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

The mountain slept beneath us as we moved.

We left no trail. No fire. No conversation to be carried off in the wind.

Yaozu stayed half a pace behind me, silent as always, his steps matching mine even when the terrain sloped sharply down into Baiguang territory. The trees grew thinner the farther south we pushed, stripped bare by winter, their black branches brittle and reaching. Like fingers that had forgotten how to hold.

Shadow flanked my right. He didn't make a sound either.

By the time the sky started to pale with false dawn, we were already crossing the ridge that marked the old border—the one Baiguang declared theirs after a minor victory more than a decade ago. The same battle that earned them the right to plant a sapling elm on that blood-soaked hill and carve a poem into stone beside it. A shrine to a day they never should have won.

A day they'd rewritten into legend.

I was here to set the record straight.

"There," Yaozu said, stopping behind me.

We stood at the edge of a narrow rise. Beyond it, the world spilled open into low hills and dry grass. And at the center, unmistakable even from a distance, was the elm.

It had grown tall in the years since they'd planted it. Proud. Wrongfully so.

And below it stood the shrine stone—tilted slightly from weather and erosion, but still legible.

It was a good thing that I didn't believe in Gods or ghosts, or else I might have been worried about what I was going to do next.

I began walking without a word, Yaozu following close behind me.

The earth was hard beneath our boots, but not quite frozen yet. The northern lands had always been deadly in winter, but this wasn't it yet. Most of the time it took until the Lunar New Year before the ground really became frozen. But because of that, their soldiers weren't trained to fight in the dead of winter… nor were they trained for pain the way ours were.

They assumed that everyone was like them, that no one would dare attack when there was a chance of snow.

But that was because they had never met me before.

I didn't need a army to make my point or to win a war.

They just didn't seem to get that part of my myth in their heads.

The wind shifted behind us. Shadow stopped first.

Then Yaozu.

Then me.

I didn't need words. The silence told me everything.

We were not alone.

I turned slowly.

There were five of them—Baiguang scouts, poorly disguised in traveler robes. They'd tried to follow quietly. They'd failed.

One stepped forward. His face was young, but already hardened. Someone had given him orders. I could see it in his clenched jaw, in the way he gripped the hilt of his blade before he spoke.

"You're trespassing."

I didn't answer.

He licked his lips. "This land belongs to Baiguang."

I tilted my head. "Then Baiguang should've guarded it better."

He took a half step back, clearly unprepared for me to answer in perfect, unbroken dialect. His eyes flicked to the sword at my side. Then to Yaozu. Then to Shadow, who was growling low.

"We were told to escort you out."

"You are more than welcome to try."

He hesitated. "There are more of us nearby."

"That's fine. Then they'll die too."

Yaozu didn't even glance at me. He reached into his sleeve, drew a thin blade, and waited.

The scout's fingers twitched.

"You don't have to do this," he said, voice tight.

"Neither do you," I replied.

And then I moved.

The space between us vanished in a blink. My palm caught his wrist before his sword cleared the sheath, twisted once, and drove the heel of my hand into his sternum.

He dropped.

The other four scattered like fools.

Yaozu dropped two before they turned fully, blades clean and efficient. I didn't need to tell him not to kill them—he already knew. They weren't here to fight. They were here to see. They were here to bear witness.

Which meant that I wanted someone to survive long enough to report to those who matter.

Shadow dragged the last one back by the leg. I waved him off. The boy scrambled away, limping, eyes wild with something beyond fear.

I turned back toward the elm.

The sun was rising now, low and gold. It painted the bark in soft light, made the red knots in its trunk look almost warm.

It had grown strong. Too strong.

Yaozu came up beside me. "Ready?"

I nodded once.

Then lifted my hand.

There was metal beneath the stone marker—old nails, once used to fasten the original shrine foundation, buried deep from sight. They remembered me.

They answered.

The stone cracked like a scream. Split straight down the middle. The poem carved into its face—a lie about honor and mercy—shattered.

Yaozu stepped back.

Then I knelt and placed both palms on the cold soil beneath the elm.

It tried to resist.

Nature always does.

But the creature inside me stirred. The fire I kept banked in the pit of my belly coiled forward.

"I am not going to burn your kingdom at the moment," I whispered to the tree. "I just need it to know what will happen if they keep touching my bottom line."

The flame answered.

It rolled up from the roots—silent, white-hot. Not orange. Not red. The kind of heat that doesn't flicker.

The elm ignited from the inside out.

It didn't burn like wood. It burned like judgment. Like something that had waited too long.

The smell of sap and smoke filled the morning air. Birds fled. Animals scattered. And in the distance, I saw two more scouts break from hiding and run back toward the hills.

Good.

Let them tell their generals that the tree fell without mercy. That it didn't weep, didn't whisper. That there was no message left carved into the bark. Only fire. Only silence.

The sun finished rising. It backlit the ruins in golden clarity.

"I don't want to be followed," I said quietly.

Yaozu looked at me.

I kept watching the fire.

"I want to be feared."

He didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

The wind shifted again.

And somewhere far beyond the hills, I knew the first warning bells were ringing.