The disturbance did not announce itself with sound.
It crept instead, like breath held too long.
Ye felt it before dawn.
He stood outside the inn, the sky barely beginning to pale, eyes fixed on the southern hills. The wind there twisted unnaturally, circling back upon itself, carrying with it a faint metallic tang that did not belong to earth or rain.
A remnant.
Not powerful.
But restless.
He closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself, forcing his presence lower, quieter. In the mortal world, restraint was survival.
Behind him, a soft step sounded.
"You're awake early," Ling Yue said.
He turned. She stood wrapped in a thin shawl, hair loosely tied, eyes still heavy with sleep. Something in her expression tightened when she saw his face.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
"I did," he replied gently. "Just not much."
She joined him at the railing, following his gaze toward the hills. "Is it… bad?"
"No," he said after a pause. "But it shouldn't be here."
That answer unsettled her more than a simple yes would have.
---
Later that morning, Mei Qiao arrived with news that confirmed Ye's unease.
Two goats had broken their tethers overnight. Not fled — broken. The rope fibers looked burned, though no fire had touched them. And the birds that nested near the southern slope had vanished entirely.
"The land feels wrong," Mei Qiao said quietly as they sorted herbs. "Like something has pressed too hard and not let go."
Ling Yue glanced instinctively at Ye.
He said nothing — which frightened her more than any explanation.
---
By afternoon, Ye could no longer justify waiting.
"I need to look," he said.
Ling Yue straightened. "Look where?"
"The hills."
"No," she replied at once. "You said it wasn't dangerous."
"I said it wasn't yet."
She stared at him, lips pressed together. "Then I'm coming."
He shook his head. "You shouldn't."
"And you shouldn't go alone."
Their gazes locked — her stubborn resolve against his quiet insistence.
Mei Qiao intervened gently. "Let him," she said to Ling Yue. "Some paths aren't meant to be shared."
Ling Yue looked away, jaw tight.
Ye hesitated, then reached into his sleeve and pressed something small into her palm — a thin wooden charm, smoothed by time.
"If this grows warm," he said, "go to the well and wait. Do not follow."
She closed her fingers around it. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then I will return before sunset."
---
The hills were silent in a way that felt deliberate.
Ye moved without sound, senses stretched tight. The remnant revealed itself slowly — a malformed shadow clinging to the roots of a dead tree, feeding on fear and neglect.
Not a demon.
Not a spirit.
Something unfinished.
He did not draw power. He could not risk it.
Instead, he knelt, placed his palm against the earth, and whispered a severance — old, precise, costly. The ground shuddered faintly as the shadow dissipated, unraveling like mist under sunlight.
Pain lanced briefly through his chest.
He welcomed it.
Better him than her.
---
Ling Yue waited by the well long after sunset.
The charm remained cool in her hand, yet unease gnawed at her chest. Every sound made her turn. Every shadow stretched too long.
When Ye finally appeared at the edge of the square, relief flooded her so suddenly she nearly laughed.
But then she saw his sleeve.
Darkened. Torn.
"You're hurt," she said, already moving toward him.
"It's nothing."
She grabbed his wrist. "You always say that."
He stilled.
Her touch was warm. Real. Anchoring.
"It really is nothing," he said more softly.
She didn't let go at once.
For a moment, they stood like that — lantern light flickering, village quiet, hands joined by instinct rather than intent.
"I don't like when you disappear," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Then stop doing it."
A faint, almost-smile touched his lips. "I will… when I can."
---
That night, as Ye stood alone beneath the stars, he felt the weight of what he had chosen settle deeper.
The mortal world was fragile.
And so was he.
But Ling Yue slept peacefully, unaware of how close the darkness had come.
For now, that was enough.