Wu Haoyu's POV:
The hills burned with dawn's light, but it was the choppers' roar—Master Wu's, my damn cousin—that set my blood on fire. His voice, slick as oil, calling Yanyan "cousin," twisted my gut worse than the blood seeping from my arm, my thigh, my shoulder. I gripped my pipe, slick with gore, standing between her and the chaos erupting below—Huang Zhao's men charging, crests glinting, Meilin's blade flashing like a mirror of Yue's pain. Yanyan's star-dagger gleamed in her hand, her knife raised, blood crusted on her cheek, ribs heaving but fierce. My Yanyan, my storm, caught in a war of blood—Zhao's, Wu's, mine—and I'd kill them all before they touched her.
