The sun bled its final colors across the western sky, strokes of violent orange and deep, bruised purple that bled into the encroaching dark. It was a beautiful, violent end to a day that had irrevocably shattered the fragile peace of the hidden valley. Hua Qian stood at the edge of the cliff, the wind whipping her hair and the simple robes Elder Mei had given her. In her satchel were not just medical supplies, but a few precious herbs from the village gardens, a small, carved wooden bird, a parting gift from a child she had treated, and the weight of a choice she had been forced to make.
She was not being taken. She was going. The distinction was a thin, razor-edged line, but it was the only thing that allowed her to stand there without shattering. She was going not as a prisoner, but as a physician to a dying world, a partner to a broken soul, and a warrior who had only just learned the weight of her own sword.
