The morning was too quiet.
I sat on the edge of the cot, bare feet against the cool wood floor, eyes fixed on the tent flap. The fire had long gone out. My tea had gone cold. But I couldn't bring myself to move.
Not because I was tired. Not because I was hurting.
But because I could still smell blood on the wind.
It wasn't mine this time.
I ran my fingers over the inside of my wrist, tracing where the bruises had started to fade. The skin there was nearly clean now—healed faster than it should've. The body remembered everything, but it refused to stay weak.
A knock brushed the post like a question. I didn't speak.
The flap opened anyway.
Shi Yaozu stepped inside without sound, black eyes sharp as ever. He wore no armor. Just a high-collared black tunic with the edge of his blade visible at his hip. His presence settled into the room like a shadow that knew it belonged.
"There's hot water outside," he said. "You haven't bathed."
