The leaf-boats drifted, pale as moth-wings, hovering above a surface that should never have been called land.
They trembled beneath the pressure of Yin Qi. The Feather-Tail brush's furry tip quivered like a listening ear; the leaves shivered beneath as if the swamp below whispered threats up through the wood. Silence stretched thin and then snapped under Elder Mu Li's words–pray your luck hasn't run out yet–and the hunters' composure began to fray.
It had taken them an hour to reach the central region. The pace was slow, careful, each leaf a small island borne by ink-trace calligraphy. The brush guided them, the brush that belonged to a man who would trade ink and breath for a path through death.
Kiaria, Diala, and the Princess were not fresh. A week of ceaseless skirmishes, poor rations and ragged sleep had hollowed them. The others–hunters hardened by trade–masked their faces and grimly endured. But the strain had visited even those who were less mortal.
