I woke in the wrong place.
That was the first certainty—cutting through the fog like a blade through silk. My body knew before my mind caught up. The ground beneath me was cold, uneven, smelling of damp soil and iron-rich earth. I should be asleep, I thought dimly, and the thought itself felt misplaced, like remembering a dream while drowning.
Then came the tingling.
Pins and needles bloomed in my hands and feet, crawling inward with deliberate cruelty. When I tried to lift my arm, nothing happened. Panic surged too fast, too sharp. My pulse thundered in my ears, nausea rolling through my gut as my head split with a grinding ache.
Restrained.
The word surfaced fully formed.
I forced my eyes open. The world swam—red and black smearing together. Firelight, maybe. Or moonlight warped by blood. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to retch, and focused on breathing. My hearing returned before my vision, dragging voices with it like flotsam.
"…two hours, gone in a flash," someone said.
My body felt heavy, leaden, as if gravity itself had doubled. I realized belatedly that I was face-down in the dirt, cheek pressed against the earth.
Victoria.
I tried to turn my head. Pain flared down my neck. My muscles trembled but obeyed just enough.
"Heiwa?" Her voice—weak, hoarse, unmistakably Victoria.
Relief flared, then—
"Blech!"
The sound of her vomiting cut through me like a knife.
"Disgusting," a raspy voice said nearby. Boots crunched closer. "She's conscious enough to talk. The others aren't."
Rough hands grabbed my shoulders and rolled me onto my side, then upright. Dirt smeared my face; the air burned cold in my lungs. Shapes sharpened. Figures resolved.
Military uniforms.
Not ours.
Drakens, my mind supplied grimly. Deserters by the look of them—mismatched insignia, worn kit, weapons carried with the lazy confidence of people who had already decided the rules didn't apply to them.
"Miss," a woman said. Her voice was controlled, practiced. A leader's voice. "I have a question for you."
I was forced into a sitting position. My wrists were bound with something that hummed faintly against my skin—cold, suppressive.
"Who are you," she continued, "and what are you doing out here?"
I didn't answer. Not because I was brave—but because I genuinely didn't know how to answer in a way that kept us alive.
My eyes found them.
Victoria was on her knees, retching weakly, her dress soiled, tears streaking down her face. Miss Li Hua lay a short distance away, still unconscious, silver hair splayed against the ground like spilled moonlight.
This is bad, I thought distantly.
I tried to circulate qi.
Pain answered.
One of the soldiers leaned in to whisper something to the leader. Her eyes narrowed as she studied me more closely.
"What is someone like you doing so far from home?" she pressed.
Her men were restless now. Fingers tightened around triggers. Spears shifted.
"She's a cultivator!" someone suddenly shouted.
Instinct took over.
Cold surged through my veins as I forced power outward. Ice bloomed along my restraints, cracking them apart with a sharp, brittle sound. I surged forward, seized a fallen weapon, and drove it into the nearest body without thinking.
The shock on his face lasted half a second.
They were never going to let us go, I realized even as he fell. They're not stupid.
"Stop!" Victoria screamed.
The sound froze me.
I turned.
She was staring at me—face pale beneath tears and vomit, eyes wide with terror. Not fear of them.
Fear of me.
Miss Li Hua was on her feet now. Somehow free. Calm as ever.
"Lower your weapons," I barked, turning back on the soldiers.
Too late.
One of them raised his rifle, barrel swinging toward Victoria.
Time folded.
A spear of condensed force—thin, precise, deliberate—manifested in a straight line and punched through his chest.
He collapsed without a sound, the weapon dispersing the instant its work was done.
Silence slammed down.
The man I'd stabbed first dropped his weapon and raised his hands. The others followed suit, trembling.
"What do we do?" I asked, breath ragged, heart clawing at my ribs.
Miss Li Hua crouched beside the other fallen man—the one who had simply dropped, examining him with quiet attention.
No blood. No wound. No lingering force I could trace.
Just… absence.
A chill crept up my spine, though I couldn't say why.
Why examine what you did? I wondered, unsettled.
Then she looked up—at Victoria first, then at the soldiers.
I moved to Victoria's side, rubbing her back as her sobbing softened into uneven gasps. I whispered nothing. Words felt too small.
The moon still burned red above us.
Someone—one of the soldiers—had lit lanterns. The clearing was brighter now, harsh light carving the trees into sharp silhouettes. Slowly, cautiously, the forest resumed its sounds. Crickets. Leaves. The indifferent life of night.
Whatever line we'd crossed—
There was no going back.