The mountains of the western province were unforgiving to all, but especially to a six-year-old girl with nothing but the clothes on her back and the memories of fmes in her mind. For three days after fleeing the ruins of Lihua vilge, Mei Lin wandered aimlessly, her small body pushed forward only by the primal instinct to survive.

  She slept in hollow logs and dense thickets, curled up like a wounded animal. When rain came, she drank from cupped leaves. When hunger gnawed at her belly, she searched for the wild berries her father had taught her to recognize. Some nights, she cried herself to sleep, her dreams filled with fire and the image of her mother falling beneath a curved bde. Other nights, she was too exhausted to dream at all.

  On the fourth day, she stumbled upon an abandoned woodcutter's hut deep in the forest. The roof had partially colpsed, and wildlife had cimed much of the interior, but it offered more shelter than Mei Lin had known since her world burned down. She decided to stay.

  The hut became her sanctuary. She lined the driest corner with pine needles for a bed and used a broken pot she found to collect rainwater. Each day, she ventured a little farther to forage, marking trees with small scratches to find her way back. She learned quickly which mushrooms were safe by watching forest animals. Through trial and error, she discovered how to set simple snares using twine she unraveled from her deteriorating clothes.

  Summer passed this way, a lonely existence punctuated by moments of small triumph—a successful trap that caught a rabbit, finding a patch of wild onions, managing to start a fire by striking rocks together as she had seen her father do. She used the fire sparingly, fearful that smoke might attract the northern tribesmen who still haunted her nightmares.

  By autumn, Mei Lin had grown thinner but tougher. Her once-neat hair hung in tangled clumps around her dirt-streaked face. Her clothes, now a patchwork of the original fabric reinforced with rough-sewn leaves and bark fibers, barely resembled the garments her mother had so carefully mended. She spoke aloud only rarely, usually to recite the characters her father had taught her, tracing them in dirt to keep the memory of him alive.

  The first snow fell early that year. Mei Lin had never needed to survive a winter alone, and the bitter cold nearly cimed her during those first freezing nights. She learned to burrow deeper into the forest floor, piling leaves and branches over herself like a human hibernation den. Food became scarcer. Some days she ate nothing at all, conserving her energy by staying curled in her makeshift nest.

  One particurly harsh morning, desperation drove her to approach a small farming settlement five miles from her hut. Creeping close to the edge of a field where a family was harvesting te autumn vegetables, she waited until they moved to the far end before darting out to grab a forgotten turnip. As she retreated, a farm dog spotted her and gave chase, barking furiously. Though she escaped, the incident taught her that humans—even those who weren't raiders—might be dangerous to a feral child stealing their food.

  After that, she grew more cautious but also more resourceful. She followed wild boars to find tubers hidden underground. She discovered that certain tree bark could be ground into a bitter but edible paste. When heavy snow made foraging impossible, she chewed leather strips cut from her deteriorating shoes to quiet her hunger pangs.

  Winter eventually released its grip, and with spring came new growth and easier hunting. Mei Lin had survived the worst. By then, she had lived alone in the wilderness for nearly ten months. She had grown an inch taller and years older in experience. She could move through the forest as silently as a fox, could sense approaching storms by the changing pressure in the air, could strike a fire within minutes.

  She had also grown wary of humans. Twice more she had encountered people in the forest—once a group of hunters, another time a pair of herb gatherers—and each time she had hidden herself so effectively they passed within feet of her without detecting her presence. The memory of the northern raiders remained vivid, but increasingly, all humans represented potential danger to her isoted existence.

  It happened during the second spring of her solitude. Mei Lin, now approaching eight years old, was tracking a wounded deer. The animal had escaped one of her snares with a leg injury, leaving a blood trail that she followed with single-minded focus. Her hunting skills had improved dramatically; she no longer subsisted merely on what she could gather but actively pursued game with crude spears and more sophisticated traps.

  So intent was she on the deer's trail that she failed to notice she had ventured into unfamiliar territory, closer to the main road than she ever allowed herself to go. The blood trail led her to a small clearing where the deer had finally colpsed. As she approached her prize with a stone knife ready, she heard the unmistakable sound of horses.

  Mei Lin immediately dropped to the ground and slithered beneath a fallen log, her heart pounding. Through a gap in the decaying wood, she watched as five riders entered the clearing from the opposite side. Their appearance made her blood freeze—they wore armor, carried weapons. Raiders, she thought, though a small part of her mind registered that their armor was different—more refined than the crude leather and iron of the northern tribesmen who had destroyed her vilge.

  The riders dismounted near the dead deer, speaking in low voices. Their nguage was familiar—the common tongue of the Great Xia Dynasty, not the harsh dialect of the raiders. Still, Mei Lin remained hidden, watching as one of the men knelt beside the deer and examined it closely.

  "Clean kill," the man said, pointing to where Mei Lin's snare had initially wounded the animal. "But not by an arrow or spear. A trap of some kind."

  Another rider, a woman with a severe topknot and a bow slung across her back, scanned the forest edge. "Locals hunting this far out?"

  "No settlements within twenty miles," replied a third rider, a tall man whose armor bore more eborate markings than the others. "And look here—small footprints. A child, perhaps."

  Mei Lin silently cursed herself for her carelessness. She had grown so accustomed to being the only human in these woods that she had neglected the careful approach her father had taught her when hunting—always check for signs of others before revealing yourself.

  The woman knelt and examined the tracks Mei Lin had left. "Recent. And heading this way." She stood and drew her bow in one fluid motion, nocking an arrow but not yet drawing the string. "Whoever you are, show yourself, we are imperial soldiers"

  Mei Lin remained perfectly still, barely breathing. The word "Imperial" registered dimly—these were the Emperor's people, not raiders. Still, adults with weapons meant danger.

  The leader raised his hand. "Hold, Wu-Mei. If it is a child..." He stepped forward, removing his helmet to reveal a stern face with a closely-trimmed beard streaked with gray. "We mean no harm. Come out."

  Minutes passed in tense silence. The soldiers exchanged gnces but maintained their positions. Finally, the leader signaled and they began a coordinated sweep of the area, moving methodically toward Mei Lin's hiding pce.

  She knew she would be discovered. She could flee—she knew these woods better than they did—but something made her hesitate. Perhaps it was exhaustion from her long solitude, or perhaps it was the small part of her that still remembered being a vilge child and not a forest creature.

  The female soldier, Wu-Mei, was the one who found her. As she approached the fallen log, her sharp eyes caught movement. She lowered her bow slightly.

  "Commander Zhao," she called softly. "Here."

  Mei Lin tensed, prepared to bolt, but found herself surrounded too quickly. Five pairs of eyes stared down at her in varying degrees of surprise as she crouched, wild-haired and filthy, clutching her stone knife.

  "By the ancestors," breathed the commander, kneeling to her level but maintaining a cautious distance. "Child, are you alone? Where is your family?"

  Mei Lin hadn't spoken to another human in nearly two years. When she finally opened her mouth, her voice emerged as a rough croak. "Dead. Raiders."

  The soldiers exchanged gnces. The commander's stern expression softened slightly. "Which vilge?"

  "Lihua." The name felt strange on her tongue, like something from another life.

  Recognition flickered in the commander's eyes. "The border massacre. Two years ago." He looked at her with new interest. "You survived that? Alone, all this time?"

  Mei Lin didn't answer. She gripped her knife tighter, eyes darting between the soldiers, calcuting her escape route.

  "What is your name?" the commander asked gently.

  She hesitated. No one had called her by name since her mother's final screams. "Mei Lin."

  "Mei Lin," he repeated, as if testing the sound. "I am Commander Zhao of the Imperial Scout Division." He gestured to his companions. "We travel the provinces on the Emperor's business."

  The formal mention of the Emperor made Mei Lin pause. Her father had always spoken of the Son of Heaven with reverence.

  "What business?" she asked, her voice growing stronger with use.

  Commander Zhao studied her carefully. "We seek children with... exceptional qualities. Orphans who have shown remarkable ability to survive against all odds."

  Mei Lin didn't fully understand, but she recognized the reverent tone used when speaking of the Emperor—the same tone the vilge elders had used during seasonal rituals.

  "You've survived alone in these mountains for two years," the commander continued. "That shows remarkable... resilience."

  Wu-Mei stepped closer, causing Mei Lin to raise her knife defensively. The woman stopped, her expression not unkind. "Lower your weapon, child. Had we wished you harm, you would already be dead."

  The blunt truth of this statement made Mei Lin hesitate. Slowly, she lowered the stone knife, though she didn't release it.

  "Commander," said one of the other soldiers, a younger man who had remained silent until now. "She fits the criteria. Age, circumstance, evidence of resourcefulness."

  Commander Zhao nodded slowly. "Indeed." He turned back to Mei Lin. "Every three years, we conduct a search throughout the provinces for special children. Those selected are taken to the Imperial Capital for training in service to the Emperor. They are fed, clothed, educated, and taught skills beyond what most nobles ever learn." He paused. "It is a hard life, but one with purpose."

  "And if I refuse?" Mei Lin asked, surprising herself with her boldness.

  A brief smile crossed the commander's weathered face. "Spirit, too. Good." The smile faded. "If you refuse, we leave you to your forest. The choice must be yours."

  Mei Lin studied each face surrounding her. They were not like the painted warriors who had destroyed her vilge. Their eyes held discipline, not bloodlust. And they offered food, shelter—a return to the world of humans she had abandoned.

  Yet she hesitated. The forest had become her home, its rhythms as familiar as her own heartbeat. Here, she answered to no one. Here, she had made herself into something wild and free.

  "What must I do?" she finally asked.

  "First, you must come with us to our camp," said Commander Zhao. "There are tests."

  "Tests?"

  Wu-Mei nodded. "Not all who are invited are chosen. We only accept those with certain... aptitudes."

  It was Wu-Mei who finally convinced her. While the others prepared to move out, the female soldier approached Mei Lin again, this time slowly extending her hand to show a small piece of dried meat.

  "You look hungry," she said simply.

  Mei Lin stared at the offering, suddenly acutely aware of the gnawing emptiness in her stomach. She accepted the meat, devouring it quickly.

  "I was found much as you were," Wu-Mei said quietly. "Twenty years ago. In the eastern marshnds after pirates raided my fishing vilge." She touched a scar that ran along her jawline. "I chose to serve the Emperor. I have never regretted it."

  That evening, Mei Lin sat at the edge of the imperial scouts' camp, watching them with wary fascination. They had given her a bowl of rice porridge with bits of salted fish—the first cooked meal she had eaten in years—and a water skin filled with clean, fresh water. Though they invited her closer to the fire, she maintained her distance, ready to disappear into the darkness if needed.

  The tests began the next morning. Commander Zhao led her to a clearing and pced ten small objects on a ft stone—a coin, a button, a dried bean, a pebble, a chicken bone, a piece of colored thread, a seed, a splinter of wood, a fish scale, and a tiny scrap of paper with a character written on it.

  "Look carefully," he instructed. "You have until I count to thirty."

  Mei Lin stared at the items, memorizing each one. When the commander finished counting, he covered the objects with a cloth.

  "Now tell me what you saw."

  She recited each item perfectly.

  The next test involved hearing. Wu-Mei took her into the forest and instructed her to close her eyes. "Tell me everything you hear, from farthest to nearest."

  Mei Lin tilted her head slightly, filtering the sounds as she had learned to do while hunting. "A stream running, perhaps half a mile east. A woodpecker on a hollow tree in that direction. A deer browsing—no, two deer—at the edge of the clearing beyond those pines. Your companions speaking at the camp. Your breathing. My own heartbeat."

  Wu-Mei's expression remained neutral, but she nodded with satisfaction.

  The tests continued throughout the day. They assessed her ability to move silently, to climb, to track, to discover which pnts in the immediate area were edible. By sunset, Mei Lin was exhausted but strangely exhirated. For so long, these skills had been merely tools for survival. Now, they were being recognized as valuable by these stern-faced adults.

  That night, Commander Zhao approached her as she sat apart from the others. "You've done well," he said, seating himself on a log near her chosen spot. "Better than well."

  Mei Lin said nothing, still uncertain of these people and their intentions.

  "I've commanded the selection team for fifteen years," he continued. "In that time, I've evaluated hundreds of children. Few show the natural aptitudes you possess." He studied her with penetrating eyes. "The forest has been both cruel and kind to you. It broke you open and then forged you into something stronger."

  "What happens now?" Mei Lin asked.

  "Now you must decide," he replied. "Come with us to the Imperial Capital and begin training in the Emperor's service, or remain here in your wilderness."

  Mei Lin looked out at the darkened forest—her protector, her home. In these past two years, she had built a life from nothing. She had taught herself to survive when all odds said she should have perished alongside her parents.

  But something stirred inside her at the mention of the Imperial Capital. Memories of her father's stories about the great city with its towering pagodas and endless markets, tales that had once seemed as fantastical as those about dragons and immortals. And there was something else—a hunger for more than mere survival.

  "I will come," she said finally. "But I keep my knife."

  Commander Zhao smiled slightly. "Your stone knife will be the first of many weapons you master, Mei Lin of Lihua. The Emperor's service will give you new purpose for your strength." He stood, extending his hand to her. "Your new life begins tomorrow."

  That night, as the imperial scouts slept around the banked fire, Mei Lin crept silently away from the camp. But she did not run. Instead, she made her way to the woodcutter's hut that had sheltered her for so long. Inside, she gathered the few treasures she had accumuted—a smooth stone her father had once given her, which had somehow stayed in her pocket during her flight; a scrap of fabric from her mother's sleeve that she had used to bind a wound months ago; a crow's feather she had found on a particurly difficult winter day when the feather's unexpected beauty had given her hope.

  These she wrapped carefully in a piece of bark and tucked into her ragged garments. Whatever new life awaited her in the Emperor's service, she would carry these remnants of both her past lives—the beloved child of the cherry blossom vilge and the wild creature of the mountain forest.

  Dawn found her back at the imperial camp, seated and waiting as the soldiers woke. Wu-Mei noticed her first, giving her a nod of approval. Commander Zhao emerged from his tent and saw her as well.

  "You're still here," he observed. "Good."

  "I'm ready," Mei Lin said, standing straighter than she had in years, feeling the weight of her small bundle of memories against her heart.

  An hour ter, she was seated in front of Wu-Mei on the woman's horse, watching the forest recede as they rode east toward the Imperial Road. Mei Lin did not look back at her wilderness sanctuary. Like the Vilge of Cherry Blossoms, it was now a part of her past. Ahead y the unknown—the Imperial Capital, the Shadow Guard, and a destiny she could not yet imagine.

  As they crested a hill, the forest finally disappeared from view. Mei Lin felt a momentary pang of loss, quickly repced by a flicker of something unfamiliar: anticipation.

  She was eight years old, twice-orphaned—first by violence, then by choice—and riding toward a future that promised more than survival.

  It promised purpose.