The sparks in the stove had just been struck from the firesteel. They landed on the dry grass with a faint crackle. Chen Wuya bent down and blew a breath, and the flames slowly rose, flickering across his face.
Just as he reached for more firewood, footsteps came from the small path outside the courtyard.
Neither hurried nor slow, they rang clearly against the pebble path. Not the stealthy tread of scouts concealing their presence, nor the weary shuffle of refugees dragging exhausted bodies, but a rhythm that carried purpose without daring to be too bold.
He paused, neither turning around nor answering.
Bai Zhi came out from the inner room and stood by the door. Her voice was very soft. "Someone else has come."
Chen Wuya nodded, his gaze still fixed on the stove fire. The flames had steadied, licking at one corner of the pot's bottom as heat began to rise. He straightened up, brushed the ash from his hands, and walked toward the door.
The wooden door was unlocked. He pulled it open a crack and saw a middle-aged man standing outside, dressed in rough cloth and straw sandals, a bamboo basket on his back. One of his sleeves was rolled up, revealing a faded, incomplete sword insignia on the inside of his arm.
He recognized that mark.
Ten years ago, the Broken River Sect and the Azure Edge Sect had joined forces against the enemy. After that bloody battle, only three people had survived the descent from the mountain. Later, he heard that the sect master had succumbed to his grievous wounds, the disciples had scattered, and even the Ancestral Hall had been burned into an empty shell. For this man to have lived until now was no easy thing.
"You're from the Broken River Sect?"