Beneath a sky cloaked in charcoal mist, Ge Dao's boots met the earth with slow, deliberate steps. He approached the lone tent pitched at the far-western edge of the caravan grounds—its hide fabric drawn taut against wooden stakes, fluttering faintly in the wind like a breath held too long. This part of the encampment, long known as a haven for transients and swords-for-hire, now stood in eerie stillness, deserted like a battlefield stripped of corpses.
Ge Dao paused before the tent's entrance. His hand lingered above the flap, hesitation coiling around his fingers. The wind whispered low through the canvas seams. ~ There was a weight in the air, dense with secrets and warnings unspoken. He could feel it pressing down on his shoulders.
This is the place, he thought. The snake coils within.
