Rain thinned to a gauzy drizzle as Mo Lianyin and Soren reached the valley floor. Towering black-leaf ash trees rose on either side, their trunks hollowed by some ancient rot that smelled faintly of burnt cinnamon. Every few steps, a golden-veined lotus thrust through the leaf-litter, petals cupping silvery droplets as if collecting tears from the sky.
"Lachrymal Lotuses everywhere," Soren murmured. "Legends say they bloom where grief sinks deepest."
"Then this valley must drown in it," Lianyin replied, brushing past a blossom that closed shyly around her sleeve.
Careful, little lotus, Lord Kareth warned inside her skull. Their nectar is soothing, but the seed-pods explode if jostled. A convenient defense—and a potent weapon, if harvested.
She filed the detail away. Since sunrise, she had begun cataloging every whisper of knowledge the Demon King offered, separating what might keep them alive from what might cost her soul.
A half-crumbled path soon led to a cluster of thatch-roof cottages. Most lay in charred ruin, but one hut still stood, its wooden door sagging on leather hinges. An herb-drying rack, miraculously unburned, clung to a beam; tiny parchment labels fluttered in the wind.
"Monks did live here," Soren said, hope brightening his exhausted features. "If any stores remain, we might find salve for infections… or tools to remove my shackle."
Lianyin kept an eye on the sky. White-gold glints darted far above—Dawnlight scout kites searching the ravine. "Quickly, then."
They slipped inside. Dust motes swirled where sunlight lanced through a cracked roof tile, illuminating shelves lined with clay jars. Lianyin cracked one open: dried crimson root that smelled of crushed pepper.
"Ash-spice," Kareth identified. Coagulant when simmered; hallucination if chewed raw.
Soren found a bundle of iron picks near a cold forge. He lifted the largest, testing its weight. "If we heat this, I might pry the hinge pin on my manacle."
"Fire will draw eyes." She rummaged through drawers until her fingers closed around a small flint-striker and a corked vial of thick resin. "Pitch oil. Smokeless, nearly scentless."
"A miracle," he said with the ghost of a smile.
They cleared space on the earthen floor. Lianyin arranged stones into a tiny hearth, then struck sparks until pale blue flames licked the iron pick. As metal heated, Soren braced his shackled wrist on a chopping block.
"You sure?" she asked.
"Less sure every second, but do it anyway."
When the pick glowed cherry-red, Lianyin wedged its tip beneath the hinge pin. Heat seared her gloves; shadows reflexively curled to insulate her palm. She bit back a gasp, leveraged all her weight, and Clink.
The pin shot free, ringing against the wall. The manacle split open, falling from Soren's wrist like dead snakeskin. Immediately, pale silver light surged beneath his skin, then dimmed—his meridians starved after days of suppression.
He exhaled shakily. "Thank the stars."
"Can you circulate qi?"
"Barely." He flexed his fingers; spectral frost shimmered at his tips before sputtering out. "It'll return slowly."
Suddenly, Kareth's voice cut through. Company. Five hearts approach—three human, two… other.
Lianyin jerked upright, snuffing the pitch flame with a wave of shadow. "Hide."
They ducked behind an overturned table just as footsteps crunched outside. Through a gap in the wall, Lianyin glimpsed two Dawnlight disciples escorting a burly mercenary in patched armor. The fourth figure—a woman swathed in emerald robes—dragged a stout cage. Inside, something small and black paced, eyes glowing violet.
The mercenary spat betel juice. "Told you this runt smelled demon. Pay up and it's yours."
"We don't barter with scum," the senior disciple sneered, yet tossed a pouch that clinked. "Grandmaster Solas wants every trace of demon-taint eliminated."
The woman in emerald unlocked the cage. A panther cub—perhaps six months old—slunk out, fur like liquid midnight. Silver runes shackled each slender ankle; a suppression collar ringed its neck.
"Poor thing," Lianyin whispered.
That is no ordinary cub, Kareth said. I know those eyes: Thorne of the Umbral Pride—shadow beasts that once guarded my palace.
The disciples formed a circle, talismans held high. "By the Light of Dawn, we purge—"
Lianyin moved.
Shadows erupted, smashing the door from its hinges and blasting the mercenary flat. The disciples whirled, holy glyphs flaring—too slow. Ink-black tendrils snapped their wrists, flinging talismans aside. Soren burst through the doorway a heartbeat later, broken sword flashing to parry the emerald woman's dagger.
Lianyin's focus tunneled on the cub. One swipe severed its collar; another sliced the anklets. The panther hissed as power flooded back, purple eyes blazing.
Outside, the mercenary regained his feet and charged, axe raised high. Soren staggered under the downward stroke—until frost blossomed across the blade, fracturing the metal. He countered with a pommel strike to the man's temple; the mercenary crumpled.
Meanwhile, the senior disciple recited a sanctification mantra. Lianyin felt her own shadows recoil from the sacred resonance.
Silence him, Kareth urged.
She didn't hesitate. A spear of darkness shot through his casting hand. He screamed; the mantra shattered mid-syllable. As he fell, she glimpsed raw terror in his eyes—not at death, but at the realization his "holy" mission had met a monster willing to stare back.
The junior disciple tried to flee. The panther leapt, landing atop his back with a snarl. One warning swipe, and he froze. Violet eyes flicked to Lianyin, seeking instruction.
"Let him live," she said, voice cold. "Tell your grandmaster what you saw: the demon you hunt defends her own."
The disciple scrambled away, tripping over roots as he vanished into the trees.
Silence returned, broken only by the rain's distant patter on leaves. Soren leaned on his broken blade, chest heaving. "You spared one. Mercy?"
"Message," she corrected, then knelt beside the cub. "Thorne, right?"
The panther sniffed her blood-spattered sleeve, then head-butted her knee with surprising gentleness. Kareth's mental chuckle echoed. He remembers my scent, and you carry it now. A valuable ally.
"We can't drag a beast everywhere," Soren cautioned.
"Watch me," Lianyin countered, scratching behind the cub's ear. Thorne purred—a deep, soothing rumble that settled her nerves like lullaby drums.
Soren surveyed the unconscious captors. "Supplies?"
Minutes later they'd stripped the mercenary of a serviceable cloak, rations, and a map of local watch-posts. From the senior disciple they claimed silver needles etched with cleansing scripture dangerous if misused, but priceless for counter-runes. The emerald-robed woman's satchel yielded vials of binding dust and a tiny opal mirror inscribed for remote scrying.
Soren pocketed the map. "There's an abandoned sky-pier ferry port four leagues east. If we reach it before dusk, we might steal a glide-raft and jump the valley."
"Let's move," Lianyin agreed, slinging the cloak around her shoulders. Thorne padded beside her like a shadow given paws.
As they left the ruined cottage, she glanced back at the bodies. "I didn't want to kill again so soon."
"You fought to save a life," Soren said quietly. "That matters."
But Lianyin couldn't shake the storm brewing in her chest. Each use of shadow-qi felt easier, more natural—yet she feared the day it would feel right.
High Above, on Jade-Briar Ridge
Asha Kellen knelt by a fresh set of tracks: panther paw prints flanked by two sets of human boots. Blood speckled leaves nearby, alongside a discarded Dawnlight talisman torn cleanly in half.
Her jaw tightened. Yinyin… Each sign told a story: a rescue, a choice to spare one witness, a sharp-edged mercy that felt painfully familiar.
Elder Liang caught up, winded. "Report, Disciple Kellen?"
"They head east." She rose, cloak snapping in mountain wind. "Ready the swift-wings. We intercept before they reach the ferry port."
"Understood."
Asha watched storm clouds knitting along the horizon, their bellies pulsing crimson where sunrise bled through. I will save you from this darkness, she vowed, though she no longer knew if the promise was for Nyla—or herself.
Golden aura flaring, she raced after the ink-shadow trail.