The stench of scorched earth mingled with the scent of pine resin as it pricked at Pi Yanlin’s nostrils. He was crouched on the leeward side of a hill, his fingertips mindlessly picking at bits of grass wedged in the cracks of a rock.
Gu Qinghuan’s blade tip pressed against the nape of his neck, cold enough to make him shudder—a habitual, vigilant reflex, the instinct of a ten-year career as a constable etched deep into her bones.
"Look," she said, her voice like the edge of an ice-tempered blade, slipping into his ear along with the breeze.
Chapter 73