The road twisted deeper into gorges cut by black rivers. Old terraces collapsed under moss and thorn. Every step felt slower than the last, as if the very land pulled at their feet, begging them to stay and rot with the rest of the forgotten dead.
By the second night, they found another abandoned hamlet—half a dozen wooden homes, their doors torn off, prayer charms dangling in shreds. No voices. No livestock. Even the rats seemed to have fled.
Feiyan tested the nearest doorway with her foot, then peered inside. "Empty. Or close enough."
Shuye prowled ahead, blade drawn. Li Qiang moved through the shadows, checking windows, testing old fences. The girl clung to Ziyan's hand, her doll bumping against her hip with each small step.
They settled in the largest house, what might have once belonged to a village elder. Tatters of silk still clung to the ceiling beams. In the center of the floor lay a fire pit, cold with ancient ash.
Li Qiang found old ledgers and baskets overturned in a corner. Shuye examined them carefully, pushing aside broken beams. At last he uncovered a small bundle wrapped in moth-eaten cloth. Inside were pages—some ruined by damp, but others still clinging to ink.
He handed them to Ziyan. "Someone tried to hide this."
Ziyan spread them across her lap. They were scraps of letters, fragmented accounts from villagers begging for relief—rice shipments delayed, taxes demanded by the local magistrate. Names she recognized: officials tied to Zhao, men who had gained titles after the last border war. Men who had profited.
But beneath the complaints and signatures lay another sheet. Different ink. Finer, careful strokes. A record not of tax—but of something else entirely.
A gift given by the southern village, under duress, by the command of the Golden Crane General, to honor the bargain that will secure peace and favor from beyond.
Feiyan's face tightened. "This isn't an offering to the empire. It's… something else."
Ziyan read it again. The words swam. Her mark flared.
The girl shifted beside her. Without looking up, she whispered, "It was the first feast. The village was only ever meant to burn."
Ziyan felt her breath catch. "You mean Nan Shu."
"No." The girl's eyes met hers. They were deep wells, impossibly old. "Long before Nan Shu. Long before me. This was how he proved himself. Each village. Each family. Each warm body that stopped breathing. Payment. So the doors would stay open."
Li Qiang's jaw clenched. "Doors?"
The girl tilted her head slightly, her doll brushing her cheek. "Between here and the place he calls when he prays. He promised them souls. And they promised him the throne would bow to him forever."
A cold nausea clawed through Ziyan's chest. Zhao hadn't just offered lives to win military favor. He had offered them to feed something. And somehow, that bargain had been poured into the vessel of a child—this child.
Feiyan ran a thumb along the edge of her blade. "So she's… what? A demon he trapped to use as his weapon?"
"No," the girl whispered. "He trapped me so I'd always be hungry. So he could keep feeding me. So he'd never have to pay with his own blood."
The house seemed to darken. The air thickened, pressing close around them. Ziyan pulled the girl to her, holding her small, tense frame.
"Then why didn't you kill us too?" Li Qiang demanded. "Why not devour everyone in Nan Shu?"
The girl's hands fisted around her doll. "Because I was tired. Because… for a moment, I forgot I was hungry. When she held me." Her eyes flicked to Ziyan.
Ziyan's throat tightened. Her mark burned—pain and something else. A strange, quiet ache that almost felt like grief.
Feiyan broke the silence. "Either way, he's still trying to guide us. Herd us. To what end?"
Shuye gathered the scraps. "Maybe to finish what he started. Maybe because the last time she awakened, it wasn't complete. And he needs it to be."
That night, they lit no fire. The girl curled in Ziyan's lap, breathing shallow. Her body was warm, far too warm for a child at rest.
Ziyan stroked her hair. "What are you really?" she whispered. "And why do I feel like we've met before, somewhere past the edge of any life I remember?"
The girl didn't open her eyes. But she murmured, "Because you were promised too."
Ziyan closed her eyes, heart racing. Images crawled up from the depths of memory — a hall of banners, a jade talisman, laughter that didn't echo off walls because it came from inside her skull. And that same soft, broken lullaby her mother used to hum, only older, darker, like it had already forgotten how to soothe.
She tightened her hold on the girl, resting her chin on the crown of that tangled hair. "Then let him keep his promises to himself. I'll make new ones."
A faint smile ghosted across the girl's lips. It was almost human.
Near dawn, Li Qiang returned from a quiet circuit of the village. His spear-tip dripped something dark.
"Scouts," he rasped. "Slain by someone else. Their throats were opened with small, careful cuts."
Feiyan cursed under her breath. "Zhao's cleaning up. He's not just chasing us — he's cutting down his own men so there are no witnesses to how deep this goes."
Shuye glanced at the girl. "Because if word spread that he traded entire villages to feed… whatever she is, it wouldn't just end him. It would end half the court with him."
Ziyan stood, lifting the girl to her feet. The child leaned into her side with an almost weary trust. "Then we keep moving. Rulan left threads. We'll find where they lead."
Li Qiang checked the road ahead. "If we can stay ahead of Zhao's hands long enough."
Feiyan's eyes didn't leave the girl. "And if she doesn't wake hungry again."
Ziyan didn't reply. She took the girl's hand, feeling the quiet heat that pulsed beneath that small palm — not a demon's claw, but something sorrowful, something that trembled in the dark.
As they stepped out into the mist-choked road, the girl's voice rose — barely above a breath.
"He feeds me souls because he fears being forgotten. But you… you promise something else. That even if I starve, I won't be alone."
Ziyan's throat tightened. "Then let's see if that promise can outlive his shadow."
The girl didn't smile. But her hand tightened in Ziyan's.
And somewhere far behind them, where old banners still rotted on splintered gates, the wind carried a whisper of the same chant Zhao once spoke in the Temple of the Golden Flame — soft, patient, biding its time.