The residual snow is pressing down on the rotten wood, and the black frost is covering the broken monument. The sky in the Qingyun Sect's outer gate's courtyard has never been blue.
Shen Yan huddled in the corner of the drafty woodshed, holding half a tooth-hard black millet cake between his fingertips, his knuckles turning white. He is seventeen years old and has been in the Qingyun Sect for three years. He is a servant at the lowest level and cannot even touch the outer disciples.
