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

The morning was too quiet.

I sat on the edge of the cot, bare feet against the cool wood floor, eyes fixed on the tent flap. The fire had long gone out. My tea had gone cold. But I couldn't bring myself to move.

Not because I was tired. Not because I was hurting.

But because I could still smell blood on the wind.

It wasn't mine this time.

I ran my fingers over the inside of my wrist, tracing where the bruises had started to fade. The skin there was nearly clean now—healed faster than it should've. The body remembered everything, but it refused to stay weak.

A knock brushed the post like a question. I didn't speak.

The flap opened anyway.

Shi Yaozu stepped inside without sound, black eyes sharp as ever. He wore no armor. Just a high-collared black tunic with the edge of his blade visible at his hip. His presence settled into the room like a shadow that knew it belonged.

"There's hot water outside," he said. "You haven't bathed."

"Neither have you," I replied without looking up.

He didn't deny it.

Instead, he moved to the table and began pouring tea from the fresh pot someone had left before dawn. A silent offering. No one came near my tent unless they had a death wish or were explicitly ordered. I doubted anyone wanted to be either.

Yaozu handed me a cup without comment and took the seat across from me. His hands were scraped. Not enough to hinder. Just enough to show me that he'd worked last night.

Quiet deaths. No mercy.

I sipped the tea. Still bitter.

"How many?" I asked.

"Seventeen confirmed." He looked up. "Five more missing."

"Good."

He didn't blink.

"You don't want the count?" he asked softly.

I met his eyes. "I trust you to know who deserved it."

That was all.

He bowed his head once, the smallest flicker of something strange passing through his expression—something close to reverence, or maybe relief.

"I saw Mingyu at sunrise," he added after a moment. "He was reading over the last batch of names with Deming."

"And?"

"He wants to speak with you. Alone."

Of course he did.

I drained the rest of the cup and stood, brushing hair back from my face. My robes were still dark from the night before, but I didn't change. There was no point pretending I wasn't the one who helped bring the camp to heel.

Yaozu stepped aside as I passed him. "He's at the cliff," he murmured.

I didn't ask which one. I already knew.

—

The wind was stronger on the rise. Cold enough to sting, but clean. It peeled away the stench of camp and reminded me that we were alive. That we'd won something—however briefly.

Zhu Mingyu stood with his back to me, hands clasped behind him, hair lifted gently by the breeze.

I didn't speak as I approached. Just stood beside him and looked down over the southern plain. The scorched line of last week's battle had already faded into frostbitten grass.

"I thought it would feel different," he said.

"What?"

"Winning."

My mouth twitched. "We haven't won anything yet."

He looked over, eyes catching mine with unguarded weight. "You know what I mean."

Yes. I did.

We'd turned the court upside down. We'd eliminated threats in a single night. We had the Red Demon Army under our command, the generals at our heels, and the ministers too afraid to breathe without permission.

And yet—

"Baiguang will retaliate," I said.

"I'm counting on it," he replied.

Silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable but heavy.

He turned to me then, really turned, and looked at me the way he had that night in the palace garden. The night I climbed out of a trunk and ruined the game they thought they were playing.

"I've told the Empress to start preparing," he said.

"For war?" I asked.

"For a new kind of rule," he corrected. "She's not moving soldiers. She's moving pieces. People. She's remaking the palace from the inside out. One servant at a time."

My lips curved. "Sounds familiar."

"It should. She's taking after you."

That startled something in me.

He reached up and tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear without asking. Not like a lover. Not like a prince. Just… like a man who had chosen something and wouldn't let go.

"Do you regret any of it?" he asked.

I looked out over the horizon. The wind bit at my face.

"No," I said. "I only regret that I didn't do it sooner."

His hand fell back to his side.

Then, quietly, "Do you hate me for letting it happen?"

I turned to him. "Letting what happen?"

"The cage. The drugs. The plan." His voice didn't shake. But it lowered. "I should have stopped it before it began. I should have burned every person that dared lay hands on you."

My jaw tightened. "You couldn't have. Not without revealing yourself."

"I should have anyway."

The words hit something I hadn't realized was still sore.

And maybe that was the point.

"I don't need you to feel guilty," I said finally. "I need you to hold the line while I build the storm."

He blinked once.

"Done," he said. "It's yours."

The wind blew harder.

Below us, the camp stirred like a waking beast. The Red Demons knew who they served now. And they didn't serve the Emperor.

Mingyu reached into his sleeve and passed me a small scroll, tied with red cord. "From the north," he said. "Baiguang."

I unrolled it slowly.

A single name was written in ink that had bled from frost:

Li Xuejian.

Below it, four characters scratched in a rushed, female hand:

He believes me. He's coming.

I folded the message and met Mingyu's eyes.

"Then let him come."

Mingyu didn't flinch when I said it. His shoulders didn't tighten. His gaze didn't drop.

That was the difference between him and everyone else.

He didn't cower when the world tilted—he climbed.

"The men believe in you now," he said after a moment. "Even the Red Demons. They saw the battlefield. They saw the purge. You gave them a reason to bow without ever asking them to."

I scoffed. "Fear isn't belief."

"It is when it's paired with awe."

I turned back to the cliffs, letting the wind rake through my sleeves. Below, the camp stretched in organized rows—silent, watchful. Like a chessboard half-conquered, the next moves uncertain.

"He'll come for me," I said, nodding once to the scroll still in my hand. "Li Xuejian. He'll make it personal."

"He already has," Mingyu said.

I studied him from the corner of my eye. "Are you ready for that?"

He met my gaze—steady, quiet, resolute.

"I was ready the moment they touched you."

I smiled, slow and cold.

"Good," I whispered. "Then let's give him something to bleed for."