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

The night air was bitter, and the mountain wind had teeth.

I pulled my cloak tighter as I crossed the southern ridge. The guards didn't stop me—none would. I had no formal patrol to inspect. No official reason to be out this far. But with Mingyu returned, Yaozu had finally left my side for a few hours to handle his own reports. And in his absence, the silence pressed closer than usual.

So I followed the firelight, promising to myself that I would be back before he got home.

It glimmered from the cliffs like a quiet promise—one of the forward Red Demon camps, half-hidden behind frost-glazed trees and the curve of rock. It wasn't far. But it was enough distance to be forgotten.

I stepped past the outer ring of guards, none of whom looked up. Not when they saw my boots. Not when they saw my eyes. My presence needed no explanation.

Deming was there.

Not in a tent, but crouched beside the dying embers of a fire pit, his sleeves rolled up and his sword unbuckled at his side. He wasn't tending wounds. He wasn't drilling troops.

He was polishing the blade himself.

I didn't speak at first.

Just watched the curve of his back and the strength in his shoulders as he worked a soft cloth over the metal, each stroke precise and even. He could've ordered a soldier to do it. He had once. But not tonight.

And not since the green ribbon.

It was tied to the hilt of his sword, knotted tight near the crossguard—bright against the dull steel and leather, as if daring anyone to ask about it.

Deming looked up when I approached.

"I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me," he said quietly.

"I never forget what's mine."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Even when you leave it out in the cold?"

"You look warm enough to me."

He laughed softly and straightened, resting the sword across his knees as he sat back on the log behind him. His face was tired, streaked faintly with soot and windburn, but his eyes were clear.

"Your Highness," he said, nodding slightly. "Or do I call you General now?"

"I don't care what you call me," I replied. "As long as you're not calling me dead."

"That was never in question."

"Is that why you're wearing that?" I nodded toward the ribbon.

He glanced down, eyes flicking to the green thread wrapped around his blade. "You don't like it?"

"I'm just surprised. Green's a dangerous color these days. Especially here."

He shrugged. "It wasn't dangerous when you gave it to me."

"That was before Baiguang decided to wrap themselves in it."

Deming's expression didn't change. "Let them wear it. I'll burn every banner they raise. That way, when the war ends, you can go back to wearing green without anyone whispering behind your back."

I stared at him.

And for the first time all day, I smiled. It was a small thing. Quiet. But it was real.

"That's a lot of death for a color."

"It's not about the color," he said. "It's about reminding people where it came from. If they want to steal something that belonged to you, they better be ready to bleed for it."

I sat down beside him, boots brushing the scattered ash. The fire had nearly gone out. Only a faint orange glow remained in the pit between us.

"Why didn't you come to the council?" I asked.

He tilted his head. "Would I have made a difference?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "I'm not a politician. I don't want to sit around arguing over who gets to trade silk next season. I'm better out here. With my men. With steel."

I nodded slowly. "You didn't even send a scout."

"You'd tell me everything worth knowing," he said simply. "And besides… I heard enough."

I raised an eyebrow. "Eavesdropping?"

"Trusting the wind," he said with a grin.

I let the silence settle again. Let it hold us both without weight.

Then, after a while, I said: "They're weaponizing debts now."

Deming's brow furrowed. "Debts?"

"Yaozu interrogated a merchant earlier. One of ours. Said he was repaying a blood debt to Baiguang. Smuggling. Bribery. Quiet sabotage. All of it traced back to the refugee quarter."

Deming cursed under his breath.

"They're using more than soldiers," I continued. "They're using shame. Vows. Oaths. Guilt. The kind of things we can't guard against with spears."

"I'll send a team to the quarter tomorrow," he said. "Not soldiers. Just ears. People who know how to listen."

"Good," I murmured. "Because I don't like fighting ghosts."

He nodded once, then glanced back at the ribbon again. "You want me to take it off?"

"No," I said. "Keep it. But understand what it means."

"I do."

"Do you?" I turned fully toward him. "You wear my ribbon in public. You stand at my back in every battle. People already assume you're mine. But if you keep going, they won't just assume. They'll act."

He met my gaze squarely. "Let them."

I didn't speak.

Didn't blink.

He leaned forward slightly, voice lower now.

"I'm not afraid of being seen as yours. I never was. You're the only thing in this court that makes sense. The only one who hasn't lied, or bowed, or begged for something less than what they want."

"And what do you want?" I asked.

"You. Alive. Free. Unbroken." He smiled faintly. "And if I'm lucky… close."

I reached out without thinking and rested two fingers against his cheek.

It wasn't a kiss.

It wasn't a promise.

Just contact.

Real. Steady.

"I'll protect you," I whispered. "Even when you don't ask me to."

"I know," he said. "That's why I trust you."

We stayed like that for a moment longer.

Then Deming slid the sword back into its sheath and stood.

"I'm riding south within the week," he said.

My hand fell to my side. "Without waiting for orders?"

"War doesn't wait," he replied. "And whatever waits down there… I'll meet it first."

I didn't stop him.

Didn't argue.

He walked away into the shadows, the green ribbon catching the firelight once before disappearing completely.

And I let him go.

Because some men didn't need protection.

Only permission.

Only the knowledge that someone would burn the world if they didn't return.