They left the village at first light.
The elder had pressed small bundles of rice and dried herbs into their hands despite the village's meager stores. Ruo Han had bowed low in thanks, but the weight in the villagers' eyes followed him long after the roofs disappeared into the mist behind them.
The mountain road wound in silence.
Ling Han trudged ahead, humming tunelessly under his breath, but his shoulders were tense. Xiyue kept to Ruo Han's side, stride even, his hand never far from his sword hilt.
The storm had passed, yet the air carried a sharpness that prickled at the skin. It was not the cold.
It was the feeling of being watched.
Ruo Han slowed without meaning to, eyes flicking to the trees that lined the path. Branches swayed, snow slipping in soft cascades, but no animal broke the silence. Too still. Too empty.
"Xiyue…" he began.
"I know." Xiyue's reply was quiet, his gaze fixed on the treeline.
The shadow made itself known at last when the road bent around a ridge. A figure in a dark cloak lingered on the slope above, still as stone, a single strip of pale mask glinting beneath the hood.
Not the lieutenant. Someone else.
The figure did not move, did not strike. Only watched.
When Xiyue shifted, hand brushing his sword, the figure's head tilted—then faded back into the snow as though it had never been there.
Ling Han cursed under his breath. "They're herding us. Testing our steps."
Xiyue said nothing, but his hand tightened around his hilt. His other brushed Ruo Han's sleeve, just enough to steady the tremor he hadn't realized had started.
"They're not finished with us," Ruo Han whispered.
Xiyue's eyes were hard, but his voice was steady. "Then let them come. I'll carve apart every shadow until the one pulling their strings stands before me."
But even as he spoke, Ruo Han knew—this was no random pursuit.
The way that pale mask had lingered, unblinking, unhurried… it had not been watching them.
It had been watching him.