"Your wound will take time to heal. It is not deep, but your internal condition is weak, so you must avoid anything too sweet."
I tie the cloth a little tighter around Lady Zhou's wrist, watching her face instead of the wound.
She always smiles when she is in pain, as if pretending it does not exist will make it disappear. It never does.
"As you say, little physician," she replies, amusement clear in her voice, and then she laughs softly like this is all a game.
I click my tongue and pull my hand back. "Do not call me that. If you must call me something, call my name—Gu Qinqli."
She studies me with that knowing look older women always have, like they can see through skin and bone.
"I know your name, child, but when you treat me, it feels safer to call you that. You are calmer than your father when you work."
I stiffen a little at that, though I keep my expression steady.
"I am not comparing myself to him. My father's skill is heaven-given, and everyone in Anhe knows he is the only one who truly cures people."
Lady Zhou hums, unconvinced, and reaches for the small pouch of coins beside her.
She presses it into my hand without waiting for my refusal, her fingers warm and firm against mine.
"You speak like him," she says. "But your hands… they do not tremble like a child's."
I do not answer that.
I tuck the coins into my bag and stand, adjusting the strap across my shoulder.
The room smells of herbs and smoke, familiar and safe, but the sky outside the window is already turning dark in a way that does not belong to evening.
"I will come again in a few days," I say, stepping toward the door.
"Walk carefully," she calls after me. "The forest is restless when the wind rises."
I almost laugh at that, but something in her tone stops me.
---
The air outside is sharp and cold, the kind that bites into the skin and lingers in the lungs.
The wind moves through the trees like something alive, bending branches and whispering through leaves that should not sound so loud.
I pull my outer robe tighter and start walking.
The proper road curves around the forest, wide and safe, but it takes too long.
The narrow path through the woods cuts the journey in half, and I have walked it enough times to know where the ground dips and where the roots rise like traps.
It is faster.
It is also stupid.
My mother's voice echoes in my head as I step beneath the trees. There are bandits in there. Men who do not think like men.
I ignore it and keep walking.
The light fades too quickly under the thick canopy, shadows stretching long and uneven across the ground.
The wind grows stronger, carrying the scent of rain and something else—something metallic and wrong.
I slow without realizing it.
Then I hear it.
A sharp, wet sound cuts through the air—a clean, unmistakable slash. My body freezes before my mind can catch up.
My foot hovers above the ground, refusing to move, and for a moment I cannot even breathe.
Another sound follows. A body hitting earth.
I move, not forward but sideways, slipping behind the thick trunk of a tree as I press myself against the rough bark and force my breathing to quiet.
My fingers dig into the wood, grounding me, steadying the sudden rush of fear climbing up my spine.
Carefully, slowly, I lean just enough to see.
At first, I notice the wind.
It pulls at long black hair, lifting it into the air like dark silk caught in a storm. Then I see the man beneath it, moving through the shadows as if they belong to him.
His blade flashes once.
Then again.
The men around him wear black, their movements rough and desperate, but he does not rush.
He does not hesitate. Every step he takes is precise, controlled, like he has already decided how this ends.
A man lunges toward him with a heavy weapon, shouting something I cannot hear.
The long-haired man turns.
It is not fast.
It is effortless.
The blade slides across the attacker's throat in a clean, quiet motion, and the man collapses before the sound can fully leave his mouth.
My throat tightens.
This is not a fight.
This is slaughter.
I shift slightly, trying to see more, and that is when he turns again, cutting down another man behind him without even looking. For a brief moment, his face tilts toward me.
Black cloth covers the lower half, but his eyes—
Cold.
Not empty.
Not wild.
Just… certain.
He finishes the last of them without urgency, like this is nothing more than a task to complete.
Then he crouches among the bodies, searching through their clothes with calm, practiced movements.
A bandit.
No.
Worse.
A man who kills like this does not need a reason like theft.
I pull back behind the tree, my pulse loud in my ears. Staying hidden is the only choice. If I move quietly enough, if I—
My foot presses down.
Leaves crack.
The sound is small.
In the silence, it is deafening.
Everything stops.
Then his head snaps toward me.
Too fast.
Too precise.
I press myself closer to the tree, but I already know it is useless. A man like that does not miss details like this.
Footsteps begin.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming closer.
If he sees me, I'm dead anyway.
My hands move before I can think.
I reach into my bag and pull out the mask, tying it over my face in one swift motion. The cloth settles against my skin, hiding everything but my eyes.
My other hand finds the dagger at my waist.
The grip is familiar.
Steady.
The footsteps stop just beyond the tree.
For a heartbeat, there is nothing.
Then—
The air shifts before I see it, and his blade is already at my throat, close enough that I feel the cold of it before I move.
My body reacts faster than my fear, twisting to the side as the blade slices past me close enough that I feel the wind of it against my skin. I do not wait for a second strike.
I step in.
Close.
Too close for his weapon to move freely.
My dagger cuts toward his side, aiming for the space between ribs, but he blocks it with ease, his wrist turning just enough to redirect the blade away from him.
He is stronger.
I feel it in the impact.
He pushes forward, forcing me back, his movements tight and controlled. There is no wasted motion, no hesitation, only quiet efficiency that presses against me like a weight.
I strike again, faster this time, aiming higher.
He steps into my space deliberately, forcing me onto uneven ground where my footing slips half a breath too slow.
He catches my wrist.
My breath catches.
His grip is firm, unyielding, and for a moment, we are too close. I can see his eyes clearly now, dark and sharp, studying me like I am something unexpected.
Then he moves.
His blade comes down.
I twist, barely avoiding it, but not fast enough.
The edge catches my arm.
Pain slices through me, sharp and immediate, forcing a hiss from my throat. Warm blood follows, sliding down my skin, but I do not stop.
I cannot.
I drive my dagger forward again, this time with everything I have.
It cuts.
Across his arm.
Not deep.
But enough.
He exhales softly, more surprise than pain, and that is all I need.
I pull back.
Then I run.
I do not look behind me. I do not listen for his footsteps. I run through the trees, branches catching at my clothes, the wind tearing at my hair as my heart pounds so hard it feels like it will break through my ribs.
I do not stop until my lungs burn.
Only then do I press myself behind another tree, forcing my body to still as I listen.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No movement.
Just the wind.
Slowly, carefully, I peek out.
There is no one.
He is gone.
I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding and pull the mask from my face, stuffing it back into my bag with shaking hands.
The dagger follows, though my grip lingers on it for a moment longer than necessary.
My arm throbs.
I glance down at the cut, the blood dark against my skin, and grit my teeth.
"Damn him," I mutter under my breath.
Then I straighten and start walking again.
Faster this time.
I do not take the forest path again.
The sky is already dim when I reach the edge of Anhe Village, the wind still chasing at my back like it refuses to let me go.
The familiar houses come into view one by one, their doors shut tight against the coming storm, but one figure stands outside, unmoving.
My mother.
She sees me before I can call out, and the moment her eyes land on me, she starts walking fast, her steps uneven with urgency.
By the time I reach the gate, she is already in front of me, her hands gripping my shoulders as if to make sure I am truly standing there.
"Did the appointment go well?" she asks, her voice steady but her eyes searching.
"It went well," I reply, adjusting my bag as if nothing is wrong. "Lady Zhou is as talkative as ever."
Her gaze drops.
It finds the blood.
Her fingers tighten. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I say easily, pulling my arm slightly away. "A sharp branch caught me on the way back, that is all."
"Let me see," she insists, already reaching for the cloth.
I step back before she can touch it, forcing a small smile that does not quite reach my eyes. "It is nothing, Mother. I have already treated worse."
She does not look convinced, but I do not give her time to argue. I move past her and into the house, the familiar scent of herbs and tea wrapping around me like something solid.
My father sits by the table, a cup of tea in his hand, as calm as always.
His posture is relaxed, one leg stretched slightly as if the old injury still lingers, but his eyes lift the moment I enter.
I place the pouch of coins in front of him. "Lady Zhou's condition is worsening. Her sweetness sickness is no longer mild."
He glances at the coins, then at me, his expression unchanged. "I know," he says simply. "But she has never had the will to refuse what she likes."
A quiet chuckle escapes me despite everything. "That much is clear."
He studies me for a brief moment longer, his gaze sharp in a way that sees more than I say, but he does not ask. He never forces answers out of me.
I turn and walk toward my room before he can.
The door slides shut behind me with a soft sound, cutting off the warmth of the main hall.
The silence here is different, heavier, pressing in as I finally loosen the cloth around my arm.
The wound is not deep, but it is clean.
Too clean.
I press my lips together as I clean it again, slower this time, my fingers steady even as the memory of that blade lingers too close.
Then—
A drum.
Loud.
Sharp.
It cuts through the village like a command.
I freeze for a moment, then wrap my arm quickly and push the door open.
The sound echoes again, drawing people out of their homes, voices rising in confusion as they gather at the center.
I step outside.
The magistrate's officers stand in formation, armor dark against the fading light, one of them holding the drum while another steps forward with a scroll in hand.
His expression is rigid, his voice carrying across the entire village without strain.
"By order of the magistrate," he announces, each word precise and unyielding, "war approaches our borders, and the army requires reinforcement."
The murmurs begin immediately, low and uneasy.
He does not pause.
"From this day forward, every household is required to send one able man to serve in the military. Those who refuse to comply will be judged as defiant to the state and punished accordingly."
The wind rises.
His next words fall like a blade.
"Punishment will be death."