The air inside the longhouse was warm, but it felt like we were sitting on the edge of a blade.

One of the men—Xin Du—spoke haltingly, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He kept glancing toward the woman sitting beside him. “I wasn’t alone,” he said quietly. “They took her too. That’s my sister, Fang Du.”

He nodded toward her. She hadn’t spoken yet. Her expression was distant, jaw clenched like she was grinding words between her teeth, trying to keep something awful from slipping out.

I offered a gentle nod. “You’re safe now. Both of you.”

The older man of the group, Ying Xie, swallowed hard. “Where… where are we?”

“You’re in Gentle Wind Village,” I repeated gently. “You’ve been here for a few days now, recovering. We... rescued you from the cultists.”

Their eyes scanned the longhouse slowly, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. I didn’t blame them. Safety must’ve seemed like a foreign word by now.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

Xin Du hesitated, then answered, “Stone Hollow. About a day's travel away from Miaoyin.”

I turned to Jian Feng, who stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed but alert.

He gave a slow nod. “I know it. Remote. Would’ve taken weeks to get there on foot, even before winter.”

I looked to the third man; Ying Xiw, with silver at his temples and deep lines carved into his face.

“I’m from Pingyao,” he said softly.

I closed my eyes, just for a moment. Pingyao. The same village we’d clawed our way through, fire and ash and death on all sides. The village Ping Hai gave his life to protect.

Now wasn’t the time to grieve. Now was the time to listen.

I stood and retrieved a small wooden tray the disciples prepared. Jian Feng helped carry it over. On it were clay cups, still warm with herbal tea, and small packets of dried fruits and nuts. Nothing extravagant, but gentle. Comforting. Human.

I knelt and set it between us.

“Here,” I said. “You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready. But maybe this will help.”

The man from Stone Hollow gave me a grateful nod and passed a cup to his sister. Her fingers trembled as she took it.

After a long moment of silence, I asked gently, “Do you remember anything? After you were taken? Anything at all?”

Ying Xie rubbed his temples. “It’s like… everything was fog. Thick. Constantly hurting. You’d wake up, and your bones would already ache.”

The younger one added, “They made us drink something. No—eat. These bloody flowers. They forced them into our mouths.”

His sister flinched at the word 'flowers'. I watched her fingers tighten around the teacup.

“Anyone who refused…” His voice broke, and he looked down. “Th-they were killed."

I didn't say anything, letting the group gather themselves as they tried to speak.

“They made us say things,” the older man murmured. “Over and over. Until it stuck. Until it felt like we couldn’t stop.”

Xin Du's sister finally spoke, her voice little more than a whisper. “Praise the…”

Her breath hitched.

I saw her body seize up. She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes tightly, trembling.

“It’s alright,” I said quickly, raising a calming hand. “You don’t have to say it. Not here. Not anymore.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She nodded shakily, pressing the cup to her lips as if to push the words back down.

“They made us chant,” her brother said in her place. “All the time. Especially when the pain got worse. If we didn’t say it, they’d… punish us. And after a while… you said it just to make the pain stop.”

I sat back, my hands clenched into fists in my lap.

Not soldiers. Not enemies. Just villagers. Kidnapped. Drugged. Rewired through pain and fear.

Fang Du wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. Xin Du shifted closer, just enough for their shoulders to touch. The warmth between them couldn't have been much, but it seemed to ground them.

Then, almost all at once, they looked up at me. At Jian Feng.

“Is… is our family okay?” Xin Du asked. “Can we go to them?”

Even Ying Xie raised his head. “Please,” he rasped. “My daughter. Her name is Yu Xie, I… I need to know if she’s safe.”

Jian Feng answered first. His voice was steady, but not unkind. “It’s dangerous right now. The lands between villages aren’t safe, not right now. Traveling to Stone Hollow would take days. And with the weather, without secure escort…”

He trailed off, and I stepped in.

“Pingyao was attacked,” I said softly, meeting Ying Xie’s gaze. “We were too late to save the village itself… but we saved the people we could. The survivors have taken refuge here in Gentle Wind. We’ll ask around. If your daughter’s here, we’ll find her.”

Ying Xie closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer or pleading. I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t interrupt.

“Would you like to go outside for a bit?” I offered after a moment. “Fresh air. There’s a bench just past the longhouse. It’s a little cold, but I think you could use some light.”

They agreed quietly. Warm clothes were brought—thick cloaks, padded boots.

We stepped outside. The air nipped at our cheeks, but the wind had softened, and sunlight filtered through thinning clouds. The snow hadn’t fully melted, but patches of damp earth peeked through. It was the season’s way of whispering that spring was near.

Fang Du looked up, blinking. “The trees are budding…” she murmured.

Xin Du glanced at the horizon, then down at the snow-dusted roofs of the village. “It was spring when we were taken."

I stayed silent, letting the realization settle.

“How long has it been?” Fang Du asked, voice barely audible.

I tried to think. But most villages didn’t keep calendars. Seasons blurred together. “Do you remember anything specific? Before it happened. Something that might help us mark time? A famine? A celebration? Do you remember how long since the last Grand Alchemy Gauntlet?”

"No, but..." Xin Du squinted, then snapped his fingers. “The Flame-Scarred Ghost.”

My brow furrowed.

“We celebrated after he was caught,” he said. “He was terrorizing the mountain passes between Miaoyin and Stone Hollow for months. A rogue cultivator. Burned half of the merchant trail. When we heard he’d been subdued, there was a festival. Red lanterns. A whole roast pig. That was about three years ago...”

He trailed off, his voice growing small.

I turned to Jian Feng, as the name wasn't familiar to me.

He exhaled through his nose. “He was caught five years ago.”

Xin Du’s eyes went wide. Fang Du swayed slightly on her feet.

Ying Xie just stared at the earth, jaw slack.

“No,” Fang Du whispered. “No… it can’t have been that long.”

“It doesn’t feel that long,” Xin Du added. “It felt like… maybe a year. Not even.”

But I could see it dawning on them. The way their limbs had thinned. The pallor to their skin. The seasons that had passed, one after the other, while they’d lived somewhere between pain and unbeing.

The brother lowered his head. “I had a fiancée,” he said hollowly. “We were supposed to marry after the harvest. Did she wait? Did she think I ran?”

Ying Xie didn’t speak. He just pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, eyes locked on nothing. Whatever he was imagining… it hurt to see.

“What if they think we’re dead?” Fang Du asked, voice cracking. “What if they’ve left? Moved away? What if—what if they're—”

“You’re alive,” I said, softly but firmly. “And they’ll be told that. They’ll know you were taken. That you survived. Once this crisis is over, you'll be brought back home.”

I wanted to promise them everything. That their homes were still there. That their people had waited. That the world hadn’t moved on without them.

But I couldn’t lie.

So instead, I placed a hand over my chest and said, “You’re here now. And we’ll do everything we can to help you find who’s left.”

Xin Du nodded once, a slow, fragile motion. But the light in his eyes didn’t come back.

Something had been stolen from them. Not just time, but place. Identity. A sense of when and where they belonged.

I wondered if even surviving wasn’t always enough.

We moved slowly among the crowd, asking carefully, gently, as we approached the refugees from Pingyao.

"Yu Xie," I repeated to each person who paused to listen. "Do you know her? Have you seen her?"

At first, the answers were all the same. Shakes of the head. Regretful glances. People who’d lost too much to remember names, or who simply hadn’t seen her. The silence stretched like a thread pulled tight between us.

I began to brace myself for the worst.

Was this going to be a tragedy after all?

After everything Ying Xie had endured; kidnapped, tortured, twisted into something horrible, would he now have to face the worst of it? To be rescued, only to return to a world where his daughter no longer remained?

I couldn’t imagine it. I didn’t want to.

The crowd was thinning.

And then, a soft, uncertain voice rose behind us.

“…Father?”

Ying Xie froze. His entire body tensed as he turned, slowly, like he didn’t dare believe it.

A young woman stood a few paces away, her face pale, hands trembling as they covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide, rimmed with disbelief and tears.

“Yu Xie?” He whispered.

She nodded.

He stumbled forward, arms open, and she met him halfway with a sob that tore through the quiet. They collapsed into each other’s embrace, clinging like the world might end again if they let go.

“I thought—I thought you were gone,” she wept into his shoulder. "For years, I thought that—"

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You’ve grown,” he murmured, voice cracking as he cupped the back of her head, as if making sure she was real. “You’ve grown so much.”

The onlookers watched, hushed, some covering their mouths, others blinking back tears. Jian Feng’s arms dropped from his crossed stance, his gaze softening as he looked on.

I stepped back, a lump lodged in my throat. I couldn't even begin to imagine how he felt. How would I feel, if I disappeared for years, not knowing if the ones I cared for were still alive?

A breath escaped me I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Relief washed through my chest.

Ping Hai died. So many people lost their lives that day. But...

If I can bring even one family back together, if even one reunion like this is possible because of the work we’ve done… then it’s worth it. Again and again, it’s worth it.

“Touching stuff,” a voice muttered beside me, and I felt an arm slink around my shoulders in an all-too-familiar, easy-going grip. The smell of ash and soot made it all to easy to recognize who it was. "You busy right now?"

Wang Jun.

I didn’t even have to look to know he was smirking.

“Always am,” I said without thinking, and he laughed.

“But are too busy to ignore your sworn brother? Even if it was a matter of life and death?”

I snorted. “What do you need?”

“I need your opinion on armor.”

I raised an eyebrow. “For who?”

He squeezed my shoulder. “For you.”

My brows lifted.

He grinned wide. “You’re too handsome to keep taking hits like you do. I figured it’s time you let me forge something that keeps you standing longer.”

“Very well. You have the honor of crafting armor for this young master. I expect nothing less than divine craftsmanship; resplendent, imposing, and, above all…” I paused, striking a ridiculous pose. “...fashionable.”

Wang Jun groaned, but he was grinning. “Should I inlay it with phoenix feathers and carve your name into every plate?”

I sniffed, lifting my chin. “At minimum.”

He laughed. “Alright, young master. Come with me.”

We turned, walking away from the longhouse, the tearful reunion of father and daughter fading behind us.

Spring was coming.

And for once, it felt like something good might follow.