Bai Yue was already moving, already scanning the treeline, already running the calculation she had run so many times in five years that it had carved grooves into her brain: how long ago, which direction, how fast.
"ZHEN!"
Birds fled. Leaves shook. Dà Jiāo Huǒ, still holding the ceremonial stone, looked up with ancient eyes that went very still very fast.
Nothing answered.
"ZHEN!"
Han Shān was already at the eastern path, crouching, reading the ground with the focus of a predator. Ruì Xuě had gone pale. He was nine years old and very smart and he understood, immediately, that this was different from this morning. This was not Zhen running toward something fun.
This was Zhen not answering.
"She went east," Han Shān said. "Recently. Minutes."
"Then let's go—"
"Wait." He held up one hand. His eyes moved, tracking something invisible. "Her trail goes east, but it's—" He paused. "It's not panicked. She was following something. An animal, maybe."
