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Shēnléi heard the voice before he saw her—sharp, panicked, cutting through the swamp air like a knife. He froze mid-step, ears twitching toward the sound, instincts prickling. No threat in the tone, just desperation. Still, he moved quietly, every step measured, the water rippling faintly around his paws.

When he found her, she was pacing a half-collapsed ledge, muttering to herself, eyes wild with worry. He stayed a few feet back, his silhouette caught in the soft light filtering through the mist.

You’re going to scare the whole swamp awake at this rate, he said, voice low, calm, threaded with dry humor. If you’re lost, shouting at the trees won’t help much.

He tilted his head, studying her—mud-smeared, frantic, but not dangerous. “You’re not from here,” he said after a moment. “Are you?”

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