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

The brothel on Lotus Street was unnaturally still that night.

No laughter spilled from behind silk screens. No music drifted on the breeze. Even the painted girls kept their heads low, as if the shadows themselves were listening. Word of the executions had reached the capital by nightfall. And wherever whispers gathered, the name Yan Luo soon followed.

Upstairs, in the innermost chamber overlooking the koi pond, Yan Luo stretched out on a divan upholstered in imperial red, a half-empty wine cup dangling from his fingers. His robes were loose, more artfully so than accidental, with gold thread catching the lamplight in sharp, flickering lines.

He wasn't drunk. He rarely was. But he played the part well—lazy, indifferent, a fox too full to bother with the hunt.

Until the flutter of wings broke the silence.

A soft thump echoed against the lacquered floorboards. He didn't move at first, only let one eye slide open beneath heavy lids. A pigeon—sleek, gray, and carrying a message tube lashed to its leg—waited by the windowsill, feathers ruffled from a long journey through winter winds.

He smiled. A sharp, knowing smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"Well," he murmured, pushing himself upright with a stretch. "And here I thought Baiguang had forgotten how to beg."

Behind him, the courtesan in lavender rose quietly from her cushion, her head bowed. She moved toward the bird, but Yan Luo stopped her with a flick of his fan.

"No," he said smoothly. "That one's for me." Rising to his feet, he walked over to where the bird was.

Crouching down beside the bird, he unfastened the scroll, and unrolled it between two fingers. The ink had bled slightly from snowmelt, but the message was legible.

"Daiyu has betrayed everything it promised. The Crown Prince tried to ruin our Princess, but she resisted. We want information. We are willing to pay whatever it takes. Bai Yuyan will be avenged. Daiyu will fall."

Yan Luo's smile thinned.

He read it again. Then once more, slower this time, savoring every line like a man inspecting a blade he hadn't yet decided to use.

"They believe their own fantasy," he said, more to himself than to the girl behind him. "Bai Yuyan, avenged? As if truth has ever mattered in a war of perception."

He stood and crossed to the low table near the balcony, tossing the scroll aside like it offended him. One foot nudged the pigeon gently toward the open air. "Go back. Let them wait."

The bird hesitated, then took off with a flap of wings and vanished into the fog.

The girl behind him was still watching, cautiously.

"Will you respond?" she asked softly.

Yan Luo poured another cup of wine and swirled it lazily. "Eventually. But not to the one who sent it."

He took a slow sip. "I'll send it to the man who will read between the lines. Crown Prince Li Xuejian may believe in virtue and vengeance—but I want to see who he fears most. Who he asks about in the dark." He paused for a moment, looking back over at the scroll. "And if he will keep believing everything his wife tells him."

He set the wine aside and walked to the far end of the room, where a tall cabinet stood behind an embroidered curtain. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it to reveal a map of the continent. It was old, cracked, and marked with dozens of tiny knives stuck into its surface, but it was one of his prized possessions.

His fingers moved with purpose.

One to the north: Baiguang's capital.

One to the west: the haunted mountains.

Another, just south of Daiyu's border, where the latest reports spoke of moving armies and scorched fields.

And one, a singular, gleaming, polished finger, pressed directly into the center of the map.

Daiyu's heart.

Not the Capital, not the thing that ministers brag about and merchants get paid fortunes for even the smallest of things.

But her.

He didn't whisper her name. Not even alone. Not even now.

To speak it was to make it vulnerable. He knew he had enemies. Men that would stop at nothing to pull him down from his throne. And she was his greatest weakness…

And his source of strength.

The girl behind him took a step forward. "Is this about her?"

Yan Luo scoffed, shooting her a look of disgust before returning his attention to the map in front of him. "Everything is about her."

"But they think you're a neutral party. The King of Hell who doesn't care about mere mortals," she reminded him softly. She didn't want to annoy him. He paid her handsomely for just sitting there and pretending to be something more than what she was.

And she didn't want to lose that.

He finally looked over his shoulder, the gold in his eyes darkening. "That's because I let them."

He moved back to the divan and sat, spreading the map across the table again. "They all think they're playing a great game. Mingyu with his throne. Baiguang with its vengeance. Yuyan with her wounded pride and clever lies. But I've already seen the ending."

"And what is it?" the girl whispered.

He smiled. "Fire. But not where they expect."

He lifted another message from the table—one far older than the one from Baiguang. It bore no seal. Only a single character etched in crimson wax.

Hell.

A flick of his finger opened it.

Inside, the names of men recently executed by Mingyu.

Inside, the list he'd leaked weeks ago.

Not all at once. Not too directly. Just enough to push, to tilt, to see if the Crown Prince had it in him.

And apparently, he did.

Sun Yizhen let out a slow breath and leaned back again, arms spread along the divan like a ruler contemplating his next move.

"He's finally stopped pretending," he said.

"Zhu Mingyu?" the girl asked.

"No," he said, eyes half-closed. "The Villainous Crown Prince."

She blinked. "But that's just a rumor. One that people think is just a story."

Yan Luo turned his face to hers, quiet and still. "All stories are real to someone."

He let the silence stretch, then added, almost to himself, "He was never the villain. Just the man willing to burn the world to keep one woman safe."

The girl said nothing.

And Yan Luo closed his eyes once more, smiling faintly.

Let the North send messages. Let the ministers panic. Let the world believe that war was about virtue.

He would answer only when it mattered.

And when he did—

It would not be with words.

It would be with silence, sharpened into a blade, not the dreams they had rather than the truth.