The morning light was just starting to show by the time I reached the northern ridge.
The child was still in my arms—small, light, and half-starved. He was small for his age, more limbs than muscle or fat, but I would change that fast. He was still sleeping even with all my movement. His face was smudged with dirt, his skin far too pale from months of winter with no fire. He didn't stir as I descended the slope, shadowed by Yaozu and Shadow, the only two I trusted to follow me anywhere without question.
We didn't speak. I was still too angry to form words, and Yaozu was at least smart enough to understand that I didn't want to hear his opinion. The silence of the trail spoke louder than any words. The trees here were warped from heat of the fire, their bark curled in strips like old paper. Even the frost had retreated, melted and corrupted into slush where my mountain's blood had spilled. I could feel it in the soil—what was taken from me, what they'd tried to bury.
