For No Mortal Creature

I managed to keep my voice even. Internally, though, I wanted to scream. While I wasn’t technically doing anything wrong by hunting—or gathering plants— this interruption was wasting valuable time.The sword’s pressure relented, just slightly, and I spun to face my attacker.Typical, I thought, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. A Lancaster soldier. They were always crawling around the forest like cockroaches: ugly, armored, and almost impossible to kill. Like most of them, this one was pale, his shadowed eyes gray in the crepuscular light. If it was daytime, they would probably be blue. His helmet hid the color of his hair, but not the thin rivulets of sweat coursing down his face. Clad in iron, he bore the Lancaster sigil—a blue-and-white shield with the silhouette of a tree— upon his chest. Compared to the thin cotton of the hànfú I was wearing, and my feigned indifference, he looked positively overdressed. “To what do I owe this honor, My Lord?” I said, masking the subtle sneer in my voice. I’d used the Trader’s Tongue, the mashed-up dialect that had evolved along the towns and ports that lined the Stone Road, the primary route for trade. With its innumerable clashing cultures, the road’s dialect obscured some of the more expository accents of each region, though my black hair, brown eyes, high cheekbones, and pearlescent skin would no doubt mark me as being from west of the border. “Declare yourself, woman,” he demanded, his voice cracking on the last word.