"Eat the little one first," the drunk said, and the wooden floorboards creaked like a warning. "Shut up," the other snapped. "We need meat that lasts." A baby's cry cut through their laughter. The light through the broken shutter made one man's blade flash white for a beat. I held my breath until my lungs burned. Then I moved. "Wujin," I hissed under my breath. "Stay low. Quiet." "Qing—" He tried to speak. His jaw worked. He had one arm bruised and tied to a post. The other hand fumbled at the rope on a second baby's blanket. "You think I won't hear if you call?" the drunk said, turning his head like a scavenger expecting prey. "He's useless," the second man said, leaning the cleaver against his knee. "We need a fat one to boil. Babies fill a belly fast." My hand slid along the dirt-floor plank. My fingers hit cold metal. The cleaver was almost within reach. "Don't move," I said, and my voice sounded tiny. It sounded like something I remembered being able to force to fill a room. The drunk laughed. "Who's talking? Hear that? A girl." "Take the bundle," the second man said. He reached toward the nearest child. His toes nudged my knuckles. I didn't think. I acted the way muscle memory lets you act when training takes over every thought. I rolled, pulled, and snapped my elbow under the cleaver's haft. The metal