The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis

The sound of hooves reached the gates long before the horns were blown. Deep and steady, not the gallop of messengers or the fanfare of nobles—but the thunder of war-trained beasts returning to the city that birthed them.

Sun Longzi rode at the front, alone and silent.

His armor, still streaked with ash from the southern plains, had not been polished for court. His blade had not been sheathed with ceremony. And his expression, chiseled in stone and shadow, gave no deference to the men who lined the palace walls to welcome him home.

Behind him, the Red Demon Army moved like a wound reopened. Thousands of soldiers, formation-perfect despite weeks of battle, marched under crimson banners scorched by fire and torn at the seams. There was no music. No victory songs. Just the sound of boots on earth and breath in lungs that had not yet forgotten the scent of death.

They had been called back from the border before all the small skirmishes had been settled, and the bandits were returning faster and establishing themselves deeper than the Demons could keep up.

But apparently, a traditional hunt for the Northern Crown Princess was more important than the safety of the south.

Zhu Deming rode quietly behind his brother-in-arms, his black horse nearly as scarred as he was. The half-mask covering his face caught the sunlight as they crossed under the imperial arch, glinting briefly before falling back into shadow. He wore no rank on his chest, no colors of house or crown. Only the edge of his blade, and the memory of the woman who had walked through fire to protect them both.

The palace bells rang once. Then twice.

And then the gates opened fully.

A crowd had gathered despite the short notice. Ministers stood along the veranda, their backs stiff and their eyes calculating. Eunuchs whispered names beneath their breath. And high above, from the silk-covered pavilions, the women of the court leaned delicately against railings to see the men who had survived what none thought survivable.

But it wasn't the Red Demons who drew the whispers.

It was the woman walking ten paces behind them, perfectly veiled in violet, her hands hidden in her sleeves, her pace unhurried. Her robes shimmered with Baiguang embroidery. Every thread told a story. Every step, a declaration.

Lady Huai. The one chosen by the Duchess of Sun, Sun Longzi's mother, for him to marry immediately. His betrothed.

She did not greet him.

He did not turn to acknowledge her.

And the entire court saw it.

From the rightmost portico, Mingyu watched it all unfold. He said nothing, but his gaze lingered a little longer than necessary on his second brother, noting the slump in his shoulders, the quiet way he looked not toward the crowd but toward the gardens—toward the eastern wing where a certain woman had not made her presence known.

"She's not here," said a voice behind him.

Mingyu didn't turn.

General Wei stepped to his side and continued in a low murmur. "I checked her residence. Not even the guards were there. It's quiet as a monk's shrine."

"She's preparing," said Mingyu calmly.

"For what?" the general asked.

Mingyu smiled faintly. "For war. She always is."

The arrival procession ended as the Emperor's voice rang out from the throne hall, low and booming.

"You return with blood on your swords," he said. "Good. It will keep them sharp."

The generals bowed. Sun Longzi said nothing. Zhu Deming followed suit with the quiet obedience of a man who understood that sometimes, survival meant silence.

Later, after the formalities and the ceremonial handwashing of armor, the inner court gathered once more under the bronze parasol tree. Lanterns had been lit despite the daylight, and the air buzzed with the tension of what came next.

The Emperor stood slowly and raised a hand.

"This hunt," he said, "will not be a game."

He let the silence stretch.

"It will be a stage. The world is watching Daiyu. They think we are tired from war. Broken from rebellion. We will show them how wrong they are."

He turned his head slowly to the newcomers. "Let the generals ride. Let the princes come out of their palaces and earn their bloodline. Let Baiguang see that we do not invite guests into our traditions—we demand that they survive them."

The words landed like a gauntlet on marble.

Sun Longzi said nothing, but his eyes met Mingyu's across the gathering. A moment passed. No nod. No signal. Just understanding.

It was just the beginning.

-----

Elsewhere, in a shaded courtyard framed by climbing wisteria, a quiet figure stood at the edge of a koi pond and watched the ripples distort her reflection.

Lady Huai stood alone, her hands folded over her abdomen, eyes locked on the reflection of a man who hadn't so much as spared her a glance.

He hadn't spoken to her since the letters were exchanged.

She knew what that meant.

Behind her, another woman sat quietly on the stone steps, half her hair still tied with a soldier's knot.

Xiaoyun. The younger sister of a soldier who had died beneath Longzi's command. She had followed him to the capital under the Empress Dowager's blessing, saying she wished to serve in mourning.

But everyone knew better.

"He didn't even look at you," she said softly.

Lady Huai's jaw tightened. "He's tired."

"He looked at the girl with the sword," Xiaoyun added, brushing her fingers across the edge of a tea cup. "The one they whisper about. The one they say can call mist and fire."

"I am his match," Lady Huai replied, voice level. "Chosen by blood. Trained for court. That girl—she's nothing more than a shadow."

Xiaoyun said nothing.

Because shadows had teeth. And they were watching.

------

Zhu Deming stood near the edge of the training grounds, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade. His mask caught a ray of the setting sun, and for a moment, the scar beneath it itched with the memory of ash and pain.

"She's not here," came a voice behind him.

He didn't turn. He didn't need to.

"She will be," he said.

Sun Longzi stepped into the clearing beside him. "Do you think she knows what's coming?"

Deming gave a quiet breath. "She doesn't need to."

"Because she's planning it?" Longzi asked.

Deming didn't answer.

Instead, he looked up toward the horizon. The sky had begun to shift, the edges curling orange and violet. A storm was coming—not one of weather, but of blood and pride and poisoned ambition.

"She doesn't just walk into chaos," Deming said. "She waits for it to bow."

Sun Longzi looked at him for a long moment. And for the first time, perhaps, saw his brother-in-arms not just as a soldier, but as a man standing in the path of something vast and unknown, and choosing not to move.

The generals had returned.

The hunt was set.

And the Witch was already planning something that had the hair on the back of her men's neck standing tall.