The forest was silent, but Zhen Yu could feel eyes on him.
Snow fell so heavily that the world seemed to vanish. The trees bent under the storm, their black trunks like ribs in the white. Zhen Yu walked carefully, hand on the hilt of his silver sword.
Something moved.
A flicker in the corner of his eye. A scrape of bark.
Then it appeared.
At first, it looked like an old tree. But its roots shifted like legs, its branches stretched into claws, and its bark split to reveal jagged teeth. The forest itself had turned into a monster.
It lunged.
Zhen Yu swung his sword, but the blade only sparked against its wooden body as if striking iron. The monster's arm slammed into him, knocking the sword from his grip. It flew into the snow, far from reach.
Panic stabbed through him. For the first time, his weapon had failed.
The roots lashed at him, tearing his sleeve, cutting his skin. He broke free and ran, snow dragging at his legs. The storm swallowed his breath, the trees closing in around him like a cage.
He stumbled. His foot caught, and he fell hard into the drifts. His chest burned, his lip bled, his body shook with the cold.
The monster loomed above him, raising a great limb to strike.
Zhen Yu rolled onto his back, staring at the shadow towering over him. The massive arm began to fall, heavy as death itself.
In that moment, he thought of everything — his brother on the throne, Master Shen's warning, the men waiting at the camp. He thought of the curse of being born under the King's Star.
The limb came crashing down.
Snow exploded around him. Pain shot through his body. His vision blurred.
"This is the end," he thought.
But then — silence.
Not the storm's silence. Something sharper. Something alive.
Through the haze, Zhen Yu saw a shadow moving toward him. Not a beast. Not a tree. Something else.
And the forest held its breath.