All she could hear was water and the light intake and exhalation of her own breath, just cold enough to catch at the back of the throat. She had thought she would end her days a hermit, here in the mountains; practicing her arts, preserving her qi, sallying out, if necessary, to fight injustice. But fate had been kind to her and despite the lines that life had worn into her face, she was very much still lean and strong, and handsome too, with hardly a single gray hair. Seventeen years of solitude, martial practice, learning to slowly conquer her feelings. She laughed. It had proved an impossible task. Solitude was too empty; the dragon could not hide even here; emotions could not be conquered.