The morning came too quickly.
Hóng Yè had not slept. He had lain on his sleeping mat, staring at the ceiling of his father's hut, listening to the sounds of the village waking around him.
The birds. The cooking fires. The distant laughter of children.
He had thought about jade eyes.
He had thought about pale green scales.
Hóng Yè's jaw tightened.
He did not care.
He did not.
Young beastmen were sharpening their blades. Young females were weaving flowers into their hair, as if the hunt required floral accessories.
And everywhere, everywhere, there were whispers about Fēng Láng.
"Did you see him last night?"
"His fur is so shiny."
"Did you hear his voice? Like honey. Like warm honey."
"He looked at me. I think he looked at me."
"He looked at everyone."
"He looked at me longer."
Hóng Yè's eye twitched. He walked faster.
