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Fengya Mountain emerged from the grey morning’s thick mists like a boar’s tusk, tall and sharp. An uneven path wound through a bamboo thicket, rich with sweet-singing birds and flowers on the verge of a spring bloom, the air lightened by the scent of passing rain. A great stone sign straddled the path, a deliberate scar against what would have otherwise been a visual feast.
Below the sign, a tall man in dark, travel-stained robes sat on a black horse, reading the carved characters with a slight smile. He could be said to be handsome in a particular light, but for the unsettling cast to his eyes, which regarded the valley and its sign with a piercing and murderous fervour. Still as he was at present, the man was nothing more than an arrow in flight, cast from a longbow drawn at the capital by an unwilling archer.
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