Beside Bai Yue, Hóng Yè marched as though he was a general, his small wooden bucket swinging in a perfect arc with every step.
His brow was furrowed into a scowl, though Bai Yue noticed it wasn't quite as sharp as the "I-want-to-set-your-fur-on-fire" glares he had given her back at the village.
Still, the tension was thick enough to choke a mammoth.
Bai Yue looked down at the top of his head. His ears, dark and alert, flicked occasionally at the sounds of the night, a distant owl, the rustle of a nocturnal rodent.
He was so young, yet he carried himself with the weight of someone who had lived three lifetimes.
"Hóng Yè," she said softly, her voice barely rising above the sound of their footsteps on the dry leaves.
The boy didn't stop. He didn't even look up. "The water source is another hundred paces, Mother. We should hurry."
Bai Yue winced at the 'Mother' title. Even though he said it, it sounded less like an endearment and more like a bitter obligation.
