They rose before dawn, the forest still dark around them. Mist gathered along the old road like breath trapped beneath the trees. No one spoke. Even the girl walked without the slightest complaint, doll dangling by its threadbare arm.
By midday they reached higher ground, narrow terraces once carved for tea that now lay strangled by weeds. Ruined huts clung to the slopes, their paper windows torn out by time. Feiyan led them off the road, following the curve of a dry irrigation channel until they came to a cluster of half-collapsed buildings. A good place to rest, though the silence pressed too heavy on the chest.
Li Qiang checked the perimeter while Shuye scouted inside. Ziyan lingered with the girl at the threshold of what had once been a merchant's storehouse. The child studied a tattered prayer charm nailed above the door — a faded scrap that might once have begged the ancestors for wealth. Her small fingers touched it lightly, as if testing whether it would crumble.
Inside, they found old straw mats and broken crates. Shuye pulled aside a warped screen and revealed a bloodstain, dry and dark, beneath a bundle of old robes. Nearby lay a single jade bead, splintered on one edge.
Ziyan crouched, picking it up. Her palm tingled as the phoenix mark responded. "Duan Rulan passed through here."
Feiyan looked unconvinced. "Or Zhao's men did, chasing her. Either way, we can't linger."
They built a cautious camp in the courtyard, ringed by fallen lantern poles. Feiyan perched atop a low roof with her bow across her lap. Li Qiang cleaned his spear with rough, deliberate strokes. Shuye moved among them quietly, eyes ever on the tree line.
Ziyan sat with the girl. The child leaned against her side, silent but somehow heavy, as if carrying far more than her slight frame could hold. Her small hand found Ziyan's again, curling around her thumb.
"You know, don't you?" Ziyan whispered. "Why he wants you so badly. Why he wants me to watch."
The girl didn't answer. But her breathing deepened, and her head rested against Ziyan's shoulder with a trust that felt at once fragile and horribly wrong.
When dusk fell, Li Qiang and Feiyan argued in low voices by the wall. Ziyan caught enough to know the words that neither wanted to say aloud: that the girl was dangerous, that they couldn't be sure if Zhao's trap wasn't already inside their circle.
Feiyan finally approached. "I trust you, Ziyan. I've followed you through worse than this. But she's not a stray dog we found in an alley. She's something Zhao built to destroy you."
Ziyan didn't flinch. "I know what she is."
"Do you?" Feiyan's eyes were hard. "Or do you just hope she's still a child, because it hurts less to believe that?"
Ziyan looked down at the girl. Her hair was tangled from sleep, lashes trembling against her cheek. So small. So breakable. And yet — somewhere deep, Ziyan felt as if she was the fragile one, being cradled by something ancient.
"I don't know," Ziyan admitted. "But I won't abandon her."
Feiyan nodded once, bitter resignation pulling at her mouth. She turned away.
Night came fully. They kept no fire. Shuye made a quiet round beyond the ruined courtyard. When he returned, his expression was grim.
"There are burned torches along the southern path. Still warm. Someone passed by not long ago — dozens of men, maybe more."
"Driving us forward," Li Qiang said flatly. "He doesn't need to chase us if he can steer us."
Ziyan closed her eyes, feeling the phoenix mark pulse in slow warning. "Toward Qingshui Gorge. Toward something waiting."
Later, she sat awake while the others slept. The girl shifted against her, murmuring softly. Not words. Sounds like water over stone, like old paper tearing. Ziyan stroked her hair until she quieted.
Then a voice drifted up from the courtyard below. Not from the girl. Not from any of her friends. A low chant, repeated in a rhythm that crawled along the spine.
She stood carefully, laying the girl back on the mat. At the edge of the building, she peered down.
Between the broken lantern poles, shadows moved. Figures in dark robes, their faces hidden by cowls. They carried iron-tipped staffs etched with the same spiraling symbols that had marked Zhao's summoning circle. One knelt, smearing something on the ground — blood, thick and dark. Another scattered powders that sparked dull green in the moonlight.
Feiyan stirred behind her, whispering, "What do you see?"
"Ritualists," Ziyan whispered. "Drawing something here. A gate or a snare."
The girl's hand closed around her wrist, startling her. Ziyan turned. The child was awake, eyes bright in the dimness.
"You can't stop it," she said. Her voice was impossibly calm, small but echoing — as if another speaker lived inside her chest. "He's been weaving this long before you were born."
Ziyan knelt, gripping her shoulders. "Who is he to you? Why does he want this so badly?"
The girl's eyes softened, grief like a storm about to break. "Because you were promised. And he was promised. And I... I was promised too."
She touched Ziyan's cheek with a tiny, trembling hand. "When he finishes the circle, we'll all remember. And then there won't be any more room for mercy."
The ground seemed to tilt. Ziyan held her close, feeling the phoenix mark burn so hot she expected it to sear straight through her bones.
Li Qiang's voice cut through from the courtyard. "They've finished their signs. They're starting to circle the walls."
Feiyan hissed, drawing her blade. "It's now or never."
Shuye nodded. "We break through before they close it entirely."
Ziyan rose, pulling the girl close. Her heart thundered with something that was half dread, half a twisted anticipation that frightened her more.
Because somewhere inside, a part of her wanted to see what would happen if they let it all burn.