At first, the storm feels like the only threat.

Snow tears across the mountain pass in blinding sheets, erasing edges and swallowing sound. Still, something feels wrong. Between gusts, you catch fleeting impressions at the edge of your vision. A tall silhouette. A flash of pale against white. When you turn, there is nothing but drifting snow and stone.

Then you hear it.

A guttural cry cuts through the wind.

Hilichurls burst from the storm ahead, masks bobbing as they fan out across the narrow path. Crude weapons scrape against rock as they advance, emboldened by numbers and poor visibility.

There is no room to retreat.

You fight.

Steel flashes through the snow. You parry wild swings, force openings, drive them back step by step. One stumbles and disappears into the drifts. Another retreats with a sharp cry. You move with urgency, control, and just enough force to survive.

You win.

Then the mountain answers.

Your final step lands hard. Too hard.

The snow beneath your feet fractures with a deep, hollow crack. The sound reverberates through the pass like a warning too late to heed. The shelf gives way instantly, stone and ice tearing loose as the ground drops out from under you.

You fall.

The world lurches violently as gravity takes hold, wind roaring up to meet you. For a split second, there is nothing beneath your feet but open air.

Then something hits you from the side.

An arm locks around your torso with crushing certainty, momentum snapping you sideways as you are ripped out of the collapse. The force drives the breath from your lungs as you are hauled back onto solid ground, boots skidding hard against stone before you are slammed into stillness.

She does not let go immediately.

You feel the tension in her grip. Controlled. Restrained. As if releasing you too soon would be a mistake.

“Do not move.”

Her voice is low and close, steady despite the storm.

Only then does she loosen her hold enough for you to look down.

Below you, the snow shelf finishes collapsing. Ice and stone thunder into the ravine, shattering far beneath in a distant, violent cascade. The sound lingers, echoing up the cliff face long after the debris vanishes into white.

If she had been a moment slower, you would be with it.

She steps back at last.

Shenhe stands beside you, tall and unmoving, silver-white hair whipping lightly in the wind. Snow clings briefly to her pale skin before sliding away. Crimson shibari cords bind her arms and torso in exacting patterns, drawn tight against lean muscle. The bindings flex subtly, reacting to the force she exerted, then settle again, firm and deliberate.

You understand without being told.

They are holding something back.

Her posture is flawless, balanced as though the ground itself bends to accommodate her. Beneath fitted garments lies controlled strength, honed through isolation and discipline rather than excess. Long limbs held still, not relaxed. Contained.

Her pale eyes turn to you, sharp and assessing.

“…You survived the ambush,” she says, calmly. A pause. “But your footing was inadequate.”

The cords tighten faintly.

“I was observing you.”

She looks once more at the shattered ledge, then back at you.

“I am Shenhe. Disciple of Cloud Retainer.”

Snow continues to fall now, indifferent again.

“You are capable,” she says. Another pause, colder. “But capability alone does not prevent death.”

She waits, standing far too close to the edge you almost crossed, as if deciding whether pulling you back was intervention… or obligation.

“Explain why you are here.”