"The smallest step, taken in despair,


    Is still part of the eternal dance.


    For the dance cares not for strength,


    Only that you continue to move."


    From the Songs of the Eternal Dance, The Holy Verses of Tiowuzhe


    Bai Qingyu woke to grey dawn and pain. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or why his shoulder throbbed with pain. Then he tried to move, and everything came back—the roaring metal beast, the cold sea, of dragging the prince through the surf to this meager shelter.


    Xueying lay still, his head resting in Qingyu’s lap where exhaustion had taken them both. In the weak light, bruises darkened his temple, but it was the gash above his brow that worried Qingyu most. Blood had matted his hair, and the jagged wound seeped sluggishly despite Qingyu’s attempts to bind it. The bolt embedded in his thigh had stained his white robes black, and his skin was now warm—too warm.


    They couldn’t stay here. The overhang barely kept the drizzle off, and the beach lay too exposed. Any passing black ship would see them as clearly as signal fires.


    Qingyu eased out from under Xueying, every motion pulling fresh pain through his shoulder. The beach bore the story of last night’s battle—broken planks, torn canvas, and coils of rope washed up like beached sea snakes. To the south, sheer cliffs rose impenetrable. To the north, a steep bank led up toward what looked like woods.


    He crawled back under the overhang after a brief glance out to sea. Empty now, save for floating wreckage being rolled onto the rocky beach by restless waves.


    “I have to move you,” Qingyu said quietly. “I’m sorry, but we have to find better shelter.”


    The prince, of course, didn’t answer.


    Walking the beach felt surreal after the night’s fight against the sea, as though the world had forgotten the struggle. Qingyu gathered what he could—lengths of rope not yet stiff with salt, planks that hadn’t splintered into uselessness. Each motion dragged fire through his injured shoulder, and the cut along his ribs pulled fresh with every bend.


    The work gave him purpose, kept his thoughts from lingering on Xueying’s stillness or the empty horizon. He forced himself to focus on practical things—testing knots one-handed, finding planks sturdy enough to bear weight.


    He’d helped build chicken coops when he was small, and watched the palace carpenters at their work. Now, he tried to recall their methods—how they joined weak pieces to make something strong, something that could carry what it must. His first attempt at a sled fell apart under its own weight. The second held better, though the rope creaked ominously at every joint.


    The meager, hidden sun climbed higher as he worked, though the drizzle persisted. Qingyu’s hands collected new cuts from rough wood and rope, and his good arm trembled with strain. The sled seemed solid enough now. It would have to be.


    Moving Xueying onto it proved harder than he’d imagined. The prince was all muscle, solid as temple stones, and Qingyu’s useless shoulder meant he could only lift with one arm. His first attempt ended with both of them sprawled back on the sand, stars bursting in his vision from pain.


    The second try went better. Qingyu braced himself carefully, used his legs more than his arms. Xueying didn’t stir as he was arranged onto the planks, his head stabilized and the embedded bolt carefully avoided.


    “I’m sorry,” Qingyu murmured, though he wasn’t sure what for—the crude sled, or what lay ahead. The slope leading to the woods seemed steeper with each glance.


    He fashioned a crude harness from a length of rope, looping it across his chest and good shoulder. The first step forward felt impossible, the second only slightly less so.


    But he kept moving.


    The slope seemed to grow steeper with every step. Wet grass and loose soil shifted underfoot, threatening his balance. The rope bit into his chest, dragging at him with the weight of both the sled and Xueying. Every few paces, he had to stop, brace himself, and ensure the sled hadn’t shifted too much behind him.


    Xueying’s breathing grew more labored. The bolt needed to come out—Qingyu knew that much from watching palace healers work. But not here, not while they were balanced on this precarious incline, where one wrong move could send them both tumbling back to the beach.


    The tremors in his legs started in his calves and worked their way upward. His thighs burned with effort, and his mind flickered to the last meal he’d eaten. Yesterday morning? Or was it the day before? Time felt like an enemy now, slippery and untethered since the battle at the river’s mouth.


    Another step. The rope slid against wet cloth, found skin, and bit deep. His injured shoulder throbbed with a dull, twisted sensation that made his stomach churn, and the cut along his ribs burned with each breath.


    He lost his footing, catching himself just before the sled slid backward. The sudden strain tore something in his good shoulder, sharp enough to make his vision blur. He scrambled to steady the sled, heart pounding in his ears.


    Don’t think about how far. Don’t think about what comes next. Just one more step. Just this breath. This moment.


    His grandmother’s words came back to him: courage wasn’t the absence of fear—it was doing what needed to be done, even when it felt impossible. Qingyu gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the rope, and took another step.


    And another.


    The top of the slope came as morning aged toward noon, though the overcast sky dulled the passage of time. Qingyu collapsed beside the sled, his legs trembling too violently to hold him. For a moment, he could only breathe, letting the shaking in his muscles ease into something bearable.


    The woods began a stone’s throw away—dense and shadowed, not the sparse tree lines of coastal forests. Somewhere in that green, tangled darkness might lie the shelter and water they needed. But even here, on the ridge, they were too exposed. The sea lay open behind them, and any black ship passing would spot them without effort.


    Qingyu glanced at Xueying. The prince’s skin had taken on an unhealthy sheen, sweat beading along his brow, near black crusted blood around the bolt wound. The flesh was darkened and hot to the touch, radiating heat even through damp cloth. Signs of corruption. Qingyu had seen it before in fishermen who waited too long to tend their wounds.


    "A little further," he told Xueying''s still face. "Just... just let me catch my breath."


    But even that rest was borrowed time. They lay too exposed here at the bank’s crest, visible from both sea and shore. Qingyu forced himself up, finding his legs would bear him if he didn’t think too much about it. The harness felt heavier as he slipped it back on, the rope now slick where sweat and blood had soaked through his clothes.


    The forest gathered them into green shadows. Qingyu chose his path carefully, trying to find ground smooth enough for the sled. Each root and hollow became a fresh challenge. Twice he had to stop and rebuild parts of the sled where rough ground had loosened his knots.


    He lost track of time, of distance. The world narrowed to the next few steps, the next obstacle, the next small victory against terrain and exhaustion. His body moved through a haze of pain, somehow continuing even when his mind insisted it couldn’t.


    The bolt had to come out. Qingyu’s hands trembled as he examined it, trying to remember everything he’d seen in the palace healing rooms. The metal disappeared into flesh at an angle, emerging again at the back of the thigh. At least it hadn’t hit bone—the prince’s leg bent properly when Qingyu checked.


    But first, the cloth had to come away. Qingyu hesitated, heat rising to his cheeks despite the cool air beneath the trees. He’d never seen someone so... exposed before, except his brother during sparring matches—and that didn’t count. Brothers didn’t make you feel this kind of awkwardness, like your hands didn’t know where they belonged or your eyes might betray you.


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    “This isn’t the time to be shy,” he muttered to himself, though it didn’t make things easier. The prince’s robes were soaked through with blood and sweat, clinging to the lines of his body in ways Qingyu knew he shouldn’t notice but couldn’t entirely ignore. He worked as quickly as shaking hands would allow, peeling the fabric back enough to bare the wound.


    It didn’t help that the prince was... well, beautiful, even like this. His skin, marred by bruises and blood, still held a quality that made Qingyu’s stomach feel unsettled. He swallowed hard and focused on the task. “It’s just anatomy,” he told himself, though the words rang hollow.


    By the time he reached the bolt, his face was burning, and he’d all but given up on understanding why this made him feel so unmoored. “This will hurt,” he told the unconscious prince. “I’m sorry.”


    The bolt didn’t want to come free. Qingyu had to brace himself, gripping the metal with both hands despite his shoulder’s protest. The first pull made Xueying stir, a sound escaping him that Qingyu never wanted to hear again. But the bolt moved, sliding through flesh with a sickening sound that turned Qingyu’s stomach.


    Blood followed, darker than it should be. Qingyu pressed herbs into both wounds, murmuring a quiet prayer his grandmother had taught him. The paste felt cool under his fingers, but the warmth radiating from Xueying’s leg didn’t lessen. He worked quickly, binding the thigh with strips torn from his own robe, tying them securely despite the trembling in his hands.


    His vision blurred as he tightened the last knot. Too much strain, too little food, too many hours running on necessity. But he couldn’t rest yet. Xueying’s face had taken on a greyness that scared him, and fever heat radiated from his skin.


    Qingyu forced himself up, legs shaking beneath him. Water. They needed water. And better shelter than these trees provided. And food, if he could find it. And...


    The ground tilted sideways. Qingyu caught himself against a tree trunk, bark rough under his palm. Just a moment’s rest. Just a breath.


    Just…


    Qingyu woke to shadow-shifts in the leaves above. He’d slid down the tree trunk at some point, though he couldn’t remember falling. His shoulder had stiffened into uselessness, and new pain bloomed everywhere his body touched ground.


    Xueying’s breathing had grown worse.


    Qingyu forced himself up, using the tree for support. The forest blurred, then steadied. He’d wasted precious time unconscious, letting exhaustion take him when Xueying needed...


    A sound cut through his thoughts—water moving over stone. Not the sea’s rhythm, but something smaller, cleaner. A stream perhaps, or...


    He followed the sound, careful to mark his path back to Xueying. Each step felt like learning to walk again, his legs threatening to fold beneath him. But the sound grew clearer, resolving into the music of fresh water meeting rock.


    The stream ran clear and quick, deep enough to drink from. Qingyu fell rather than knelt beside it, cupped water one-handed to his mouth. The cold shock of it brought his mind a little clearer, enough to think about what came next.


    He had nothing to carry water in. His outer robe was already torn for bandages, but the inner one... Qingyu struggled out of it, leaving just his lightest layer. The silk would hold water for a little while, at least.


    The walk back to Xueying seemed longer, though Qingyu knew it couldn''t be more than a hundred paces. The prince hadn''t moved, but heat radiated from him now like a banked fire. When Qingyu pressed the wet silk to his forehead, it felt like the cloth might sizzle.


    "Don''t," Qingyu said quietly. "Don''t you dare die after I dragged you this far."


    He needed to find better shelter, gather more herbs, make something to carry water properly. But his body had other ideas. The ground tilted again as he tried to stand, and this time he couldn''t fight it.


    The last thing he saw was afternoon light turning leaves to green flame above them.


    Dreams came in fragments. His mother’s voice singing festival songs. The roar of a great black metal beast splitting the air. Xueying standing in the council hall, light catching his face. Black water closing over Qingyu’s head. All of it mixing, turning, becoming something else...


    Qingyu woke to darkness and the prince’s fever-mumbled words. The night air had turned cold, carrying new sounds—small things moving through leaves, larger things passing in the distance. His body felt hollow, scraped clean of everything but bone-deep exhaustion and the various songs of pain from shoulder, ribs, everywhere.


    But Xueying’s skin burned beneath Qingyu’s fingers. The fever had taken stronger hold while Qingyu slept, and now the prince’s breathing hitched and caught between words Qingyu couldn’t understand.


    “No,” Qingyu said to the darkness. “No, I didn’t carry you this far to lose you now.”


    He found the stream again by sound and starlight, soaked what remained of his robe. The cold water shocked his mind clearer, enough to remember other herbs his grandmother used for fever. Night made searching harder, but his fingers knew the shapes of leaves, the texture of stems.


    The prince fought him when Qingyu tried to press the wet cloth to his forehead, tried to get him to drink. Strong even in delirium, all that warrior’s training turned to mindless struggle. Qingyu had to wrap both arms around him, ignore his shoulder’s screaming protest, just to keep him still enough to swallow water and herbs.


    “Please,” Qingyu said, though he didn’t know if he was talking to Xueying, the gods, or himself. “Please.”


    The night stretched endless. Qingyu lost count of how many times he went back to the stream, how many times he gathered fresh herbs when the old ones dried. The prince’s fever seemed to burn through everything Qingyu tried, turning his skin to fire, his scattered words to smoke.


    Somewhere in that long darkness, Qingyu found himself talking. Telling Xueying about Dolphin Bay’s festivals, about the temple cat who slept in sun puddles, about watching his mother dance. Small things, ordinary things, memories of home that felt like dreams now. He sang to him, harbor songs and temple songs, the song to call the morning tide.


    Just before dawn, the prince’s fever broke.


    Morning light found Qingyu sitting against a tree trunk, Xueying’s head still cradled in his lap. The prince’s breathing had steadied, his skin no longer burning beneath Qingyu’s touch. But the victory felt distant, unreal. Everything did.


    He needed to move them. Find better shelter, find food, check the prince’s wounds. His mind formed the list of tasks like temple prayers, each one necessary, each one impossible. His body had passed exhaustion somewhere in the night, moved into a place where even breathing felt like too much effort.


    Just a moment’s rest. Just...


    He woke to movement. Xueying had turned his head, eyes still closed but moving beneath their lids. Natural sleep now, not fever dreams. Qingyu watched the prince’s face, seeing it properly for the first time since their desperate swim. Younger like this, the composed mask of council chambers was replaced by something more delicate.


    A branch snapped in the forest.


    Qingyu’s mind cleared instantly. They were still too exposed, too vulnerable. Anyone could find them here—traders, villagers, or whatever forces commanded those black ships. His body protested as he tried to rise, but he forced it to move anyway.


    “I know,” he told his shaking legs, his useless shoulder, his vision that kept trying to grey at the edges. “I know, but we’re not done yet.”


    He’d seen a hollow in the hillside earlier, half-hidden by brush. Not far, but every step felt like walking underwater. The prince stirred again as Qingyu checked his wounds but didn’t wake. The leg looked better—still angry red around the wound, but no longer that terrible darkness that had scared him in the night.


    Another branch snapped, closer this time.


    Qingyu reached for the rope harness with hands he could barely feel. Just a little further. Just one more effort.


    Just one more impossible thing.


    Getting Xueying back onto the sled proved almost impossible. Qingyu’s arms wouldn’t work properly, his shoulder screamed with every movement, and the prince’s dead weight seemed to have doubled since yesterday. Twice he had to stop, pressing his forehead against cool earth, waiting for the world to stop spinning.


    More sounds from the forest. Deliberate movement now, coming closer.


    The hollow lay just fifty paces away. It might as well have been fifty leagues. Qingyu’s legs shook with each step, the harness bit into raw skin, and his vision kept fading at the edges. But stopping wasn’t a choice anymore. Not with unknown feet approaching through morning shadows.


    Thirty paces. His breath came in gasps that seemed too loud. Everything seemed too loud—the scrape of the sled’s runners, the rustle of leaves, his own heart beating too fast in his ears.


    Twenty paces. The sounds behind them grew clearer—voices now, though too distant to make out words. Qingyu tried to move faster, but his body had nothing left to give. Each step forward felt like fighting the tide.


    Ten paces. The hollow waited, deep enough to hide them if he could just...


    His legs gave out. Qingyu fell forward, catching himself on hands he couldn’t feel anymore. Behind him, Xueying made a small sound—the first since his fever broke. The voices in the forest grew closer.


    “Please,” Qingyu whispered to legs that wouldn’t move, to arms that wouldn’t lift. “Please, just a little more.”


    He’d carried the prince through cold water, dragged him up that endless bank, tended his wounds through the long night. He couldn’t fail now. Not when they were so close.


    Qingyu forced himself up. One last time. One last effort.


    The hollow seemed to grow more distant with each step, like trying to reach the horizon. Qingyu’s world narrowed to the sound of his own breathing, the burn in his legs, the way his vision darkened and cleared with each heartbeat. One more step. Just one more.


    A voice called out—clear now, too clear. Words in a river dialect Qingyu barely understood. He tried to move faster, but his feet tangled beneath him. He caught himself against a tree, bark rough under trembling fingers. The sled scraped against roots and stones, the sound impossibly loud in the morning air.


    Five paces to the hollow. Four. Three.


    “Here! Someone’s here!” The voice came from behind them, followed by running feet.


    Qingyu reached the hollow’s edge, but his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore. He fell, managing to twist so his body sheltered Xueying. Through blurred vision he saw simple clothes, wooden tools—river folk, farmers maybe. Their voices rose in surprise at finding strangers in their woods.


    He tried to speak, to explain about the prince’s wounds, about the fever and what herbs he’d used. But the words wouldn’t come. His body had nothing left to give.


    The last thing Qingyu heard was their voices speaking rapid river dialect, calling for their healer. The last thing he felt was Xueying’s steady breathing beneath his protecting arm.


    Then darkness took him, gentle as temple bells at evening prayer.