The lane did not go quiet all at once. After the meeting, doors opened, then shut. People spoke in low voices. A child cried once and was hushed. Dogs barked, then remembered better.
At their gate, Lin Yue and Jian Zhi pressed a fresh ward strip flat. Hold, Bind, Turn, Listen. The paste set smooth. The air in their yard eased a little, like a belt let out one notch.
"Eat while it's hot," Aunt ordered, appearing as if she lived inside every doorway. She set down two bowls—noodles with greens, a bit of pork she would later deny having. "You leave at first light tomorrow for drills. Don't be clever. Be early."
"We will," Jian Zhi said.
Aunt studied their faces the way a healer studies a wound. "You two are thin," she said, which in her language meant, Be careful. "I'll bring buns for the road."
She left with dishes that did not need washing, because she had already decided she would return them later and complain.
They ate in the courtyard under the willow. The lantern on the table gave a steady light. Beyond the wall, the village shifted into night rules—one lantern per house, doors barred, voices low.
Jian Zhi finished first and began to tidy. Lin Yue watched the way he moved—quiet, neat, never wasting motion. The day sat, heavy but not painful, in Lin Yue's limbs. He liked that feeling. It meant he had done things that mattered.
"Walk?" he asked.
"A short one," Jian Zhi said. "Then sleep."
They stepped into the lane. The headman's house had both shutters closed. The ward hall leaked a thin smell of paste and old wood. A woman two doors down swept her step in small strokes and nodded at them without words.
Two people sat on the low wall by the well. Lin Yue knew their faces but not their names. One was a thin man with a scar along his jaw. The other was a round-faced woman with careful hair. They held hands like they had been given permission to do so just for tonight.
"Evening," Lin Yue said.
"Evening," the man replied. "Ridge looks heavy."
"It does," Lin Yue said.
"I'm Hai," the woman said, as if she had decided to fix the fact they did not know each other. "This is my brother, Da Ren. We fish the lower stream. Not much to catch today." Her smile was brave and not quite steady. "Maybe tomorrow the fish won't listen to the sky."
"Maybe," Jian Zhi said gently.
"Sleep early," Da Ren told his sister, as if his words could put a blanket around her shoulders.
They walked on. Near the corner, handcarts were stacked in a neat line. Someone had chalked a small crane on each cart handle—just a quick mark, but it made the carts look ready to follow orders.
"People are trying," Lin Yue said.
"They always do," Jian Zhi said. "It's what people are good at."
They paused by the blacksmith's yard. The forge was cold; the last heat gave off a rust smell. A ward strip above the awning sat flat and true. Good. As they turned to go, a tiny crackling noise came from the strip—a single pop, like a seed in a pan. The ink held. The strip lay still.
Jian Zhi heard it too. He did not speak. Lin Yue did not either. There was nothing useful to say.
They circled back. On their way, Han Feng and his two shadows stepped out of a side lane. Han Feng had a stick across his shoulders like a yoke and a look that wanted to be casual.
"Lin Yue," he said. "Spar?"
Mei Ling's laugh came from somewhere behind Han Feng. "Now? In the dark? He'll trip over your pride."
"I asked him," Han Feng said, jaw tight. "Not you."
Lin Yue set his bowl with the finished broth on the low wall, wiped his hands, and nodded. "Short," he said. "Aunt will hunt me if I'm late."
"Short," Han Feng agreed.
They took the open patch by the well. A few doors opened a crack. Jian Zhi stood to the side with his arms folded, expression neutral, eyes not missing anything.
"First touch," Han Feng said.
"First clean touch," Lin Yue said.
They used short sticks. No spear forms, no big swings. Lin Yue kept his feet tight and his hips low, hearing Instructor Han's feet before hands in his head. Han Feng pressed fast and straight, trying to bully him back. Lin Yue gave ground twice, then cut in like a door closing. Tap to Han Feng's shoulder. Clean.
"Again," Han Feng said.
They went again. Han Feng used a little feint with his eyes, not with his feet, trying to make Lin Yue look left. Lin Yue did not look. He stepped into Han Feng's reach and let the sticks slide, then rolled his wrist. Tap to Han Feng's wrist. Clean. Han Feng hissed and shook out his hand.
Mei Ling clapped once. "Better," she said, not really caring who heard.
Han Feng's face steadied. "Again," he said. No anger now, only work. It was the first time Lin Yue liked him.
They went a third round. Han Feng fixed his heel, kept his center, waited half a beat longer before striking. Lin Yue smiled before he could stop it. Tap to Lin Yue's ribs. Clean.
"Good," Lin Yue said, rubbing the spot.
Han Feng glanced toward Mei Ling and tried to hide it. "You think too much," he told Lin Yue, but the words had softened. "Tomorrow you'll miss a step for it."
"Then shout at me," Lin Yue said.
"I plan to," Han Feng said. He shoved his stick at one of his shadows and stalked off. His line was almost straight.
Mei Ling sauntered up, eating a dried plum. "You were both less bad," she said. "Progress."
"Sleep," Jian Zhi told her.
She wrinkled her nose. "Bossy." But she yawned and went.
At home, they checked the bar, trimmed the lamp, and lay down. The ward at the gate sat in Lin Yue's mind like a steady coin of light. He slept better than he had any right to, which he decided to accept.
---
Before dawn, the drum sounded once. The lane filled with the small sounds of people who didn't want to make noise—slippers on stone, hooks in latches, the whisper of a door.
Aunt knocked and didn't wait for an answer. She thrust a cloth-wrapped bundle into Jian Zhi's hands. "Buns. Two with pork, one with just greens. Don't mix them up and then blame me."
"Thank you," Jian Zhi said, already separating them.
Aunt looked them over. "Come back with your bones," she said, then added, "and your teeth," and left.
They ate on the move. The buns were hot enough to sting fingers. Lin Yue decided to like that, too.
---
The Yard at First Light
Mist lay thin over the training yard. The Azure Crane banner caught what light there was. Red ribbons on the gate hung damp and stubborn.
Instructor Han was there with tea and his usual air of being bored by panic. "Pairs," he said. "No flourishes. It's not a festival."
They paired with no trouble. Lin Yue and Jian Zhi fell into their rhythm fast. Tap, turn, bind, step. Jian Zhi's blocks were clean. Lin Yue kept trying to close the small gap where he knew he showed too much. Twice he caught Jian Zhi. Twice Jian Zhi saw it coming and made it cost.
"Better," Han said once, which was worth more than a speech.
A new boy—small, tense, trying too hard—tripped during a low sweep and went down on both knees. Before the laugh could rise, Mei Ling snapped, "No laughing," so sharp that the laugh died in the throat it had chosen. She hauled the boy up. "Knees are learning. Keep going."
The boy nodded, grateful and mortified at once.
Shadows moved along the fence. Two gulls glided low from the ridge, circled once, and settled on the roof of the schoolhouse like scouts. They stared too long. Lin Yue stared back until they seemed to remember they were birds. They flapped up and were gone.
Han clapped for a change. "Schoolhouse. Wards."
---
Wards at Midday
They pasted at home first. Lin Yue smoothed the fresh ward strip at the gate with care. The old one came off stiff and unburned. He rolled it and slid it into a sleeve. Instructor Mei would want to see it.
"Still steady," Jian Zhi said, testing the air with his palm as if he were checking for heat.
"For now," Lin Yue said.
At the schoolhouse, Mei had laid out brushes, ink, and strips. She had also set a bowl of water and a rag for mistakes. "It is not shameful to start over," she said. "It is shameful to paste a lie."
They wrote Hold, Bind, Turn, Listen until wrists warmed. Lin Yue's first circle had a wobble. He tore it. Second circle settled. Mei tapped his wrist once, light. "Let the end breathe," she said. He did. The line met itself and decided to stay.
Mei paused by Jian Zhi. His strip was clean, strokes even. "You listen with your hand," she said. It was almost praise. Jian Zhi's ears went a little pink, which Lin Yue stored away to think about later.
Shen brought out the bronze box and set it on the table. The lid clicked as he turned it. "Breath," he said. "No hurry. The box knows when you pretend."
A small crowd formed without being asked. Han Feng went first, jaw set. His first try rattled the vanes. Second try held longer. Shen gave a small nod. Han Feng ignored it to seem tough; his ears warmed anyway.
"Lin Yue," Shen said.
Lin Yue stepped forward. He exhaled slow and steady. He watched nothing—no vane, no face—only the feeling of emptying his lungs in one even line. The vanes lifted and held. The box hummed faintly, or maybe he imagined it. Shen's eyes met his for a breath. "Good," Shen said. "Again tomorrow."
Mei Ling blew too hard, killed the spin, scowled at the box, and tried again like she was talking a shy cat into her lap. This time it obeyed. "See?" she told no one in particular.
Shen marked a dot by Lin Yue's and Jian Zhi's names on the small slate he carried. Not a grade. A weather note. Lin Yue liked that.
Midway through, the light in the room skipped, like a drum missing one beat. Brushes quivered in cups. A line went long on someone's strip. The chimes under the eaves clicked twice without wind.
"Breathe," Mei said.
They did. The skip ended. People glanced at the north window and pretended they hadn't.
Shen looked, too. He did not speak. He shifted the bronze box an inch, as if listening through it.
---
Market and Neighbors
After class, the market tried hard to be itself. Vendors argued over garlic like it was gold. A goat escaped a rope and ate a strip of cabbage while three grown men negotiated with it. Two little girls played a game with pebbles and made up rules as they went. One rule was that pebbles could be birds. It was a good rule.
Hai and Da Ren waved from the well. "Two fish today," Hai said, holding up a thin string. "We're calling it lucky."
"Lucky is still food," Lin Yue said.
"Lucky is a story you tell the truth with," Da Ren added, very proud of the sentence. His sister rolled her eyes but did not argue.
Aunt barged into the scene with a covered basket. "You two," she told Lin Yue and Jian Zhi. "This is soup. Don't shake it. The lid is loose because someone—" she glared at no one "—didn't return my best lid."
"What kind of soup?" Jian Zhi asked.
"The good kind," Aunt said. "If you ask more questions, it will turn bad."
They took the basket and did not tempt the curse.
On the way home, a thin courier wearing the minor Lin crest strolled up with a grin that showed too many teeth. He held out a red charm on cheap paper. "Blessings from the Lin Clan for your brave attempt," he said, voice sweet with sour under it. "Paste it on your door for luck."
Lin Yue eyed the strokes. Two were wrong, one was lazy. He took the charm without touching the man's fingers, borrowed Mei Ling's brush from her hair (she squawked), and corrected the worst of it with one clean line. He darkened a second to disguise the third. He tied a twine loop and hung it inside the yard where it couldn't set their door on fire.
The courier's grin thinned. "Parlor tricks," he said.
"Small things done right are not tricks," Lin Yue said, and walked away. The courier left, forced to choose between anger and boredom. He picked boredom and did it badly.
"That was rude and satisfying," Mei Ling said, accepting her brush back like a queen takes a sword.
"Don't tell Aunt," Jian Zhi said.
"I will," Mei Ling said, and then didn't.
---
Little Fixes, Long Shadows
They fixed three small things—Old Wei's latch (again), the apothecary's sticky shutter, and a hinge on the headman's back door that squealed like a rat. People thanked them with dried fruit, spare nails, and stories that had been waiting for ears.
As they worked, the light leaned long. The ridge stayed under a band of cloud that did not move much. Birds flew lower than usual. A dog that liked to shout at carts went quiet early.
"Enough," Jian Zhi said at last. "We should rest."
"Agree," Lin Yue said, surprised to find he meant it.
Back in their yard, they checked the ward strip again. It held. The willow stood quiet and honest. They ate Aunt's soup and decided it was chicken. Or pork. Or both. They did not investigate, in case Aunt's curse could hear thoughts.
The drum at the pavilion sounded once. Not warning. Call.
They went with the rest. The square filled fast. Shen stood with the headman. Mei had a rolled notice in her hand, the county seal already broken.
"Tomorrow we start at dawn," Shen said. "You will receive travel tags and one ward kit per pair. We will walk the first leg toward the ridge to test order and breath. If the road is calm, we go farther. If it is not, we turn back and try again with better habits."
No one cheered. No one argued. People understood the shape of the plan and liked that it had shape.
"Sleep early," Mei said. "No gossip. It makes poor ink."
That made a few people laugh, which was good. Laughter shakes fear loose without breaking it.
They walked home, not in a line, but together.
---
Night Shift
Lanterns burned in even dots along the lane. The ward strips above doors held steady. Lin Yue sat on the threshold with his knife and the whetstone. He drew the blade along in short, even strokes. Jian Zhi set a small bundle by the door—brush, ink, twine, spare strip, travel tag, one piece of jerky, two buns. He was the kind of person who did small things in advance so bigger things didn't have to shout.
A light knock. Hai stood there with a jar. "Pickled greens," she said. "For breakfast. They behave better than we do."
"Thank you," Jian Zhi said.
Da Ren hovered behind her with a net over his shoulder. "If we leave with you tomorrow," he said, "we'll walk near the back. We're slow."
"Walk near us," Lin Yue said. "Back is where people get tripped if they fall."
Da Ren looked relieved. "Okay," he said. "We'll be near you." He tugged his sister away before she could give them more food they would have to carry.
The chimes under the eaves clicked once. Lin Yue and Jian Zhi both looked up. Nothing moved. He could taste a faint metal in the air again. He breathed out slow and felt it pass through him like a small current.
"Sleep," Jian Zhi said.
"Sleep," Lin Yue echoed.
They set the bar and banked the lamp. The room settled. Lin Yue lay awake for a few breaths and listened to the yard. The willow rustled once, then held still. Somewhere far off, the hawk cried one short note and was done.
He slept.
---
Pre-Dawn Hook
He woke a heartbeat before the drum, not because of sound, but because the air in the room had changed. Colder at the edges, warmer near the floor, as if the house were breathing wrong. He sat up. Jian Zhi moved at once, hair already falling forward as if it wanted to help.
"Something?" Jian Zhi asked.
"Maybe," Lin Yue said.
They unbarred the door. The lane was dark, but not dangerous. The ward strip at their gate held firm. He lifted his head toward the ridge. For a blink, he saw three tiny lights up there, in a line, and then not there. He blinked hard. The ridge was just a ridge again.
"Nothing," he said.
"Not yet," Jian Zhi said.
The drum sounded once. The village woke on that note.
"Ready," Jian Zhi said.
"Ready," Lin Yue said.
They stepped out into the cool. The lane moved with people who did not waste steps. Aunt met them at the corner with two dried plums and a look that could stop rain. "Bring back your bones," she said. "And your teeth."
"We will," Lin Yue said.
She snorted. "Do it anyway," she said, and turned to patrol another lane.
They joined the stream toward the square. Lin Yue breathed slow and even. He did not look at the ridge again. Not yet. He would look when it mattered.
He and Jian Zhi reached the pavilion and took their place near Mei Ling, Han Feng, Hai, and Da Ren. The Azure Crane banner moved once and went still, as if it, too, had chosen to wait.
---
POV Shift — Instructor Shen
Shen stood at the front of the square, hands in his sleeves, eyes on the lines people made without knowing. The old pattern under the stones was quiet now. Good. The night had not broken it.
Mei checked her list and the bundles of ward strips and travel tags. Han pretended his tea mattered more than order and fooled no one.
Shen looked toward the ridge only once. A thin shimmer—there and gone—ran along a notch in the rock like heat over a road. He did not say "Hold." He had said it yesterday. Today had a different word.
"Forward," he said, when the first drumbeat faded.
The village moved.
---