The wind had a strange note to it — not the howl of winter, but the hiss of something cutting through air.
Xiyue heard it first.
Xiyue: "Move."
An instant later, an arrow punched through the vine curtain where Ruo Han's head had been a heartbeat ago, splintering against the stone.
Feng Lian cursed, dragging himself upright, but there was no time. Figures in wolfskin cloaks spilled down the cliff path — too many to count, each armed with curved sabers and wicked hooks.
Ruo Han's fan snapped open with a metallic shhkk, the iron ribs catching the dawn light.
Xiyue was already on his feet, sword flashing free like a streak of ice.
The first wave rushed in. Xiyue met them head-on, cutting low, driving them back. A hook skimmed past his shoulder — and before the attacker could pull away, Ruo Han's fan blade slashed across the man's throat.
They shifted instinctively, backs pressing together. Xiyue's sword sang in wide arcs, forcing space; Ruo Han struck at openings, sharp and surgical, each movement meant to cripple rather than kill.
Feng Lian, still half-lame from his wound, took position near the fire, tossing smoke-blackened knives with deadly accuracy.
Ruo Han (without looking): "Your form's too rigid."
Xiyue: "Yours is too reckless."
Ruo Han: "And yet you're still alive."
Xiyue: "Because you are, too."
Another arrow whistled in — Xiyue caught it mid-flight with the flat of his blade, snapping the shaft in one motion.
When the last wolfskin dropped, the snow was littered with bodies and steam from hot blood against ice.
Xiyue turned, meeting Ruo Han's gaze for a moment too long. Neither spoke. Their breathing was loud in the sudden stillness, each aware of the heat where their shoulders had pressed.
Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded — deep and low. Reinforcements.