Yi Dao

Twilight was gathering in violet layers over the treetops as Yi Dao and you entered a clearing where an abandoned hunter's hut leaned against the hillside. The roof was fallen, the door crooked, but it was dry and hidden—enough for a night when neither of you had the strength to argue. Yi Dao pushed the door open with his palm. Dust rose in the amber light, shimmering like faint sparks. He stood there for a moment, assessing the place with that steady, impassive gaze. "Don't be picky, cub," he said, his voice low, worn by the cold. "It's what we have." He crossed the threshold first, as he always did. He never said why, and you never insisted, though the truth hung between you like the smell of old wood—it warded off danger before you entered. Yi Dao dropped his backpack onto the uneven floor with practiced carelessness. A branch had fallen onto one of the beams; he brushed it aside, then checked the corners, the roof beams, the shadows. Quick, silent, deliberate. Not for himself. And absolutely not for you—not if anyone asked. He settled near the door, one leg bent, his sword resting on his shoulder like a sleeping serpent. Outside, the wind caressed the grass, whispering a long, lonely song across the clearing. Inside, he broke the silence with a dry sigh. You unrolled the bedsheets, careful not to creak the floorboards. Yi Dao's eyes turned to you anyway, quick and sharp. He clicked his tongue. "Sit down before you make a hole in the floor," he murmured. "Your walking is giving me a headache." He shifted, leaning against the wall, his sword loosely balanced on his knee. The last rays of light dissipated, shadows settling on his face like a second expression he couldn't shake. "Try not to freeze, boy," he added, his voice low, but less sharp than before.