The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis

The fire had burned low in the meeting hall, but the heat of politics clung to the air like smoke—stifling, sour, and impossible to escape.

I stood near the far end of the war council table, hands behind my back, watching as another overly ambitious mouth attempted to dress theft in the robes of strategy.

I wasn't sure why I was here. I tended to be brought in more for when Mingyu needed a wreacking ball instead of someone that was well versed in court language.

"…and as I proposed three weeks prior," Minister Zhou Wen said, lifting his chin just enough to catch the light on his self-inked memorial, "disrupting the tributary flow from the Baiguang border into the lowland farms was the decisive factor in halting their grain movement. That is the result of proper logistical mapping—not just brute force. A proud victory for the strategy division, Your Highness."

He even had the gull to look over at me when he spoke about brute force, like I wasn't the one who destroyed more supply hubs and grain stores then his diverting of water managed to.

Around him, older ministers shifted in their seats, not daring to interrupt. Behind them, two generals kept their expressions neutral, the same way seasoned hunters watch pups bark at their own reflections.

I waited.

And waited until the silence grow teeth and bared its fangs.

The low scrape of my fingernail along the rim of my teacup echoed louder than his words had.

Across from me, Zhu Mingyu leaned back in his throne with one leg crossed, fingers loosely curled around the hilt of a scroll he hadn't opened once. His face was a mask of lazy interest, but I knew him well enough to see it—the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped twice instead of once against the lacquered wood.

He was waiting for me to say something.

So I did.

"Minister Zhou," I said evenly, a hint of a smile on my face as I looked at him.

The young minister, no more than a boy really, straightened in his robes like a puppet yanked by fresh strings. "Yes, Your Highness?"

"Repeat what you just claimed."

A flicker of confusion crossed his face. "The—the part about the tributary influence or—"

"No. The part where you took credit for Baiguang loosing so many of their food and supplies," I said, my smile turning sharper as I stared down the kid that was younger than me.

There was nothing but silence in the room as the other ministers around the kid took a step back.

I hadn't been home for more than a day when this meeting was called. I have been going on fumes, and the two nights I spent with Yaozu was making having to come back here even worse.

I saw it then. The exact moment he realized the room had gone still around him. That every glance was no longer casual. That I was standing—not seated—and staring directly at him like a vulture waiting for something to die.

He swallowed. "Only that my department proposed the disruption strategy. That—perhaps in part—it contributed to the weakening of their internal supply—"

"They lost their supply lines," I cut in, stepping forward slowly, "because the cliffs their wagons relied on were cut by frost and triggered by pressure traps buried six feet deep. Because the men driving those wagons were already dead before they could report back to warn others of my traps. Because Baiguang's last scout unit walked into an avalanche that didn't fall by accident."

Zhou's skin turned the color of old parchment.

"And do you know," I continued, voice still calm, "who was burying explosives in that frost? Who sharpened those spikes by hand, in a cave, in the dark, while bleeding from the ribs and trying not to fall asleep in the snow?"

Okay, so I might have embellished things just slightly, seeing as I wasn't bleeding, and there was no real snowfall, and Yaozu was beside me the whole time. But he didn't need to know that.

He said nothing.

I stepped closer.

"I was."

The breath caught in his throat. A cough—no, a reflex.

"You've never seen frost rot a man's fingers from the inside," I said, eyes locked on his. "You've never watched a starving mother beg for firewood while arrows split the trees around her. You've never dug with your own hands because the army didn't have enough shovels."

Another beat.

Then, I reached across the table and slid his scroll toward me.

My nail tapped once against the inked seal.

"This," I said, "is not strategy."

He didn't dare breathe.

"This is calligraphy."

The older generals didn't react. They didn't need to.

I pushed the scroll back and turned away without waiting for permission. My voice floated over my shoulder, quiet and final.

"Next time you want to claim that you were the deciding factor in a war, Minister Zhou, try surviving one."

I didn't hear his reply.

Because I was already walking down the corridor, the burn of fresh fury still low behind my ribs.

The hallway outside the chamber was long and vaulted, light from narrow windows catching on old banners and snow-damp stone. The hush was almost comforting. No whispers. No footsteps. Just the press of cold air on my cheek and the weight of too many days without sleep trailing behind me like a shadow.

But mine wasn't the only shadow in the corridor.

Yaozu stood near the base of the last column, coat dusted with snow, scarf wrapped tight around his neck. He held two porcelain cups—both steaming.

He didn't speak when I approached. Just held one out to me.

The scent hit first—ginger, ginseng, a hint of citrus rind steeped long enough to draw out every drop of warmth.

I took it with a grateful nod.

"Council?" he asked softly.

"Still breathing," I murmured.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Barely."

I took a sip. Closed my eyes. The warmth moved down my throat like memory.

When I opened them again, he was watching me—not with amusement, not even curiosity. Just quiet attention.

He lifted one hand and reached toward my neck and let his fingers sooth me as they brushed against my skin.

Then, he unwrapped his scarf and stepped closer, placing it gently around my collar, tucking the ends where my robe had slipped slightly open.

His fingers brushed against my throat again.

And paused.

"You're cold," he said.

"Not anymore," I assured him.