Morning did not arrive gently.
It shattered.
A scream tore through the mist before the sun cleared the eastern ridge.
"Guóliáng!"
Fēi Fēnlán's voice broke on the second cry.
Doors slid open. Faces emerged. The village gathered as it always did when something ruptured the ordinary.
Inside their house, Liú Tiānyuè was already awake.
Zhào Dàfēng stirred slowly beside the inner wall, wincing as he pushed himself upright. His leg did not allow haste. It never had since the injury. He reached for the brace out of habit before he even fully understood the noise.
"What's happened?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep.
"Fēi Fēnlán," Tiānyuè replied calmly as she tied her outer robe. "Her son did not return."
Dàfēng's brow creased. He shifted, pulling himself carefully toward the doorway using the wall for leverage. Every movement cost effort. He hid it well. He always did.
Another scream cut through the air.
"My son! Has anyone seen my son?!"
By the time they stepped outside, the square was filling.
Fēi Fēnlán stood at its center, hair loose, eyes swollen and fever-bright. She looked as though she had not slept at all.
"He didn't come home!" she cried. "He has never stayed out all night!"
Murmurs spread.
Tiānyuè stood straight, hands folded neatly within her sleeves.
Dàfēng positioned himself slightly behind and to her side—not shielding, not blocking. He could not. His leg would not allow a sudden shift or a forceful intervention.
But his presence was solid. Deliberate.
Fēi Fēnlán's gaze found Tiānyuè quickly.
"You," she said, accusation sharpening her grief. "He was watching your house."
A subtle ripple moved through the villagers.
Dàfēng's hand tightened on his cane.
"Watching?" he asked, voice level but edged.
"My son said something was wrong," Fēi Fēnlán pressed on. "Your harvest improved. Your repairs came too quickly. He said you were hiding something."
Tiānyuè did not react.
"And so he came to look?" Dàfēng asked.
The question landed harder than a denial.
Fēi Fēnlán hesitated—just enough.
"I did not send him," she snapped. "But if he saw something—if he confronted you—"
Her voice rose again, breaking into fury.
"You think this is coincidence?!"
Dàfēng shifted his weight and grimaced despite himself. He did not step forward. He could not. Instead, his voice deepened.
"If you have an accusation," he said steadily, "speak it plainly."
The square quieted.
Fēi Fēnlán pointed at Tiānyuè. "He went toward your courtyard last night."
Dàfēng's jaw tightened. "Did you see him enter?"
Silence.
"No," she admitted, trembling. "But where else would he go?"
Tiānyuè's voice remained composed. "The mountain paths are dark at night. If he wandered there—"
"He would not wander!" Fēi Fēnlán cried.
Dàfēng's fingers whitened around the cane. The urge to physically stand between them flickered across his face—a reflex born of instinct and pride.
His body did not obey.
The frustration burned hotter than anger.
"We heard nothing," he said instead. "No latch. No steps. No disturbance."
That part, at least, was true.
An elder cleared his throat. "We should search."
The suggestion shifted the energy. Accusation gave way to action.
Men gathered tools. The younger ones moved first.
As they prepared to leave, Fēi Fēnlán stepped closer to Tiānyuè—but it was Dàfēng she looked at now.
"If you know anything," she demanded, "and you stay silent—"
Her gaze dropped, briefly, to his braced leg.
The implication was cruel.
Dàfēng met her stare without flinching.
"My household does not prey on its neighbors," he said quietly.
It was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Fēi Fēnlán searched his face for weakness. For guilt.
She found neither.
The search party disappeared toward the fields and forest edge.
Silence lingered behind them.
Dàfēng exhaled slowly once the crowd thinned. His hand trembled faintly—not from fear, but from contained strain.
He lowered his voice.
"Did he come here?" he asked.
Tiānyuè looked toward the distant tree line.
"He crossed where he should not have," she replied.
Dàfēng studied her profile.
A chill—not of morning air—moved through him.
In the distance, a shout rose from the direction of the forest.
Then another.
Dàfēng closed his eyes briefly.
He could not run toward it.
He could only stand.
Beside her.