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

The map hadn't changed overnight. The land still lay stretched and vulnerable beneath the weight of too many eyes and not enough soldiers. But something in the air had shifted—like the space between the inhale and the exhale before a blade falls.

I stood at the head of the war table, shoulders square, boots planted firmly on the woven rug that had once belonged to some southern nobleman. Now it served a better purpose: muffling footsteps and blood alike.

The pavilion buzzed low with morning tension. Lords and commanders filed in, some with creased brows, others with wine-thick eyes from the previous night's indulgence. They bowed or didn't. It didn't matter. Respect wasn't owed—it was taken. And I'd taken it.

Mingyu entered last, with his mother, the Empress beside him and Yaozu just behind. Longzi was already here, leaning against the far wall like a shadow with steel in his spine.

I let them all settle before speaking.

"Three of Baiguang's convoys broke formation overnight," I said. "Two are headed toward the upper rice terraces. The third is circling toward the north-western watermills."

A few ministers exchanged glances. One opened his mouth, but I didn't stop.

"They're not lost. They're being guided. Someone is feeding them bait."

"That's good, isn't it?" Lord Shen asked. "If they're falling for false routes—"

"It's good if we act before they adjust," I cut in. "We have a narrow window. Less than five days."

I turned toward the Empress, meeting her eyes. "I'm asking for permission to burn the crops."

Silence.

Not confusion. Not misunderstanding.

Just silence.

"The terraces are deep," I continued. "Too many places to hide. If Baiguang establishes a hold there, we'll bleed soldiers trying to flush them out. And they'll be fed."

I pointed to the inked ridge line. "If we set fire to the upper fields and flood the lower valley, they'll lose both food and footing. It will force them to retreat—or die hungry in the cold."

Lord Rui stood. "You would starve our own?"

"They're not ours," I said. "They haven't been ours since they opened their doors to Baiguang caravans and let our enemies eat at their tables."

"That is not justice," he snapped. "It's barbaric. You would punish civilians for surviving."

"Surviving?" I stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "You call it survival when they sell their rice to invaders and let wounded soldiers from Daiyu die in the dirt?"

"They didn't fight," he insisted.

"No," I said quietly. "They didn't."

The air thickened.

Longzi crossed the room, picked up one of the carved markers, and set it down near the terraces. "I walked that slope last winter," he said. "It's steep. Narrow. If they entrench there, we'll lose men just trying to dig them out."

"Exactly," I said.

"You're suggesting famine," Lord Rui said, trying again. "Do you even hear yourself?"

I looked at him calmly. "Yes. And I'm the only one in this tent who's willing to say it aloud."

Mingyu finally spoke. "And what about the innocent?"

"There is no such thing in war," I said. "There is only those who feed your enemy, and those who don't."

He looked away. His hands clenched faintly at his sides.

The Empress stepped forward, her voice soft but cutting. "The girl is right."

That surprised a few of them. Good. Let them be off balance.

"If you cannot feed your people," she said, "then let Baiguang prove they can. When they fail, we'll take back the land and bury what's left."

"Starvation spreads," Lord Rui muttered. "What happens when they come crawling back toward the central provinces, toward us?"

I met his gaze. "Then I'll be waiting."

Yaozu unfolded a scroll and laid it across the edge of the table. "We've already marked secondary granaries," he said. "The ones they don't know about. She's not burning everything. Just enough to make them desperate."

"And when they're desperate?" someone asked.

"We offer mercy," I said. "To those who deserve it."

"And the rest?"

I didn't smile. "Don't ask questions that you already know the answer to."

The silence that followed wasn't the heavy kind. It was the kind that trembles just beneath the surface. The kind right before people begin to realize the line between mercy and leadership isn't always clean.

Sun Longzi pulled his gloves tighter. "Let them starve," he grunted, offering his opinion.

One of the ministers choked on the word. Another sat back, pale.

I looked at Mingyu. "What is your decision?"

He looked tired. Like he hadn't slept well since the hunt. But he held my gaze.

"Let them starve."

The words felt colder when he said them.

Because he meant them. But he hated that he did.

I turned to Yaozu. "Start with the outermost storage points. Burn before nightfall. The flames will draw their attention."

He nodded.

"Any food caravan not stamped with our southern crest," I added, "gets turned away or seized. We control every grain that passes this region."

The Empress tilted her head. "And if they try to take it by force?"

I traced a small circle on the map with my finger. "Then we stop pretending this is still politics."

I leaned forward and pulled the red wax seal from my pouch. It was the old mountain mark—never used in court, never stamped on anything official. Just a wolf's head, half-buried in snow. To my old villagers, it meant safety. It meant that I was watching.

I slammed it onto the rice terraces.

"They want to erase what Daiyu was," I said. "We won't let them."

Longzi gave me a look—not reverent, but aligned. Like someone who had been waiting for this exact version of me to finally show her teeth.

He said nothing.

Neither did Yaozu.

Because there was nothing left to say.

I rolled up the map. "We begin at dusk."

------

Later, I stood alone just outside the pavilion, the scent of snow and scorched wood already on the wind.

Behind me, the war machine moved. Runners shouted. Horses kicked. The Empress gave orders while Mingyu looked like he was trying not to drown in a tide he'd never learned to swim.

Yaozu stepped beside me, quiet as always.

"You were right," he said.

"About?"

"They're not ours anymore."

I watched the sky turn silver over the southern fields.

"No," I said. "But they will be."

His hand brushed mine. Not possessive. Just there.

"They'll call you a monster," he said eventually.

"They already do."

He didn't flinch. "Then let them."