The night air in Nan Shu was heavy with the stink of old blood and charred thatch. Bodies littered the alleys where the assassins had fallen, their faces frozen in twisted terror. Some still clutched at their own throats, as if trying to claw something out from inside.
Ziyan moved carefully through them, the little girl's hand in hers. The child walked without flinching, doll hanging limp at her side. Her dark eyes were half-lidded, distant, as though even now she stood somewhere else entirely.
Feiyan wiped her blade on a torn banner, eyes flicking uneasily toward the girl. "I've seen poison work slow, I've seen spirits drive men mad. But nothing like that."
Li Qiang said nothing. He adjusted his grip on his spear, shoulders tense. He hadn't spoken to the girl since she'd brought the assassins to their knees. Not out of cruelty—out of raw, rattled fear.
They made camp just beyond the shrine, in the hollow of an old courtyard where statues of ancestors stared at them with broken faces. Shuye set a small fire. No one spoke for a long time.
At last, Li Qiang broke the silence. "How do we know she won't turn on us next time? Or worse—bring something else crawling after her?"
Ziyan didn't look at him. She knelt by the girl, brushing ash from her hair. "Because she's still just a child. She didn't ask for this."
Feiyan didn't argue, but her fingers stayed close to her dagger.
Later, after the others drifted into uneasy sleep, Ziyan sat alone by the dying embers. The phoenix mark on her palm burned—a slow, crawling itch that seemed to coil around her bones.
She closed her eyes.
And saw the chamber again. Red robes. A basin swirling black. Zhao standing there, his eyes dark with triumph. The jade talisman breaking the world in two. The demon's laughter like knives on wet stone.
A whisper threaded through the vision, low and intimate. Not quite male, not quite female. Not quite human.
"We are closer than your breath. Closer than your blood."
Ziyan snapped awake, sweat slicking her back. The mark still throbbed.
Across from her, the girl was awake too, watching with that solemn, ancient calm.
"Who are you really?" Ziyan whispered.
The girl blinked slowly. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Then her small hand reached out, resting lightly over Ziyan's marked palm. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow—shrinking until it was just them, two souls tangled in something neither fully understood.
A shiver ran through Ziyan. The girl pulled back, hugging her doll tight again.
Footsteps sounded beyond the courtyard. Shuye appeared in the archway, breathless. "We have to go. Now. The edge of town—someone's slaughtered half the villagers. Whoever did it left signs... marks like the ones on Zhao's summoning circle."
Ziyan stood. "He's forcing it. Trying to draw out whatever's inside her. Or inside me."
Feiyan touched her shoulder. "Either way, we can't stay."
They packed quickly, slipping through side streets and back paths. As they passed a row of collapsed homes, Li Qiang froze. On the wall, written in something dark that flaked as it dried, were curling symbols. They glowed faintly even without moonlight.
Ziyan felt sick. Her mark seemed to pulse in time with those runes.
"This is no language of men," Shuye whispered. "It's bait. He wants her to see it."
Ziyan grabbed the girl's hand tighter. The child didn't resist, but her eyes were locked on the wall, wide and hollow.
They moved faster after that. By dawn they were past the last of Nan Shu's withered gates, stepping onto the old road that wound south into forest and shadowed hills. No one spoke. The wind rattled through dry reeds, carrying the faintest scent of rot.
Near midday, they stopped to rest. Feiyan drew her blade and practiced quiet forms just beyond the road, sweat shining along her arms. Li Qiang cleaned blood from his spear with careful hands. Shuye sat close by, eyes never leaving the trees.
Ziyan settled against a stone, the girl curled beside her. Every so often, the child's fingers twitched—like she was dreaming of pulling threads no one else could see.
"Zhao planned this," Ziyan murmured, voice low. "He knew she'd awaken. That she'd kill for us. He's not just trying to stop us… he's trying to show me something."
Shuye looked over. "Show you what?"
Ziyan stared at her hand. At the faint glow under her skin. "What I am. Or what I could become."
A flicker of grief crossed Shuye's face. "You're not him. You never will be."
But the wind carried laughter then—thin, drifting, gone before it could fully form. Ziyan shivered.
That night they lit no fire. The forest pressed close, dense with thorn and shadow. Feiyan kept watch while the others rested in uneasy shifts.
Ziyan couldn't sleep. She listened to the girl's soft breathing. Wondered how something so small could hold a piece of what had mocked Zhao's power. Or if that was all wrong—if maybe the girl was only ever a vessel, and the true monster was waiting inside both of them.
She felt the weight of the little head on her shoulder. The girl had fallen asleep leaning against her, still clutching that ruined doll.
From somewhere in the darkness, a voice unfurled. This time it was clearer—almost gentle.
"Do you understand yet? It's not just your blood that burns. It's all of you. Your soul was marked long before you were born."
Ziyan closed her eyes. For the first time, she didn't flinch. "Then I'll burn on my own terms."
No answer came. Only the rustle of wind through dry leaves, like old papers whispering secrets long since faded from history.