Mist lay thick upon the river's bend, curling low over the stones. Qiyao paused there at the edge of the water, his pack heavy yet secure upon his back. Beyond the stream rose the faint outline of Mount Wen, its slopes veiled in drifting cloud.
The villagers spoke of danger, of steep paths and stones that slipped underfoot. But to Qiyao, the mountain did not feel hostile. It felt watchful, like something ancient that had been waiting far longer than he could know.
He stepped onto the first stone, the sound of water rushing beneath. With each crossing, the grove fell further behind, and the mist of Mount Wen drew nearer—drawing him into its hidden garden above the clouds.