The tribe never noticed the subtle movements at first. But Chao Lie did.
He wasn't sure if it was because of his serpent's body or simply because he liked to slither where no one thought to look, but the air carried whispers only he seemed to hear. The faint scrape of claws where none should be. The scent of stone turned fresh too recently. A rhythm in the dirt that did not belong.
He remembered what had happened the first time — the spy marked, his mother warned, the clansmen chasing shadows through the snow. Since then, his curiosity had sharpened. What else could he find?
One cold dusk he slipped from the house while the others were distracted with evening meal. In his beast form, the world became vast and secretive. He pressed close to rocks and drifted across frozen paths, little more than a shadow among roots.
There — movement ahead. Subtle, careful. Not a clansman.
The spy thought himself hidden, hugging the dark edge of the village perimeter. But Chao Lie's red eyes caught him, pupils narrowing with quiet delight. This one was not the same as before; he carried himself differently, pausing more often, sniffing the air.
Chao Lie coiled low and waited. He could have slithered straight back to his mother, but something in him — the serpent's patience, or the cub's stubborn pride — urged him to mark the spy first. To leave proof for others to follow.
He slid his scaled body across a low branch, leaving faint serpentine trails in the frost where none should exist. A little further on, he pressed his body against loose bark, scraping just enough to leave a trace. Then he darted under a rock, vanishing.
The spy shifted suddenly, sharp head lifting, nostrils twitching. He had noticed. Good.
Chao Lie didn't linger; he darted back toward the heart of the camp, heart thudding fast. But instead of running to his mother, he found one of the brown bear warriors who often patrolled near the food stores.
"I saw him," Chao Lie said, small voice breathless. "By the outer ridge. He walks like he doesn't belong."
The bear frowned at him. "You?"
"I left a mark," Chao Lie added, chin lifting in defiance. "Look for the trail. You'll see."
Skepticism clouded the warrior's eyes, but something in the boy's seriousness convinced him. He lumbered off to investigate, gathering two others as he went.
Chao Lie lingered behind, watching from a half-hidden perch. His pulse raced when he heard the shouts — the spies flushed, the warriors chasing. For a brief moment he felt a thrill of victory. He had not only seen the shadow; he had guided others to it.
But shadows did not always flee cleanly. One doubled back.
Chao Lie felt it before he saw it — the faint ripple of air disturbed behind him. He whirled just as claws swept where his small body had been. The spy had spotted him, realized the serpent cub was the leak.
He darted, but not fast enough. A sharp kick caught his side, sending pain lancing through his ribs. He bit back a hiss, struggling to coil and strike, but the spy loomed over him, snarling.
A roar split the night. One of the bear warriors returned, slamming into the spy before the claws could fall again. Chao Lie tumbled aside, clutching his ribs, shivering from both fear and fury.
He had done it. He had been useful. But he had also nearly been crushed for it.
---
Back in the house, his siblings crowded close. Chow Chow's blue eyes filled with tears when she saw the bruising along his side.
"Stupid!" she cried, though her hands trembled with worry. "Why didn't you stay safe?"
Chao Lie tried to smirk, but the wince spoiled it. "Because I saw him first."
His sister pressed her palms against his injury, her healing glow flaring faint and yellow. Warmth seeped into him, easing the ache though exhaustion pulled at her little frame.
Their mother watched silently, her expression unreadable. She didn't scold. She didn't praise. But she lingered by him until he finally drifted to sleep, serpent tail twitching in restless dreams.
When dawn broke, Chao Lie knew two things. One: the spies would come again, because they had not yet gotten what they wanted. Two: he would not stop watching.
Because he was the one who could.
---
Chao Lie woke to the sound of voices outside the stone house. Deep, heavy tones rumbled through the early morning air. The warriors were talking about the spy.
He curled on the bedding, ribs still aching faintly despite Chow Chow's healing. She had helped, yes, but she was still young, her energy easily drained. Her soft snores filled the room; she had fallen asleep at his side, her small hand still resting against his scales.
Chao Lie eased himself free. His mother stirred but did not stop him, only gave him a measured look. Her silence was permission enough.
He shifted into beast form, slithering out into the pale morning light. The warriors stood near the food storage pits, voices hushed but heavy.
"Couldn't catch him," one muttered.
"Too slippery."
"But someone marked him. The trails…" The bear warrior who had listened to Chao Lie glanced around, then saw him. "It was the cub."
Chao Lie straightened, snake body coiling proudly. The warriors looked skeptical. One frowned. "A cub?"
"I saw him first," Chao Lie said, voice small but steady. "He didn't see me until the end."
Silence stretched. Then the bear warrior who had defended him snorted. "Small he may be, but sharp. That spy would have been deep in our walls without his warning."
Another warrior shifted uncomfortably, as if admitting such a thing stung his pride. "And next time?"
Chao Lie's tail twitched. "Next time I'll see him sooner."
The warriors exchanged looks. Then, surprisingly, they nodded. One even rumbled a soft, grudging chuckle. "Snake eyes indeed."
From that day forward, when Chao Lie slithered at the edge of the village, fewer warriors waved him back inside. Some even asked quietly: "Seen anything?" It wasn't full respect, not yet, but it was something.
---
The second spy came three nights later.
Chao Lie felt him before he saw him — the way the snow shifted wrong, the way a shadow lingered longer than it should. His curiosity sparked, but so did caution. He slithered higher, climbing into the hollow of a dead tree, red eyes gleaming faintly in the dark.
The spy moved fast, hugging the ground, his breathing careful. Chao Lie followed, silent as drifting smoke, circling ahead to cut him off.
When the moment was right, he slipped out from his hiding place and darted back toward camp. His small body pressed flat to the earth, he moved faster than his legs could have carried him in human form.
This time, he didn't seek his mother. He went straight to the elder who often sat at the southern watch post, a broad-shouldered wolf with silver fur.
"There's one coming," Chao Lie said without hesitation. "From the west ridge. He's near the hollow tree."
The wolf narrowed his eyes. "And how do you know?"
"I saw him," Chao Lie said simply. "And I left no sound. He didn't see me."
The wolf's doubt lingered, but something in the boy's gaze cut through it. Without another word, the elder stood, motioning two warriors to follow.
Chao Lie trailed at a distance, his breath tight in his chest. He wasn't supposed to. His mother would scold him. But how could he not?
They found the spy exactly where he'd said — crouched low, scanning the village. The warriors leapt, snarls tearing the night. The spy bolted, fast, and for a moment Chao Lie's heart sank.
But the wolf elder's jaws snapped close, dragging the spy down in a violent crash. A roar, a struggle — and then silence.
When it was over, the warriors dragged the limp body back toward the village edge. Chao Lie watched, frozen in awe and fear. His words had mattered. He had given them the edge.
The elder turned, golden eyes finding his. "You. Stay sharp."
It wasn't praise exactly, but it was close.
---
That night, when he crept back into the house, his mother was waiting. Her gaze was sharp, her arms folded.
"You went to the elder," she said quietly. Not a question.
Chao Lie shifted uneasily. "I didn't want to waste time."
Her expression softened, though only slightly. "And if you'd been caught again?"
"I wasn't."
For a long moment, they stared at one another. Then she sighed, brushing her hand gently over his hair. "You're still a cub, Chao Lie. But…" Her eyes softened with reluctant pride. "You're my cub."
Chao Lie lowered his gaze, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. He wasn't sure what it was he felt — pride, yes, but also something deeper. A quiet weight settling on his small shoulders.
He accepted it.
Because he was the one who could.
---
The third time, Chao Lie planned.
Not a grand plan—he was still small, still a child—but something simple a serpent would understand: paths, pauses, pressure. He woke before dawn-meal, while frost still bit the edges of the tribe's footprints, and padded to the little storage niche where lamp oil was kept. He didn't take a lamp. He dipped a clean twig, shook it once, and tucked it between his fingers like a brush.
He shifted to his snake form outside the door, the twig clenched in his teeth, and slid through the pale gray world where breath steamed and sound carried too far. Two loops around the palisade taught him the morning's rhythm: the sleepy guard who blinked a fraction longer facing east, the clack of a loose board near the southern post, the skinny path where children would later run.
And then—that wrongness again. It wasn't loud. It was deliberate. Where the forest should have moved in a lazy shiver, there was a stillness that felt like a held breath. He froze, tongue flicking. There: a crouch in brush too motionless for any animal that wasn't hunting.
Found you.
Chao Lie did not go toward the spy. He went past him, skirting the shadow's very edge until he reached the seam of rocks the scouts liked to use. He lifted the twig and tapped it once on stone. Drip. A pearly bead trembled and broke. He moved ten steps and tapped again. Drip. Three drops total, like a trail only a nose would read.
We are here, the oil sang, soft as a whisper.
He tucked the twig away and melted back toward the village, lacing his body through the thin places only he knew. At the southern watch, the silver-furred wolf elder sat alone, rubbing warmth into his hands. Chao Lie took his humanoid shape and did not waste words.
"West of the ridge," he said. "Past the bramble. He's waiting too still."
The elder's ears twitched. He studied Chao Lie the way one studies a new trap: for strength, for risk, for intent. "Go home," he said at last. "I'll take three."
Chao Lie nodded obediently—and then followed anyway, shadowing the shadows.
The elders moved wide, slow, careful, the way patient hunters do when prey is smart. They split like water around a stone. Chao Lie took the tight middle seam where his body could pass without a sound. He reached the first oil drop and felt his chest swell—the elder's nose lifted, caught the note, turned exactly where the child had wanted him to turn.
See me. Don't see me. Both truths at once, and Chao Lie held them like two stones in his palms.
The ambush sprang with a single leaf's shake. The spy bolted—not straight back, but sideways, clever; his feet knew more than panic. He dove through brush, juked around a root, and for a heartbeat Chao Lie worried the trap would break.
The elder adjusted mid-stride, a low growl riding the air. Two warriors fanned to block escape. It would have ended cleanly there, but the spy saw the smallest thing: the line of scales in the dust where a child's belly had scraped.
He pivoted toward that line like a knife toward a soft throat.
Chao Lie had already started to withdraw. Feeling the shift of intent is a serpent's first language, and fear lifted every hair along his human arms before his eyes caught the movement. He shifted instinctively—body shrinking, bones sliding—the ground welcoming the cool length of his true form. Claws slashed where his face had been.
He shot under a log and out again, but the spy was fast, faster than the first two. A boot came down hard. Pain rang through his side, bright and white. He lost breath—an awful, empty sound inside himself—and felt the world tilt.
No.
He coiled as best he could and struck. His teeth found leather and tasted nothing, but the motion broke the rhythm of the spy's next blow. That heartbeat of hesitation was enough. The elder slammed into the attacker, jaws closing on the shoulder. They went down in a tangle—snarls, snow, breath, dirt—warriors piling on.
Chao Lie dragged himself backward with tiny sways, the world in stutters. He reached the base of a sapling and forced himself up its shallow roots until the scuffle's sounds dulled and settled into the scrape of bindings and curses. He wanted to stay awake. He wanted to see the end.
He saw a hand—broad, calloused—fill his vision. The silver wolf lifted him gently as if he weighed less than the twig in his teeth earlier. "Small one," the elder murmured, voice rough. "Fool one. Brave one."
He barely heard it. His side burned. Cold crept into his limbs. He did not cry. He wished his mother were here. He was glad she was not.
They carried him quickly, careful of the jostle, past the palisade and into the warm, smoky breath of home. Voices rose and fell around him; somewhere, someone shouted for Shishi; somewhere else, a young voice broke—"Lie, Lie, okay, please be okay—"
Blue eyes filled his world. Chow Chow's lashes were spiked with frost tears. "You're stupid," she whispered, hands already glowing a soft yellow that smelled like new grass. "So stupid. Don't do that again. Do it again if you have to. But don't do it again."
Her palms hovered over his ribs. Warmth threaded bone, a sifting of pain into bearable ache, then into a heavy, dull throb. Each breath stopped feeling like a theft and settled into honest work. The glow dimmed. Her shoulders slumped. She swayed. He reached his small hand up and caught her sleeve.
"Sleep," he rasped. "You did good."
"Of course," she muttered, half-asleep already. "I'm your sister."
His mother arrived late to fear and early to relief, which is the only decent time a mother should be forced to arrive. She knelt beside him, stroked the hair back from his face, and held his hand. There were no heavy words. Only, after a long time: "I see you."
That was enough. He closed his eyes and breathed. When he opened them, the room had changed—quieter, darker, crowded with soft things: blankets, folded skins, a bowl of water. Chow Chow snored against his arm like a tiny fox pup. Chaoang sat at the door, eyes half-lidded but ears pricked like spears, as if daring the night to try its luck again.
Jin Ling stood with the elder by the hearth, their voices low. The golden tiger's gaze flicked to Chao Lie and, for once, did not pass over him as "child" but settled with the weight adults save for other adults.
The elder said simply, "He marked our path. We followed it. We caught one."
Jin Ling inclined his head. "Then he earned the right to be heard."
The elder's mouth curled. "He's already speaking. The rest of us are learning to listen."
They didn't wake him for praise. They didn't crowd him. It was better that way. Chao Lie watched the flame eat a curl of wood and felt something settle into place inside his ribs that wasn't pain. Pride, yes. Not the loud kind his brother liked to wear like a cloak—more the quiet warmth of a stone brought from cold into sun.
He dozed and woke and dozed again. In one of the waking spaces, he saw his mother alone by the coals, turning a slender twig between her fingers the way he had turned the oil-stick. Her eyes were wet and fierce at once. When she noticed him watching, she smiled, small and tired and entire.
"You frightened me," she said.
"I frightened him first," he answered, and it made her laugh, startled and real.
By night's end, the tribe's murmurs had shifted. Not all respect—some people don't know how to give that to the small—but a different texture of silence followed him when he was carried outside to breathe the clean air: warriors angling their bodies so he could see the wall; a child making room without being asked; the elder setting a guard rotation that gave the south watch an extra pair of eyes at dusk.
Chao Lie tasted the air. The forest's breath was its usual mix of iron-cold and resin, but threaded through it were newer flavors: foreign oil fading, stress-sweat sour where the spy had run, the grounded calm of warriors who had done necessary work and would do it again.
He felt it then—the next ripple. Not footsteps, not scent. More like the sense a snake has when a hawk's shadow touches the grass: distance now, but not for long.
He did not dread it. He did not welcome it. He only accepted that it would come and that he would be what he already was.
A small serpent with red eyes, who saw what others did not and left marks where none thought to look.
He rested his cheek against Chow Chow's hair and let his lids sink. Before sleep took him, a final, simple thought warmed his chest:
I can do this.