The retreat of the thousands of smaller weasels from the roof did not bring peace. Instead, the sudden silence felt like the indrawn breath of a predator. The air in the hut, which had briefly cleared after Huang Bantian’s sleep-muttered command, thickened once more. This time, however, the smell wasn't the stinging, chemical stench of urine or corrosive bile. It was a cloyingly sweet fragrance, like lilies left too long in a stagnant vase.
Liu Er stood near the hearth, his hand tightening around the handle of his walking stick. He watched the window—the one he had reinforced with heavy wooden bars. The gray morning light outside was being blotted out by a shape that moved with a slow, hypnotic fluidity.
A figure rose from below the windowsill. It did not scuttle or hop like the others.
