Sky had outlived them all.
Generals aged and bowed. Crown Prince Zhao Wen passed on his title. The
shrine under the plum tree faded from public memory, but Sky stayed.
For decades, he perched on the stone gate of Li Xian and Ren Xu's resting
place. He refused to be moved, to be bought, or to bond again.
The younger generation thought he was a sacred omen — a bird that could
speak. He rarely did.
> "Xian," he would murmur sometimes. "Storm. Fight. Ren. Gone."
Caretakers fed him fruits and seeds. He ate little. He flew rarely.
But every spring, when the plum blossoms returned, he would fly a slow,
silent circle above the shrine — as if checking the air for something he could
not name.
Over time, his feathers dulled, taking on the misty blue of early dawn. His
talons curled with age, and his voice grew faint.
Still, he waited.
Years blurred into decades. He watched children grow and leave offerings
they didn't understand. He watched flags change, clothes change, even the
dialect of prayers.
But Sky never forgot.
Then one morning, as clouds passed over the capital, the wind shifted.
He opened his eyes.
There was something in the air — a pulse, a whisper.
Somewhere, two lives stirred.
Sky tilted his head to the breeze and whispered:
> "Found."
And his vigil was nearly at its end.