The sun hung directly overhead, blazing down with merciless intensity. It was the kind of afternoon when even the birds fell silent, retreating to whatever shade they could find. The dirt paths that wound through the village had turned into ribbons of baked earth, and the air itself seemed to shimmer with the heat rising from the ground.
Nalan Ziyan stepped out from the doorway of her small house, squinting against the harsh light. She was twelve years old, though the weight of responsibility she carried made her seem older. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple braid, and her clothes, though clean, had been mended so many times that patches covered patches in some places.
In her arms, she carried a large basket filled with dirty clothes. The fabric inside was stained with sweat, dirt, and the particular mustiness that came from her father's sickbed. He had been ill for nearly three months now, a coughing sickness that had stolen his strength and his ability to work. The village healer had done what she could, but medicine cost money they didn't have.
"I'll be back before evening, Father," Ziyan had called out before leaving, though she wasn't sure if he had heard her. He slept most of the time now.
The basket was heavy. Her thin arms strained against the weight as she walked, but she didn't complain. There was no one to complain to, and complaints didn't make work any lighter. She had learned that lesson early.
She walked past the main village square, where a few vendors sat listlessly under cloth awnings, fanning themselves and waiting for customers who wouldn't come until the heat broke. Old Chen, who sold vegetables from his cart, raised a hand in greeting.
"Going to the river, little one?"
"Yes, Uncle Chen."
"Be careful. The heat makes people strange."
She nodded and kept walking, not entirely sure what he meant by that. The path to the river led through a small grove of trees, and for a few blessed moments, she walked in shade. Then the trees opened up, and she could see the water ahead, glinting like polished metal under the sun.
But she didn't go to the usual washing spot, where the village women gathered to scrub clothes and exchange gossip. Instead, she turned and followed a narrower path along the riverbank, pushing through tall grass until she reached a secluded bend. Here, large trees grew close to the water's edge, their branches spreading wide to create a natural canopy of shade. The ground was softer here, covered with fallen leaves, and the sound of the river was gentler, almost peaceful.
This was her spot. She had discovered it two summers ago, when she had first started doing the washing by herself. She came here not because she disliked the other women, but because she didn't want to answer their questions about her father, didn't want to see the pity in their eyes.
Ziyan set the basket down with a grateful sigh. A cool breeze came off the water and touched her face, drying the sweat that had gathered at her temples. She stood for a moment, letting herself enjoy the relief.
The river here was clear and calm. She could see the sandy bottom in the shallower areas, and small fish darted between the rocks. The only sound was the soft lapping of water against the stones at the water's edge.
She got to work. One by one, she took the clothes from the basket, dipped them in the water to soak, then rubbed them with the small cake of soap she had brought. The soap was nearly gone—she would need to ask the merchant for more on credit, adding to the debt they already owed. But that was a worry for another day.
The rhythm of the work was familiar and almost soothing. Dip, soap, scrub against the flat rock, rinse, wring, set aside. Dip, soap, scrub, rinse, wring. Her hands moved automatically while her mind wandered.
She was thinking about what they would eat tonight—there was still some rice left, and she could make a thin soup with the vegetables Mrs. Liu had given them out of kindness—when something caught her eye.
Upstream, something large was floating in the water, moving slowly with the current toward her. At first, she thought it was a log. The river sometimes carried debris after heavy rains, and there had been storms in the mountains a few days ago.
But as the object drifted closer, her hands stopped moving. The soap slipped from her fingers and floated away, but she didn't notice. Her eyes were fixed on the thing in the water.
It wasn't a log.
It was a body. A human body, face-down in the water, arms spread out, drifting with terrible slowness toward the rocky outcropping on the opposite bank.
Ziyan's breath caught in her throat. She watched, frozen, as the body floated closer and closer until it finally caught against the rocks, lodging there like a piece of driftwood.
For a long moment, she couldn't move. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. Every instinct told her to run, to get away from this place, to find an adult who would know what to do.
But she didn't run.
Instead, she stood there, watching the body, and thinking.
The river was the village's water source. Everyone drank from it, cooked with it, bathed in it. If this body stayed here, if it rotted in the water, it would poison everything downstream. People would get sick. People might die.
And there was something else, too. Something her mother had taught her before she died, when Ziyan was very small. The dead deserved respect. They deserved proper burial, proper rites. A body left to rot in the water was not just a health hazard—it was a dishonor to whoever this person had been.
She looked around. The riverbank was empty. No one came to this spot except her.
Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage. She lifted the hem of her dress and waded into the water.
The cold hit her immediately, a shock after the heat of the day. The river was not deep here—the water only came up to her waist at the deepest point—but the current was stronger than it looked. She had to move carefully, feeling with her feet for stable footing among the slippery rocks.
Halfway across, she paused. The smell had reached her now.
It was the smell of death, of flesh that had begun to decay. It was thick and sweet and utterly nauseating. Her stomach heaved, and she had to press her hand over her mouth and nose to keep from vomiting.
But she kept going.
When she reached the body, she forced herself to look at it properly. It was a man, she thought, though it was hard to tell. His face was swollen and discolored, barely recognizable as human. His clothes—what remained of them—were torn and stained dark with blood.
Blood was still seeping from his wounds, spreading in thin red ribbons through the clear water. He hadn't been dead for very long, then. Maybe a day, maybe less.
And the wounds themselves... Ziyan had seen animals killed by wolves before, had seen the ragged tears their teeth made. These wounds were different. These were clean, straight cuts. The kind made by blades.
Someone had killed this man. Murdered him.
Her hands were shaking as she reached for the body. She grabbed hold of his clothing and pulled, trying to drag him toward the shore. He was heavy—much heavier than she had expected—and it took all her strength to move him even a few inches.
As she struggled, something caught her eye. There was something tucked inside his shirt, something that stuck out slightly from the torn fabric.
Curiosity overcame her fear. She reached for it and pulled it free.
It was a scroll, but not like any scroll she had ever seen. It wasn't made of paper, but of some kind of animal hide, thick and strangely textured. The hide was pale, almost white, and covered with writing in characters she didn't recognize.
When she touched it, a chill ran through her fingers, spreading up her arm. It was cold—unnaturally cold, as if it had been stored in ice.
The elders always said that you shouldn't take things from the dead. Bad luck, they called it. Disrespectful. Dangerous.
But something about this scroll felt important. She couldn't explain it, but she knew she had to keep it.
She tucked it into her clothes, pressing it flat against her stomach where it wouldn't show.
Then she saw the necklace.
It was around the dead man's neck, half-hidden by the collar of his ruined shirt. A chain of some kind of metal—silver, perhaps, or something rarer—with a stone set in the center.
The stone was red. Deep, rich red, like fresh blood or the heart of a fire. It caught the sunlight and seemed to glow from within, beautiful and mesmerizing.
Ziyan had never owned jewelry. Her family had never been able to afford anything beyond the bare necessities of survival. She had never worn gold or silver, never held a gemstone in her hand.
This was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
She looked around again. Still alone. Still unseen.
Before she could stop herself, her fingers were working at the clasp, removing the chain from the dead man's neck. Blood stained the metal, but she dipped it in the river and washed it clean.
She put it around her own neck. The red stone lay against her chest, cool and smooth.
For just a moment, she felt something close to happiness. A small, secret joy.
Then reality crashed back in. If she went home wearing this, questions would be asked. Where did you get that? How can we have a necklace like this when we can't afford medicine for your father? Did you steal it?
Quickly, she took the necklace off and hid it with the scroll, pressed against her body under her clothes.
Then she turned back to the work that remained.
It took her nearly an hour to drag the body to the sandy bank on the far side of the river. Her arms ached and her legs trembled with exhaustion by the time she was done. Using her hands and a flat stone, she dug a shallow pit in the sand and rolled the body into it. She covered it as best she could with sand, then with fallen leaves and branches.
It wasn't a proper burial. It wasn't even close. But it was better than leaving him in the water to poison the village's supply.
She waded back across the river and returned to her washing. Her hands were still shaking as she finished scrubbing the last of the clothes. Her heart was still racing.
Had anyone seen her? Would someone find the grave? Would they somehow know what she had taken?
She finished as quickly as she could, wringing out the wet clothes and piling them in the basket. Then she picked up the basket and started walking home.
Her steps were faster than usual. She kept glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting to see someone following her, someone pointing an accusing finger.
But the path behind her was empty.
The two objects hidden under her clothes—the strange scroll and the necklace with its blood-red stone—pressed against her skin with every step. She didn't know what they were. She didn't know why she had taken them, not really.
She didn't know that they were about to change everything.
At her door, she paused. She adjusted her clothes one final time, making sure her secrets were safely hidden. She arranged her face into its normal expression—tired, perhaps, but nothing unusual. Then she stepped inside.