My family's medicine hut sits deep in a mountain ravine. The lacquer on the wooden door has long since peeled away, revealing the grain beneath like the wrinkles on my grandfather's face when he taught me medical principles. For generations we have practiced medicine; by my generation, tending a few plots of medicinal herbs and a tattered copy of the *Materia Medica*, our days were poor yet peaceful. The mountain breeze always carried the scent of herbs, drifting past the drying angelica and astragalus, and rustling the stray hairs at my temples. Early that summer, before the damp mist had cleared, I shouldered my bamboo basket and headed to the back mountain to gather self-heal. The dew soaked the hem of my skirt, clinging to my calves with a cool touch.
Deep in the woods came an unusual sound, not the usual bird or beast. Parting the ferns that grew higher than a man, my heart skipped a beat the moment I saw him. A youth was leaning against a broken tree, his dark brocade robe soaked through with blood and clinging to his pale skin. Several wounds deep enough to reveal the bone were still oozing blood, mixed with mud so that their original color was lost. He clutched the broken half of a sword tightly, his knuckles white, moisture condensing on his eyelashes. Though he had strikingly refined features, the depths of his eyes were as still as an ancient well, filled with a fatigue and a... vigilance that did not belong to his years.
"Are you all right?" I crouched down, kee…
Chapter 120