The road to Gusu wound through peach groves heavy with mist, the air perfumed with blossoms just beginning to fall.
Petals drifted lazily through the morning light, brushing against horses' manes and clinging to silk sleeves before being carried away by the breeze. It was a road meant for poetry—gentle, beautiful, deceptively calm.
At the head of the convoy rode Wei Liang.
Her light-pink robes flowed neatly over her white mare's back, the color soft but unmistakably noble. She sat straight in the saddle, reins held loosely, as if the horse moved at her will rather than by command. When a petal landed in her lap, she smiled faintly and brushed it aside.
She glanced back.
Wei Xie rode just behind her, posture alert, eyes scanning the road ahead and the ridges above. His sword rested easy at his side, but his hand never strayed far from its hilt.
Beside him, Wang San sat sideways in his saddle, flute balanced carelessly across his knees as he played a tune that danced between playful and reckless. The melody skipped like sunlight on water—light, teasing, impossible to ignore.
Wei Liang sighed. "San, face forward before you fall. I don't want to have to patch you up again."
Wang San grinned without missing a note. "You love patching me up."
"I do," she admitted warmly. "But I'd rather you stayed in one piece."
Wei Xie snorted. "One day, he's going to be the death of us."
Wei Liang's gaze softened. "Never. Because I'll make sure nothing ends him."
The music shifted.
One sharp note cut through the air—wrong, deliberate.
Wei Liang's smile vanished. "San?"
"There's someone there," Wang San murmured, fingers still on the flute. His eyes flicked toward the ridge above the road.
High on the slope, half-hidden by mist, a cloaked figure stood motionless.
She was wrapped in plain, worn cloth, posture slightly bent, as if weak or injured. A scarf hid her face, and a walking stick rested in her hand.
Yet something about her was wrong.
Too still. Too aware.
For a single heartbeat, her gaze met Wang San's.
Then she turned—and vanished into the fog.
Wei Liang's hand slipped to the short blade hidden at her waist. "If they mean harm—"
"They'll have to get through you first," Wang San finished, lowering the flute with a half-smile.
"That's why I'm not worried."
The petals continued to fall.
But the road no longer felt gentle.