Dawn broke over the Mist Peak in shades of bruised iron and frozen slate.
Cheng Shan was already crouched beside the kiln entrance when Pei Jing opened his eyes. The scout held a small clay jar, scooping out grey grease with a flat wooden spatula.
“Strip your boots,” Cheng Shan said without turning. “The morning downdraught begins in half an hour. If you smell of town coal, every beast between here and Wolf-Jaw Deep gap will know an iron-smelter’s son is climbing into their larder.”
Pei Jing stood up, rolling his wool blanket into a tight metal tube. “What’s the compound?”
“Boiled wolfsbane root, rendered badger fat, and charred spruce charcoal,” Cheng Shan tossed the jar over. “Rub it into boot welts, behind your ear lobes, and down your trouser seams. A mountain hunting beast doesn’t see shapes first. It sees chemical trails. If a royal soldier walks into these pines, the beast catches his copper buttons and horse sweat from three leagues downwind.”
Pei Jing dipped two fingers into the grease. The substance was cold and slick, carrying the numbing stench of wild aconite. He worked the mixture step by step into his boot seams where sweat piled up, then rubbed a thin film across his cuffs and collar.
