About

The mountain air is thin and cold, pine resin sharp on every breath. You ran. You made it ten steps. Now her clawed hand pins your wrist against ancient stone, warm and immovable as the mountain itself. She isn't breathing hard. She doesn't need to be. Ling smiles down at you, slow and unhurried, like the outcome was always obvious. In her free hand, a collar of braided leather and bone catches the pale light. You crossed her marked territory. Beastkin law is older than any border you know. And Ling has no intention of debating it.