The hut loomed closer — crooked door, walls scarred by time and weather.
Rhea kicked the door once.
It creaked open.
Darkness inside.
She didn't hesitate.
She dragged Ling in, half-carrying her across the threshold just as another gust of rain slammed against the mountainside.
The door fell shut behind them with a hollow thud.
Silence.
Not peace — but shelter.
Rhea lowered Ling carefully to the ground, hands shaking now that adrenaline began to drain. Ling's back hit the wall; her head lolled slightly before she forced it upright.
Blood still seeped beneath the makeshift bandage.
Ling exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded.
"Good… eyes," she murmured.
Rhea knelt in front of her, chest heaving, soaked hair plastered to her face. Anger, fear, relief — all tangled tight in her expression.
"Don't you dare pass out," Rhea said, voice low and furious. "Not now. Not after this."
Ling tried to smirk.
It didn't quite work.
But she stayed awake.
For her.
Rhea's eyes adjusted slowly to the dim.
The hut wasn't empty — just forgotten. Cobwebs clung to the corners, dust layered thick over everything, but near one wall stood a chimney, blackened with old soot. That alone felt like a miracle.
Rhea spotted something near the door — golden bristle grass, dried and bundled, tucked under a cracked shelf.
Hope sparked.
She dragged it toward the chimney, hands numb, fingers clumsy with cold. She crouched, arranging it the way she'd once seen servants do back home, trying to ignore the tremor in her body.
"Fire," she muttered. "We need fire."
She tried lighting it — once, twice.
Nothing.
Her breath hitched in frustration. "Come on—"
Ling, slumped against the wall, pushed herself upright despite the dizziness. "Move."
Rhea turned. "You can't even see straight—"
Ling ignored her.
She grabbed two stones from near the hearth, struck them together with practiced force. Sparks flew — brief, useless.
Again.
Nothing.
Rain hammered the roof above them.
Ling's hand shook now.
"Damn it," she hissed, anger flashing through the weakness.
Then—
A sound.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Rhea froze, heart slamming into her ribs. She turned sharply toward the door, body instinctively shifting in front of Ling.
The door creaked open.
An old man stepped inside — hunched, wrapped in a weathered cloak, beard silvered, eyes sharp as if the storm itself had carved them.
He took one look at them.
At the blood.
At the soaked clothes.
At Ling barely upright.
"You climbed when the mountain warned you," he said calmly.
Rhea's throat went dry. "This— this is your place?"
The old man nodded once. "The jungle is mine to listen to. Not to own."
He crossed the hut without urgency, like this scene had played out before. He gathered the golden bristle grass properly this time, spreading it thick and wide in front of the chimney, shaping it into a rough mattress.
"Sit her there," he said, gesturing at Ling.
Rhea didn't argue.
Together, they lowered Ling onto the dried grass. Ling groaned softly but didn't protest, jaw clenched as always.
The old man crouched, struck flint with practiced ease.
Fire caught instantly.
Flames bloomed warm and real, crackling against the cold silence.
Heat filled the hut.
Rhea's breath stuttered — relief so sharp it almost hurt.
She hugged herself, shaking now that she could.
Ling watched the fire with unfocused eyes, the glow reflecting off blood-streaked skin.
The old man glanced at her head wound. "You're stubborn," he said mildly. "That's why you're still breathing."
Ling huffed faintly. "I get that a lot."
Rhea shot her a look — half anger, half something dangerously close to breaking.
The old man straightened. "Storm will pass by morning. You stay. You don't move."
He looked at Rhea then — really looked.
"You," he said quietly, "keep her warm."
Rhea nodded immediately. "I will."
The man turned toward the door, pausing once more. "The mountain doesn't take lightly to defiance," he added. "But it respects loyalty."
Then he was gone.
The fire crackled.
Warmth crept back into numb skin.
Rhea sat beside Ling, closer now, knees almost touching, eyes fixed on her face.
"Don't try to act strong," Rhea whispered, softer than she meant to be.
Ling's gaze lifted to her.
In the firelight, stripped of power, pride, and control, she looked terrifyingly human.
"I'm not acting you know I'm strong," Ling said quietly.
The old man returned quietly, like he'd never left.
He knelt in front of Ling he untied shirt around ling head then with a small cloth bundle, movements steady, knowing. He cleaned the blood first — Ling hissed through her teeth, jaw locking hard, fingers digging into the dried grass beneath her.
"Easy," he murmured, not unkind. "Head wounds bleed loud, not deep."
Ling's vision swam again, the hut tilting slightly. She squeezed her eyes shut once, then forced them open.
Rhea noticed immediately.
"Hey— look at me," Rhea said, kneeling closer, her voice sharp with fear she refused to soften.
Ling tried to answer.
The words came slower this time.
"I'm… fine."
The old man didn't look convinced. He wrapped the bandage firmly around Ling's head, practiced hands tying it secure. Ling winced again, a low sound she would've hated anyone else hearing.
Her eyes lost focus.
The old man straightened. "That's enough," he said firmly. "Let her sleep now."
Rhea stiffened. "Sleep? No— she can't—"
"She needs it," he interrupted, calm but absolute. "You keep her warm. Don't let her roll. Don't wake her unless she doesn't respond."
He handed Rhea a thick, worn blanket, smelling faintly of smoke and earth.
"Lock the door," he added. "Storm will try tricks at night. I'll come by morning."
Rhea took the blanket with both hands, nodding. "Thank you."
The old man paused at the door, glanced once more at Ling — unconscious now, lashes dark against pale skin — then at Rhea.
"You care loudly," he said.
Then he stepped out into the rain and closed the door behind him.
The lock slid into place with a dull click.
Silence settled again.
Fire crackled softly.
Rhea turned back to Ling.
She hesitated only a second before pulling the blanket over both of them, curling close, pressing her side to Ling's, arm carefully wrapping around her waist to share warmth.
Ling stirred faintly but didn't wake.
Rhea rested her forehead against Ling's shoulder, breath finally slowing.
"Idiot," she whispered, voice breaking despite herself. "Why would you do that… for me…"
No answer.
Only the steady rise and fall of Ling's chest.
Rhea stayed awake.
All night.
Because revenge could wait.
But if Ling stopped breathing —
there would be nothing left to avenge.