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

Deming had stood in palace corridors before, but tonight the stones seemed to breathe differently.

The news of Longzi's new appointment still lingered in every corner—Captain of the Emperor's guard, a place that would put him close enough to be noticed, trusted, whispered about.

It should not have surprised Deming.

Longzi had always known how to turn battles into positions and victories into invitations. But the weight of it pressed against Deming's chest all the same.

He adjusted the strap of the half-mask across his face, fingertips tracing the cool iron edge that hid what his father had despised. It was an old habit, useless, but one he had never broken.

The scar beneath was not a wound so much as a brand—a reminder of who he was and why he had been cast out before he had ever grown into manhood. The Second Prince, the expendable one.

And yet Xinying had never looked at him with that contempt.

He remembered the first time he had seen her clearly: not the crown princess standing in lacquered halls, but the woman in the mountains, firelight catching in the blue of her eyes, her hands steady on a snare line as if she had been born to war against the wilderness itself.

They had ridden north under orders, soldiers and princes alike, to learn why the Daiyu had never been breached. Deming had thought it would be just another campaign—mud, frost, the usual shivering patrols. Instead, he had found her.

She hadn't needed them. That was the truth he learned quickly. She had built her own house into the mountain stone, laced the forest with traps clever enough to make seasoned scouts wary. She had kept a whole village alive with nothing but grit and a will sharper than steel.

And he had loved her for it.

Not with a boy's fire, but with the slow, inexorable certainty of a man who finally saw something worth giving his life to.

He had carried a green ribbon up that slope once, clumsy in his offering, and tied it around her wrist because words felt too small. Later, he had pressed a cherry blossom pin into her hair, just to see the winter light strike something delicate instead of iron.

She had accepted both gifts with the faintest curve of her mouth—amusement, acknowledgment, perhaps even a fragment of warmth. That had been enough to make him believe.

He would have stayed. He truly would have. The mask, the title, the stain of being born from a maid—none of it mattered if he could stand beside her in that quiet strength. The thought of abandoning banners and camps had not frightened him.

For once, he had wanted to choose something for himself.

But Longzi had been there too.

"You can't waste yourself here," Longzi had told him, that sharp, confident voice slicing through Deming's resolve. "You'll come back. We'll return, both of us. The court won't allow her to stay hidden forever. But if you vanish now, you'll have nothing left when that day comes."

Deming had listened. Perhaps that had been his first mistake. He had returned to the city with the others, carrying duty like a chain. And when he turned back to claim her, she was gone—stolen in the night by their third brother's arrogance, brought into the palace, and bound to Mingyu's side with silk and law.

He had told himself he would endure it. She had told him herself that if he wished to court her, he could try. But he had never pressed harder than tokens and quiet presence. Perhaps he feared that if he truly reached for her, the world would rip her away again. Perhaps he feared she would not choose him after all.

And now Longzi walked palace halls under her command.

Deming stood in the training yard at dusk, watching the guards stumble through new drills. His hands rested behind his back, posture carved from habit. A lantern burned low at the edge of the sand, shadows stretching long. He corrected a stance here, a grip there, his voice steady but never raised.

The men respected him without question.

He heard Longzi before he saw him—boots with a soldier's cadence, steps that claimed space instead of slipping past it. When the general appeared at the far end of the yard, plain uniform still new on his shoulders, Deming felt the shift ripple through the guards.

They straightened. Some glanced between the two men, uncertain which edge would cut deeper.

"Second Prince," Longzi greeted, inclining his head.

"Captain," Deming returned, the title tasting strange in his mouth.

They measured each other in silence, the weight of years and choices between them. Old comrades, old rivals. Brothers in arms once, perhaps still, though the field they fought over now was nothing so simple as a border.

"You disapprove," Longzi observed.

"I measure," Deming corrected. "If I disapproved, you would already know."

A flicker passed over Longzi's features—acknowledgment, irritation, maybe both. "I didn't come here to quarrel with you."

"Then why?"

"To serve," Longzi answered simply. "Mingyu needs a shield. Xinying chose me to hold it."

Deming's jaw tightened at the ease with which he used her name. He did not rise to it, not outwardly. "Mingyu has always had shields. He has me. He has Yaozu. He has her."

"And still she decided he needed another," Longzi countered. "Would you rather she had chosen someone else?"

The words bit.

Because Deming knew the truth: he would rather bear the weight alone, but he could not deny that Mingyu was safer with more steel between him and the world. That was the curse of loving Xinying—her choices were ruthless and correct, and all he could do was bleed in silence if he disagreed.

The guards watched them carefully, pretending to focus on drills. Deming waved them off with a clipped command, and they scattered gratefully, leaving the two men in the cooling yard.

"You still carry it, don't you?" Longzi asked after a moment. "That mountain. Those days."

Deming's hand brushed unconsciously against his sleeve, where memory still lived like a splinter. "Of course."

"She changed everything," Longzi said, almost quietly. "For both of us."

Deming turned then, finally meeting his gaze fully. "Don't pretend we stand in the same place. You convinced me to walk away. You said she would still be there. And then she showed up at my feet, hand delivered to my father by my third brother. Do I need to remind you what happened after that?"

Longzi absorbed the blow without flinching. "And if I hadn't? Would you have stayed? Would you have defied the court, the Emperor, your own family?"

"Yes," Deming answered. One word, carved from certainty.

Silence settled between them. The scar under Deming's mask prickled as if the old Emperor's gaze still burned there.

"You were always steadier than me," Longzi admitted at last. "But steadiness doesn't win everything."

"It wins what matters," Deming replied.

Neither man moved closer, but the tension between them thickened until the night air itself seemed to hold its breath.

From the archway, a soft sound broke the weight—laughter, quiet, unmistakable. Xinying stood with Mingyu at her side, Shadow at her heels. She had seen enough to know the shape of what passed between them, even without words.

Her eyes touched Deming first, and something old and sharp in his chest eased. Then they flicked to Longzi, cool and assessing, before turning back to the path ahead as if she had decided neither of them were worth pausing for at the moment.

Deming bowed slightly as she passed. Not a court bow. Not a soldier's salute. Just the smallest tilt that said he had been here first, and he would still be here when the others faltered.

Longzi didn't bow. He stood rigid, jaw set, a soldier unwilling to yield ground even in gesture.

When she was gone, Deming let the silence return. But inside, he carried the memory of a ribbon tied around her wrist, a pin catching winter light, and the knowledge that no matter how many men crowded her halls, he had been the first to love her—and perhaps the last to do it without asking for anything in return.