The next morning, Han Shān was leaning against a moss-covered trunk, his face no longer greyish-green but still looking weary.
Beside him, Yàn Shū was carefully tending to a small fire, his hands trembling slightly as he brewed a soothing herbal tea, probably something with ginger and mountain mint to settle everyone's scorched insides.
Hóng Yè sat nearby, sharpening a bone dagger with focus, though his eyes frequently darted toward his father.
Bai Yue sat on a fallen log, her hair a bird's nest of tangles, watching Yòu Lín and Ruì Xuě try to "hunt" a particularly large butterfly.
"No!"
The sound came from Cāng Yáo. The Dragon Princess, usually the epitome of arrogance and lazy grace, was standing near a shimmering patch of air.
A golden sigil, glowing with the intensity of a miniature sun and humming like a disturbed beehive, pulsed in front of her.
It was a Dragon Messenger, a high-level spell used only by the Royal Lineage.
