The evening air in the narrow back alleys of the Ye Family compound was dim and quiet.
A thin layer of dust hung over the gray cobblestones, disturbed only by the steady, careful footsteps of the young man carrying his heavy burden.
Ye Fan kept his chin up and his eyes looking straight down the path. His arms burned with exhaustion, the muscles in his forearms trembling under the weight of the silver-haired woman resting against his chest, but he refused to loosen his grip.
He bypassed the broad front gates where the armored clan guards stood with long spears, slipping instead through a narrow, wooden side door usually reserved for kitchen workers and manure haulers.
From there, he took the winding, overgrown stone path that led toward the eastern corner of the estate—the drafty, abandoned quarters near the stables where nobody bothered to look twice.
Yet, unseen by his mortal sight, the air just above his left shoulder was far from empty.
