyes opened.
They were the color of embers.
Not red from sickness. Truly red, like the last glow of a dying fire. Meiyin froze. She had never seen eyes like that. Not even among the old spirits whispered about in village tales.
His gaze moved sluggishly across her face, trying to focus. "…You… shouldn't be here."
"I could say the same about you," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "What happened? Were you attacked?"
He closed his eyes briefly, as if the act of speaking drained him. "Don't… go back down. The village…"
Her stomach knotted. "What about the village?!"
"I… I don't know," he muttered, voice barely audible. "I heard… something. Shouting. Before I fell."
She frowned. "You don't make any sense. Did someone do this to you?"
"I don't know."
She hesitated. "Do you remember your name?"
"…No."
Of course not, she thought. Head trauma. Possibly broken ribs. A deep gash on his side. And those eyes…
He needed rest. Medicine. But moving him now could kill him. And she couldn't leave him alone.
She tore strips from the hem of her inner tunic, soaking them with the stream's cold water and pressing them to his wounds. He didn't flinch, only winced slightly when she cleaned the gash near his ribs.
"You're lucky," she said gently. "Any deeper and you'd have bled out."
"I'm not lucky," he whispered. "Not anymore."
Meiyin looked at him then not just his injuries, but his whole form.
He was young. Maybe eighteen or nineteen. Strong shoulders, but lean, like someone built to move swiftly rather than fight head-on. His skin was pale under the blood, not in the sickly way, but like marble left out of the sun too long. His robes were made of fabric she didn't recognize,dark silk etched with silver thread in swirling patterns, torn now and stained, but still elegant. His hair was loose, tangled and long, the color of midnight with hints of blue.
He looked nothing like anyone she had ever seen.
And yet… he didn't feel like a threat.
"I'll stay until morning," she said quietly. "Then I'll go get my father."
"No."
She blinked. "No?"
His voice was strained but sharp. "Don't go back down."
"You keep saying that, but you don't explain why."
"I just know," he said. "I felt it… like a wave crashing through the forest. Like death."
Meiyin's skin prickled. A cold breeze stirred the leaves. She glanced toward the path leading home, suddenly unsure.
"If this is some trick—"
"It's not." His eyes opened again. They were dimmer now, but still strange and far too ancient for someone his age.
"You expect me to believe you fell out of the sky and just sensed something terrible?"
"…Yes."
She stared at him for a long moment. His breaths came shallow. He was losing consciousness again.
A fever this high could bring hallucinations. She had seen it before once, a man convinced the river was whispering secrets only he could hear. Maybe this boy was lost in delirium. Maybe. But the certainty in his eyes, raw and ancient, gnawed at her.
But she dismissed it.
"I don't even know your name," she whispered.
He didn't respond.
Meiyin sighed, pulling her basket closer. She had packed some dried hawthorn berries and a leftover rice ball. She chewed slowly, offering half to the boy. His lips were too dry to eat, so she placed the rest beside him and murmured an apology he couldn't hear.
By dusk, the temperature dropped. She gathered branches, started a small fire the way Master Qiao had taught her. The boy didn't stir. She checked his pulse three times just to be sure.
Finally, wrapped in her shawl, she leaned against the tree trunk nearby, eyes fluttering closed.
She dreamt of a white-haired woman singing in a language she didn't understand. Of falling stars. Of a river dyed in blood.
The sun rose quietly, brushing pale gold over the treetops. Meiyin stirred awake with a stiff neck and cold fingers, her shawl damp with dew. For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she saw the boy, curled near the fire, his breath barely visible in the cool morning air.
Still alive.
She rose slowly, knees sore, and crossed to check his wound. The bleeding had stopped, but the fever hadn't broken. The makeshift bandages were soaked and dark. He needed better care and food, warm water, stronger herbs. Maybe even spirit salves.
"I'll be back," she whispered, gathering her things. "Try not to die while I'm gone."
He didn't move, but his brow twitched slightly like he heard her from somewhere far away.
With one last glance at the boy, Meiyin picked her way down the slope, stepping carefully over stones slick with morning frost. Mist curled between the trees, thin and low, swallowing the path in places. A bird cried once, high and shrill, before falling silent.
She walked faster.
With every step toward Yunping Village, unease coiled tighter in her chest. Something was wrong. The wind had died. There was no smoke rising from chimneys. No roosters crowing. Not even the distant echo of chopping wood or temple bells.
The first thing she saw was a cart overturned on the road, its contents spilled across the dirt vegetables, a cracked clay pot, a child's slipper.
Then came the silence.
Not peaceful. Not still.
Dead.
"Hello?" she called, voice catching.
No answer.
She broke into a run.
Past the rice fields, past the shrine tree strung with wind-chimes. Her heart thudded painfully, ears ringing. She sprinted through the village gate and—
Stopped.
There was blood on the stones.
Smears across doorways. Streaks down the well. A trail leading toward Master Qiao's clinic.
"No," she breathed. "No, no—"
She stumbled forward, crying out as her foot slipped in something sticky and red. She fell to her knees beside a familiar figure sprawled in the dust.
Old Liu, the blacksmith. His eyes were open. His throat was open too.
Meiyin scrambled back, hand clapped over her mouth.
It was everywhere.
Bodies in the alleys. Blood on the prayer flags. Auntie Lin slumped by her cooking pots, her hands still reaching toward the door.
Everyone. Everyone she had known her whole life.
Slaughtered.
Tears blurred her vision. Her stomach twisted, and she doubled over, retching onto the stones. Bile rose in her throat, bitter and burning, choking out the last lingering scent of plum blossoms.
"Master Qiao," she gasped, dragging herself upright. "Please…"
She ran to the clinic.
The door was ajar.
Inside, the shelves were shattered. Glass bottles broken. Dried herbs trampled into the floor. The table was overturned. She saw blood, too much of it but no body.
Then she found his satchel. And the necklace he always wore. A red jade charm, now cracked and bloodstained, lying near the threshold.
Her knees buckled. She sank to the floor, trembling. "No…"
The world tilted around her.
Why?
Why had this happened?
Who would hurt a village of healers and farmers? Why would anyone—
And then she remembered the boy.
"Don't go back down."
He had known. Somehow, he had known.
A horrible thought gripped her.
Had he caused this?
She stood shakily, heart pounding.
No. He was too weak. Dying. He hadn't even known his name.
But what if he had led something here?
Something terrible.
She didn't have answers. Only questions. Only grief.
Wiping her face with shaking fingers, Meiyin turned away from the wreckage. There was no one left to help.
She had to go back.
To the mountain.
To the boy.
To the truth waiting in his eyes.