The land grew quieter the farther she walked.
The battlefield faded behind her, not all at once, but in pieces. The sharp smell of blood and metal grew weaker with every step. The air felt cooler against her skin, and the wind slipped under her cloak, stealing what little warmth she had left. Walking became harder the farther she went, as if the ground itself was tired of carrying her.
Her grip on the sword slowly relaxed. The heat along the hilt faded, though it never fully disappeared. It stayed in her hand like a deep ache, reminding her she was still holding it, still connected to everything that had happened. The voices behind her grew quieter. They no longer formed words, but their weight lingered, enough that true silence never came.
She did not follow the road.
The banners of Bing Ya appeared in the distance, dark against the pale sky. She did not head straight toward them. Instead, she moved away, stepping carefully over broken stones and rough ground. A few thin trees grew nearby, their roots twisting out of the dirt, their branches bare and fragile against the sky.
It was not a place to hide, but it gave her room to breathe. Nothing could sneak up on her without being seen, and the fortress was still close enough that she could reach it before night fell.
Meilin sank down against a low outcrop of stone, pressing her back to it. The moment she sat, her limbs felt heavy and empty. Her shoulders slumped and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. The sword rested across her knees, steady only because she forced herself to hold it there.
Her head throbbed with an ache. Every beat brought feelings that did not belong to her. Fear with no clear reason. Sadness she could not name. A sudden flash of a child's panic, sharp and gone almost as soon as it appeared. She dug her fingers into her robes, grounding herself, paying attention to the solid stone at her back and the cold seeping up through her boots.
Xu Yuncheng had taught her this.
When the mind fractures, anchor the body. When the soul wavers, trust the breath.
She closed her eyes, counting slowly, though the numbers slipped out of order. The land around her felt too open, too exposed, yet she forced herself to remain still. Standing up would draw unwanted eyes. Moving too quickly would show how tired she was.
Somewhere nearby, a bird startled and took flight.
Meilin's eyes opened.
The sound was small. Ordinary. Yet it unsettled her more than the clash of steel ever had. Her fingers tightened slightly on the sword. Not enough to draw it. Only enough to remind herself it was there.
The wind changed direction. The grass bent under it, then slowly settled again.
She did not turn her head.
Her breathing grew slower and deeper, like the tiredness had finally settled into her bones. She let her shoulders sink and her body relax, looking like nothing more than a soldier who had lived because there was no one left to finish the fight.
She waited.
From the shadows between the trees, a presence observed her.
Wei Yunfeng stood where the light faded, his shape half-hidden by stone and branches. He had followed her since she left the battlefield, keeping his distance, careful with every step. He had expected recklessness, or relief, or collapse. Instead, he found stillness that did not belong to the aftermath of slaughter.
She had not chosen the road. That alone was strange.
Her stance as she sat was stranger still. The way her sword rested. The angle of her spine against the rock. Even in her exhaustion, there was control in the way she held herself. She did not waste movement. Every small shift felt practiced, shaped by years of training and quiet correction.
This was not how Bing Ya soldiers were taught to rest.
He shifted his weight, letting a small stone slip under his boot. Her fingers moved closer to the sword, not touching the hilt, not ready to strike, just adjusting. Wei Yunfeng felt the tension settle in his chest. She had heard him.
He stepped forward then, no longer hiding his presence. The light touched his face as he came into view. He looked plain and unassuming, his armor worn and dull, his expression calm. He did not reach for his weapon. He did not bow.
"You should not remain alone so close to the battlefield," he said, his voice even, as though offering nothing more than practical advice.
Meilin lifted her gaze slowly. Her eyes were dark and heavy with exhaustion, but still sharp. She looked at him slowly, taking in his posture, how his hands rested, the calm way he filled the space between them.
"I am not alone," she replied. Her voice was quiet.
A lie, perhaps. Or a warning.
Wei Yunfeng's eyes swept over the surrounding trees and rocks, checking for anything out of place. Then he looked back at her, resting on the sword across her knees. "Survivors draw attention," he said. "Especially those who walk away when no one else does."
She said nothing.
The wind passed between them, tugging at the torn edge of her cloak. The crest on her shoulder caught the light for a breath, then dulled again.
Wei Yunfeng tilted his head slightly, a gesture barely polite. "Rest while you can," he said. "The fortress does not care how tired you are."
He turned before she could respond.
Meilin watched him walk away, her eyes tracking the steady rhythm of his steps, the way his weight shifted from heel to toe. He did not glance back. He did not rush. Still, deep in her chest, she knew that this was not their last crossing.
Trouble, she thought.
When he was gone, she exhaled slowly and closed her eyes once more. The land remained quiet. The whispers did not return. But the weight on her chest stayed.
She stayed there until her strength returned enough to stand, then rose, steadying herself against the stone.
When she walked toward Bing Ya fortress at last, her steps were careful, her sword held low, and her name remained unspoken on the wind. Somewhere ahead, danger waited. And she would meet it.