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

The Baiguang court was silent.

Not like the hush of reverence during prayers. Not like the respectful silence given during funerals or royal decrees. No—this was the thick, unnatural quiet that came before the breaking of a storm. A silence stretched so taut that any movement, any word, felt like it might snap the world in two.

Crown Prince Li Xuejian stood in the grand hall, cloaked in dark fur and obsidian armor polished to a mirror finish. He had not smiled in days. His gaze was sharp and still, fixed not on the marble floors or golden pillars, but on the map stretched wide across the war table.

The ministers stood at a distance.

They had already offered their opinions. They had already pled caution and patience and diplomacy.

And he had already rejected them all.

"Three regiments from the southern garrisons will ride at dawn," Xuejian said, tracing a line on the map. His voice was smooth but final. "General Wu will take the river pass. We'll cut them off before they can secure their mountain defenses."

"But Your Highness—" a younger minister began.

"That was not a request." His tone didn't shift. His eyes didn't lift. But the minister went pale anyway and bowed in retreat.

Xuejian finally turned away from the map and let his gaze sweep the hall. His crown sat heavy on his head, a woven band of dark steel and sapphire. It had never suited him. Too regal. Too polished. But he wore it now as if it had been forged into his skull.

"Daiyu humiliated this nation," he said, stepping toward the fire that crackled in the center of the room. "They took our princess and treated her like refuse. They tortured her and sent her home to us, broken."

The firelight danced across the set of his jaw.

"She resisted," he said. "And for that alone, Daiyu deserves to kneel."

A murmur rose—approval from some, unease from others.

The elder statesman, Minister Qin, stepped forward. "Your Highness… with respect, are we certain this is what happened? There was no official declaration from Daiyu. No—"

"No official declaration," Xuejian interrupted, voice cold, "because they knew what they did. They didn't think we would respond. They thought we would swallow our pride in exchange for peace."

He reached into his sleeve and tossed something onto the war table.

A bloodstained cloth. Faint embroidery still visible. A fox, outlined in gold thread.

The ministers stared in horror.

"The physicians confirmed it was used to bind one of her wounds. They found it sewn into her shift. Daiyu branded her like livestock and let her bleed into silk. Is that not enough for you?"

Silence. Then one bowed. Then another.

Xuejian turned back toward the hall. The doors loomed tall and dark. He could almost hear the wind howling beyond them.

"She will not be a martyr," he said. "She will not die or be discarded. She will be our Queen."

That was when the guards announced the arrival of General Ma—the head of Baiguang's elite border forces.

The man bowed low, his beard dusted with frost. "The soldiers are ready. Morale is high. Every man at the northern post has pledged himself to vengeance."

"Good." Xuejian descended the steps and handed him a sealed scroll. "Then take this to the outposts. By tomorrow, our banners will rise above the southern plains."

The general took the scroll without hesitation.

And then, just before leaving, he said, "We're all proud of her, Your Highness. Not every woman would have returned alive from what she endured."

Xuejian didn't respond.

He waited until the room was cleared before returning to the window that overlooked the courtyard.

Snow had finally begun to fall—soft and heavy, blanketing the world like a shroud.

Yuyan had refused to see him since the day she woke up.

Too weak, she claimed. Too tired.

He didn't press. Didn't visit. Not yet.

He didn't want to see her like that.

In his mind, she still stood tall and proud—wearing the red silks of their engagement ceremony, her chin tilted high. A woman who had looked at his crown and smiled like it already belonged to her.

He will pay for what he did to you, he thought. And then I will make sure no one ever touches you again.

Behind him, the candles guttered in the rising draft.

He didn't notice.

He stepped closer to the fire and lifted a ceramic kettle, weighing it in his hand before pouring himself a cup. It was a small gesture, but it told his advisors all they needed to know.

He was buying time. Considering.

Finally, Li Xuejian spoke.

"Call my cousin from the southern border," he said. "Tell him to prepare a formal letter of allegiance—but not to send it. Yet."

A murmur of confusion passed through the room.

General Weng spoke first. "Are we not taking sides, Your Highness?"

"We are." Li Xuejian sipped his tea. "Ours."

He walked toward the map, now marked with colored flags—green for Yelan, black for Chixia, red for Daiyu, gold for Baiguang. Only one remained unmarked.

His.

"We are not like the others," he said. "We do not bow to whim or politics. We do not attack blindly. Daiyu is in chaos, yes—but only a fool would walk into a fire without knowing which way the wind is blowing."

The others bowed their heads slightly, acknowledging the sense in his words.

Li Xuejian turned to his secretary. "Send word to the southern vassal states. Remind them of our history with Chixia. Promise food and protection to the villages that remain neutral."

Then he returned to the map. His finger brushed the red-marked capital of Daiyu.

"And send an envoy to the western provinces of Daiyu. Quietly. I want to know whether the people there are loyal to Mingyu—or afraid of him."

A soft cough drew his attention.

One of the younger scholars, pale and trembling, stepped forward. "Your Highness, if I may…"

Xuejian raised a brow. "Speak."

The young man swallowed. "Even if we gain support in Daiyu's west, what happens if Daiyu retaliates? They will not stand for their own defeat. What if they try to come back for the Princess?"

There was a long silence.

Then Li Xuejian nodded slowly. "That is why we prepare. We let Daiyu speak of war, while we build cities behind walls. Let them think they are chasing ghosts while we plant the seeds of empire."

He turned his gaze out the tent flap, where the snow had begun to fall again in slow, lazy flakes.

"Mingyu may burn bright," he murmured, "but fires that burn fast often burn out first. We'll be the ones left standing in the ash."

The generals saluted as one.

And for the first time in months, the tent filled not with fear—but with strategy.

The game had begun. And Li Xuejian would not be outplayed.