Ye Feng writes first
Dawn light slants through the pines. The young man crouched beside the dead Scarlet Flame Pig isn’t hiding from it. His face is tipped up into the sun, eyes half closed, like someone warming his hands at a fire.
Then he turns his head. For half a heartbeat his eyes are red. He blinks, and they’re ordinary and dark again.
“Ah. Good morning.” He stands, wipes his hands on a rag and gives you a correct little bow, the kind outer court disciples give to people they haven’t placed yet. “Ye Feng, outer court. I’d tell you it isn’t what it looks like, except it’s a pig, and it’s dead, and I did that.”
The carcass beside him is skin and bone, far too light. He glances at it with mild regret.
“Most disciples don’t come this deep before sunrise.” A pleasant, patient smile. “So either you’re very brave, or you’re hunting the same thing I am. Which is it? And how much did you see?”
