The village stirred with unease long before dawn. Chickens refused to leave their coops. Dogs whimpered and hid under porches. And beneath the twisted pines south of Nan Shu, an old shrine began to bleed.
Black liquid oozed from the carved prayers etched into its walls—thick, like ink drawn from old veins. No one had touched the shrine in years. Some said it had been cursed after the last war. Others simply forgot it existed.
But now it had awakened.
Ziyan arrived with Feiyan and Shuye just after sunrise. The shrine loomed in silence, older than the empire itself, its stones cracked but its presence disturbingly whole. The black streaks gleamed in the early light.
Ziyan stood very still.
"This wasn't here yesterday," she said.
Feiyan approached warily, eyes narrowed. "It smells wrong. Like oil and blood."
Shuye's hand stayed near his blade. "Tracks in the brush. Small feet."
Behind them, the child followed silently.
She had not spoken since the day Ziyan found her. She didn't weep. She didn't ask questions. She simply watched—those wide, dark eyes absorbing everything, as if memorizing a world that had betrayed her too many times.
Now she stepped ahead of them.
Barefoot, she passed through the shrine's threshold without flinching. As if called.
"Wait—" Ziyan moved to stop her but felt something—an invisible weight—settle over the doorway. Her breath caught. "She's already inside."
They followed.
The air grew cold the moment they crossed the threshold—unnaturally so, like a place sealed away from the sun. The stone interior was small, barely more than a tomb. Crushed offerings littered the floor: cracked bowls, rotted incense, bones left by birds or worse.
Ziyan's footsteps slowed. Symbols lined the walls—twisted spirals and shapes that curled in on themselves. Older than any script she knew.
The child stood before the altar, silent.
Then she began to hum.
It was a sound without melody, more breath than song. But it tugged at Ziyan's memory—she had heard it before. Long ago. In a dream of firelight and silk. A woman's arms. A burning city. A lullaby meant to protect what couldn't be named.
The phoenix emblem on Ziyan's palm throbbed with heat.
She reached toward the altar.
And the shrine answered.
The walls flickered. The cold deepened. And the symbols began to move—shifting, turning, until they revealed a mural that hadn't been there a moment before.
A bird with two heads—one crying, the other screaming—soared over a village of faceless people. Below it, a name had been etched, then violently scratched out. Only a single character remained visible:
"Fire."
Ziyan touched the mural, and the shrine swallowed her.
She stood in a scorched valley, ash falling like snow.
Soldiers marched with banners bearing Zhao's crest. A temple burned in the distance. Screams echoed from beneath the soil. Somewhere, a child was hidden beneath floorboards. A monk chanted in a forgotten tongue.
And in the sky—a phoenix split in two.
The voice returned, ancient and cold:
"If her blood remembers, it will awaken them all."
Ziyan gasped, stumbling back into the present.
The child had not moved. But her eyes—dark and gleaming—were fixed on Ziyan's hand, where the phoenix sigil still glowed.
Ziyan knelt beside her, breath still ragged. "You saw it too, didn't you?"
No reply.
Only a slight nod. Almost imperceptible.
And then, for the first time, the girl moved toward her—leaned into her side, resting her head against Ziyan's arm. Quiet. Trusting.
Ziyan gently held her. "Who are you really?"
The child said nothing.
But Ziyan noticed it then—a faint mark beneath her sleeve. Faded, red, warped like a phoenix crest burned too long. Not identical… but connected.
Eastern Capital – Same Hour
In a sealed stone chamber lined with bone-colored banners, Grand Commandant Zhao stood before a basin of red ash. The masked monk beside him whispered in the language of shadows.
"She entered the shrine," the monk said. "She touched the flame."
Zhao's eyes narrowed. "And the child?"
"She bears the mark."
Zhao said nothing. Then he placed a wax seal into the basin and watched it melt, black smoke curling into the air.
"I want the girl erased," he said. "Not just killed. Erased."
"And the Phoenix?"
Zhao's voice was low. "Let her watch. Let her remember it all… then bury her with the truth."
That Night – Nan Shu
The child slept in the corner of the tea storehouse, her small form curled beneath an old blanket. The embers in the hearth glowed dimly.
Ziyan watched her in silence.
"She's not just a victim," she whispered.
Feiyan stirred beside her. "You think she's like you?"
"I think she's part of something much older. Something Zhao is desperate to destroy."
Shuye added, "Then she might be even more dangerous than you."
Ziyan didn't reply.
She simply looked down at her hand, the phoenix sigil still glowing faintly beneath her skin.
"If that shrine is a grave," she said, "then someone tried to bury us both."
And outside, beyond the quiet village, hooves galloped under moonlight—silent riders moving through the hills with knives strapped to their belts and silence etched into their orders.