He stood on a narrow ledge, the black sword humming in his hand, its crimson eye glowing with a subdued, watchful intensity.
The air here was frigid, cutting, yet Xiaochen felt no cold. He looked up. The sky was no longer a bruised grey, but a deep, inky black, dotted with a million pinpricks of light. The moon, a crescent of silver, hung high above, casting long, stark shadows across the silent, snow-covered landscape.
He saw the distant lights of the Qingyun Sect, tiny golden specks nestled amongst the peaks. They looked small, fragile, easily crushed.
"They sleep," Xiaochen murmured, his voice a chilling blend of boy and ancient malice. "They sleep while the nightmare has returned."
He stepped off the ledge, his boots crunching softly on the frozen ground at the very lip of the Tian
