An Echo of Yellow

Fiction fiction Sarah 0 Comments

An Echo of Yellow

The clash of steel rang out over the foothills like a song of defiance, the distant fires of the Qin encampment painting the night red against the jagged mountain peaks. Yan Shun staggered back, her breath fogging in the frigid air, blood trickling from a shallow cut on her brow. Her mustard-yellow robes fluttered in the biting wind, an unusual choice for an assassin, but remarkable for the storm she intended to unleash. The muted plaid cloak draped over her narrow shoulders blended better with the earthy tones of the mountain forest surrounding her, but the keen-eyed scout pursuing her in a flight of footsteps would undoubtedly detect that flash of color sooner or later.

The ruins of an abandoned temple loomed behind her, its once-pristine columns now marred by time and neglect. Moonlight seeped through the cracks in the crumbling roof, casting silver ribbons across the ancient stone floor. Yan darted inside, her white linen tunic catching the moonbeams for one heartbeat before disappearing into shadow. The cold stone beneath her bare feet heightened her alertness. Her martial discipline demanded such sacrifices—comfort was an enemy, luxury a weakness. She gripped the bronze dagger at her hip, its blade polished meticulously yet chipped at the edges, bearing the scars of countless battles.

The scout appeared in the temple’s gaping doorway, his silhouette broad and threatening. He wore the black and crimson armor of the Qin army, painted faintly by the torchlight spilling from his comrades far below. His sharp eyes scanned the interior, lingering for a moment on the overgrown statues of forgotten deities. The man’s spear gleamed like a snake’s fang as he tilted it across the threshold. Yan remained utterly still, her mustard trousers blending with the faded yellows in the murals behind her. She watched silently as the scout moved inward, the once-dignified stomp of his boots subdued by the reverence of the setting.

See also The Time Protector

“I know you’re here,” he growled. “You’ve killed seven of my brothers tonight. There will be no eighth. Surrender, or I’ll make your death much slower than theirs.”

Yan crouched lower, her muscles coiled taut like a spring. Her breath came slow and shallow. She reached into the pocket of her trousers and touched the soft fabric of the drawstring she’d knotted and imbued with powdered nightshade, a quiet reminder that sometimes subtlety killed better than steel. It was her mentor’s teaching: you didn’t need to be faster or stronger—only clever enough to strike where the light fell dim.

Footsteps came closer. She sprang forward like a hawk descending upon a field mouse, the dagger flashing as it sliced through the air toward the man’s throat. He spun in time, his spear coming up in a motion quick enough to save his life, though it left an opening. Her knee connected to his chest with a force that echoed across the ruined hall, sending him crashing to the ground. The man gasped for air, but not one wasted breath escaped Yan’s lips. She knelt over him, the tip of her blade pressed firmly against his carotid artery.

“You come for me,” she whispered, her voice steady and low, “but do you truly understand why?”

She searched his expression for the answer, seeing only defiance and a lifetime of fear chained to duty. His hand twitched for the spear that lay inches away, but her knee ground harder into his ribs to dissuade him. A distant howl traveled up from the valley below—no wolves, only the baying of hounds on her scent.