Qingshui pulled aside the heavy cloth over the carriage window—the snow outside had stopped.
The wagon swayed along the mountain path, its old wheels grinding snow and earth with a weary creak.
Night was fading. A pale gray whitened the ridge line in the distance. The dark clung stubbornly, unwilling to retreat, yet powerless to resist.
Melted snow had iced over the canvas roof; with each jolt, the crust cracked—crack, crack—like brittle glass.
Inside, the lantern's flame was almost gone, casting a thin yellow glow across three drawn faces.
Qingshui rolled the cloth up; the mountain wind lashed her, and she shivered. Layne slept heavily in Mu Wanhua's arms, drained from guiding Qingshui's qi through the night to knit her torn body.
Wanhua clutched the crumpled, stained letters. Her fingertips had gone white, veins raised blue on the back of her hand. She didn't look at the three characters again, but the name—Mu Wanhua—was nailed into her mind.
Her true name. Her true house. A past before two years of age—all bound to those three characters.
She lowered her brow against her son's soft hair, breath harsh against his neck, her chest heaving with a rasp that sounded like it would spill every grievance, every ache she had borne.
"…Mom…" Layne murmured in sleep, voice small and hoarse, like a child pleading in a dream. "I'm so tired… can I skip practice this morning…?"
Wanhua laughed softly, brokenly. Tears fell, blotting the letters, the ink bleeding into gray stains. She clutched him tighter, almost as if she would fold him into her chest, into her heartbeat.
"Sleep… just sleep…"
Her whisper was rough, ragged.
Across from them, Qingshui leaned against the wall. Her head tilted, breath shallow and short. The wind through the window teased her hair; dried blood glued her robe to the wound beneath. Her brow knotted, as if the pain might tip her into unconsciousness.
The firelight glimmered on the bloodshot red in her eyes.
She wanted to speak, but only pressed her lips together, throat working silently.
The only sounds were the lantern sputtering in the draft, and three uneven breaths—tainted with blood, with tears.
The hooves slowed. Each step landed heavy, sticky in the snow, as if even the horse was exhausted, chilled, cautious.
At last, the wagon drew to a halt. The horse exhaled long, snorted, the sound heavy in the mountain stillness.
"You've arrived."
The voice outside was low, cold, stripped of inflection—yet it fell like an order none could dispute.
Qingshui stirred, lids dragging upward. A cough rasped from her throat. Layne blinked awake, dazed, searching about as if still at home.
Wanhua tucked the stained letters carefully against her breast—blood, tears, and snow had blurred much of the ink, but she still hid them as treasure.
The flap was yanked open from outside. Cold wind burst in, lantern flame flaring, nearly snuffed.
The Sixth Attendant stood there, face carved with frost. His jaw was pale from the night wind, melted ice dripping from his brows. He reached out a hand toward Wanhua.
"This is as far as I take you."
His words were quiet, but each syllable clear as steel.
Wanhua clutched her son closer. Qingshui gritted her teeth, forcing herself upright. The wound tore with a rip—she hissed—but made no sound beyond it.
The Sixth Attendant swept his gaze over them, pausing on Qingshui, voice still flat:
"Down this slope is the highway. There's a checkpoint. Beyond it, you'll be out of Lizhou's reach."
He lifted Wanhua from the carriage, then Layne.
"On the road, you may find a passing cart. If not, you walk. Ten li or so, and you'll reach the first Yuntai village—Xi Wang."
"…Understood," Qingshui rasped.
"This wagon can't be used again." He passed her a small cloth bundle with wooden plaques. "Travel permits. Official kingdom documents. Use them."
Her fingers were stiff, nearly dropping them.
"Don't lose them," he warned. "And change your clothes. Even with permits, you won't pass looking like this."
Qingshui saw the large parcel tucked in the corner—two sets of women's clothes, fresh from under to overcoat.
Wanhua lifted red-rimmed eyes toward him. "Why help us this far?"
He paused—his gaze steady, but words spare.
"The Lord's command."
The flap dropped. Inside, Qingshui's grunt of pain sounded, followed by the rustle of cloth.
She emerged pale, double blades strapped at her back. Wanhua went in to change. When she came out, haggard but composed, the traces of the night were almost hidden.
The Attendant looked at them one by one, then nodded.
"The Lord can only carry you this far. From here—life or death is yours."
He tossed Qingshui a black token.
"And this."
She caught it—cold, heavy, carved with runes and a tiger's head. Her thumb traced the etching, trembling.
"The Lord Xuánhǔ's resonance token," the Attendant said. "Channel qi and others nearby holding the same will sense it. But remember—beyond Qixia, no one will come. Don't think to flee to the ends of the earth with it."
She swallowed, voice hoarse. "…I know."
He gave no further glance. Turning, he unhitched the steaming horse, palm glowing faint as he pressed the wagon.
A low shout—crash!
The carriage burst apart, timbers and wheels tumbling down the slope until nothing remained but wreckage strewn below.
"Live wisely. Don't die too early. That would disappoint the Lord."
His tone was colder than the snow. He mounted, reins snapping. Hooves thundered, then dwindled into the storm.
Qingshui stared at the splinters below, fingers tight on the black token. Wanhua gazed at the sun cresting the ridge, spilling silver-white across the peaks.
At last, daylight.
Wanhua tucked their coin into her breast. Qingshui set her blades behind her waist again. Layne exhaled, his eyes steadier than before.
They said nothing more.
Silent, they followed the hoofprints down the mountain—toward a road with no map, no promise, and no clear end.