The night wind blew, carrying the smell of burnt flesh.
Wei realized suddenly—it came from all around.
The broken beams. The collapsed sheds. Even the layer of ash under their feet.
Everything looked like it had been stirred by some beast.
He dared not breathe deeply. His lungs ached from holding air.
All he could hear was one sound:
His heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Loud enough to feel like it would split his skull.
Wei pulled Chun down into the grass.
They did not move.
The warhorse's head bent low.
Bones ground against bones.
Wet flesh tore and was chewed slowly.
Every sound warned them they breathed too loud.
Wei forced his eyes away.
Still, he saw the corpse's profile.
High cheekbones. Beard still there.
He knew it.
That face had been at the well that day.
Shouting at Chun for drawing water too slow.
Shouting at Wei for handling rabbit skins, some hair drifting into the well.
Wei's throat tightened.
One hand lay limp at the side of the face.
Around the wrist, an old leather cord.
Polished from wear. Knotted in a way only he did.
That was old Kang.
Wei remembered him saying: Tie it this way. At night, you can feel the knot and know how far you've gone. You won't get lost in the forest.
But now… he was lost.
Chun had seen it too.
She froze. Her breathing went uneven.
Wei felt her hand on his sleeve shake. Trembling hard.
Her throat moved up and down, like she was trying to push something back.
Her eyes were red, but she held it in.
She wouldn't let the wetness fall.
She had washed in the coldest river in winter—never shaken like this.
Wei heard her teeth click together.
She was holding back a cry.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Wei pressed his hand over hers, holding it still until her fingers stopped moving.
No crying.
No sound.
The warhorse stopped.
The chewing ended in the air.
Like someone had grabbed its throat.
Wei held his breath.
The horse slowly lifted its head.
Blood dripped from its bare teeth. Plop.
Its neck stretched. The skin and muscle pulled, revealing more of the pale skeleton beneath.
It did not look at them.
It smelled.
The one remaining eye rolled slightly.
Its head tilted toward the wind.
Wei realized the wind had changed.
They were upwind. Their scent would carry to anything that could smell it.
His heart pounded. He did not dare breathe faster.
Chun shook her head.
Light. Quick.
Her eyes passed over the warhorse and landed on another shadow in the village—
A collapsed hut. Half the roof was gone. The fire had not fully burned it.
There might still be someone there.
She whispered,"Mama…"
Wei's chest tightened.
If someone was alive, they could not hide in the burning ruins.
If no one was—
None of their movement could be seen.
The warhorse flicked its head.
A low exhale came through the air.
A warning. Impatient.
Wei knew they had to move.
Now.
Otherwise, the next time it lifted its head, it would see more than their scent in the wind.
Wei reached for her.
Chun moved before he could stop her.
Too fast.
Not thinking.
Her body remembered the path.
"Don't—" Wei whispered.
But she slipped from the grass.
Stepping on ash and broken walls.
Her steps were uneven, but she did not stop.
That was the way home.
Wei clenched his teeth. He hesitated for a moment, then followed.
He did not run. He stayed low, moving along the shadows, the shortest distance between him and Chun.
The warhorse by the well did not turn immediately.
It stayed still, unreadable.
The smell of blood grew stronger.
Every step they took felt like walking on ground that was not theirs.
Some spots sank—burned-out foundations.
Some rose—broken posts, rubble.
The wind stirred the ash.
It rolled in thin waves, like shattered shadows crawling quietly at their feet.
Wei glimpsed scattered pieces of everyday life:
A broken bamboo basket.
A charred fan with curled edges.
A chipped bowl, blackened along the rim by stove soot.
Life, once.
Hours ago, it belonged to people who were alive.
Chun stopped at a half-collapsed earthen wall.
That was her home.
The roof had burned through.
Beams leaned crooked, with small fire and dark red char remained.
The door had been kicked open, lying at an angle.
She stood there. She did not move in immediately.
As if she already knew what she would see.
Wei reached her and was about to grab her hand—
Chun stepped over the threshold.
Two bodies lay on the floor.
Her mother was facedown, her body twisted, pinned under the weight of a fallen beam.
Blood pooled at the corner of her mouth, dark and still, like the last ember dying in the night.
Her father lay beneath her, on his back.
One hand was clawed into the scorched earth, fingers buried deep, the nails split as if he had tried to hold on to something in his final moment.
There was a hole in his chest.
Not torn.
Not bitten.
But carved out. Clean. Deliberate.
The chest cavity was hollow, its edges blackened, as if some cold, hard tool had scooped the life out of him. There was nothing left inside.
His heart was gone.
Chun's father had stood in front of his wife, taken the blow meant for her.
He had tried to protect the woman he loved. But the collapsing beam had not spared either of them.
Now they lay together, one over the other, as if even in death they were still trying to shield each other from the world.
Chun's body shook.
She drew a breath. It caught.
Her chest rose and fell like something was blocking it.
Wei saw her eyelashes tremble, as if they might fall from her lids.
Her father had once touched her head with rough hands.
Had scolded her for being clumsy, for sewing a pocket three times wrong.
But that was the voice of the living.
Now there was nothing.
She crouched slowly.
Reached out.
Stopped at the last moment.
Fingertips hovering, trembling violently.
That was her father.
Wei recognized the old vest.
The shoulder patched twice, crooked stitches left when Chun learned to sew as a child.
"Father…"
A broken syllable escaped her throat.
Then the sound lost all control.
It was not crying.
It was a howl.
Torn from the chest. Wild. Unrestrained.
The sound hit the ruined walls, then smoke pushed it back across the village.
Wei's head rang.
At that moment, the village felt like it pressed down on them.
Burned beams. Collapsed walls. Half-dead embers.
All of it reminded him:
This was no longer their place.
He knew Chun would break.
But not this fast. Not this hard.
It was as if everything weighing on her chest had been ripped open.
Too much.
He barely had time to react.
He lunged.
Covered her mouth.
Dragged her into shadow.
But it was already too late.
A low, guttural hiss came from the well.