The cold from the observation platform clung to Lin Tian's bones long after he left the thin, oppressive air of the central peak.
He walked down the carved stone steps, his footsteps echoing in the quiet mountain pass. His mind was a churning storm of ice and fire.
Three days.
The words beat in time with his heart. Three days until they try to take her. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his outer disciple robes, fingers curling into fists.
The fabric was coarse, a reminder of his place in the sect's hierarchy. A place Mu Chen had made perfectly clear was temporary, and expendable.
The path wound down into the more crowded lanes of the outer disciple quarters. The afternoon sun did little to warm the perpetual chill here, but the bustle of disciples returning from training, chatting in small groups, was a stark contrast to the silent judgment of the peaks above.
