The jungle held its breath.
Bai Yue knelt in the grass with her ear pressed to Han Shān's chest, and the world narrowed to a single point: the absence of a heartbeat.
No. No, no, no.
She pressed harder, as if sheer force of will could restart the frozen organ beneath his ribs. His skin was cold, colder than it should have been, colder than any living creature should be. The black veins had receded from his neck, the antidote had done something, but his chest didn't rise. His lips were blue.
"Han Shān." Her voice cracked. "Han Shān, breathe. Please. Please breathe."
Nothing.
Behind her, Yàn Shū was weeping. Not quietly. Great, heaving sobs that shook his whole body, his glasses lost somewhere in the mud, his scholar's composure shattered into a thousand pieces. He crawled forward, pressing his fingers to Han Shān's wrist, searching for a pulse that wasn't there.
