Han Yu moved low, kept his aura suppressed, and avoided open areas whenever possible. When forests appeared, he traveled beneath the canopy, flying just above the ground to mask his presence. When the land opened into barren slopes, he hugged the shadows cast by ridges and jagged stone.
Time blurred.
By the eighth day, exhaustion began to creep into his bones despite his careful pacing. He forced himself to rest more frequently, carving shallow shelters into rock faces or sealing himself beneath snowbanks for hours at a time while beasts passed nearby.
Then, on the ninth day, the storm finally began to weaken.
The wind slowed first, its screaming howl reduced to a low moan that echoed faintly through the mountains. Snowfall thinned, flakes drifting lazily instead of slamming into the ground. The sky remained gray, but it no longer felt like it was pressing down on the world.
Han Yu paused atop a narrow ridge and scanned the horizon.
