The north road wore last night's frost like a thin lie.
Wagon ruts had glazed over; every step cracked a little history. Yan Luo set a steady pace, Gaoyu half a step behind, four riders fanning out into the scrub where thorn and winter grass hid quick exits and slower ambushes. The crane head sat against his wrist bone, a small weight that never let him forget why he was still breathing.
They'd left the pilgrim square behind in a silence thick enough to chew. Word would run ahead of them—word always did—but fear would run faster. A "monk in red" carried a boy north. That was the shape of the trail. He didn't believe in monks. He believed in costumes.
"Smell," he said without looking back.
Gaoyu lifted his chin, drawing cold air deep. "Dye. Glue. Bad tea."
"Bathhouse kit," Yan Luo murmured. "They didn't wash it off clean."
