The leaf was on the railing when she came back from the market.
A wide mountain leaf, pressed thin, sealed at the fold with a smear of crushed mint. Mei Lin had not been expecting mail, let alone mail that might wilt if she took too long to read it.
"I have had a day," she told it. "Are you a summons? You look like a summons. If you're a receipt I'm going to compost you."
It was not a receipt. The hand inside was Cenarion Circle, careful and old. A courier had been and gone while she was out buying noodles.
Fire still walks the north face. We need hands that can carry saplings. Hands that can carry water. Hands that can listen.
Any.
All.
— Matoclaw
She read it twice.
She did not know Matoclaw. Somebody in the market had said the name once with the pause that means you listen when she asks. The north face was Mount Hyjal. Everybody knew that too.
She weighted the leaf down with a stone so the wind wouldn't take it. Then she walked to the railing and looked north for a while.
She packed after dinner. The warm coat, because a mountain is a mountain. A notebook with a clean spine. A pack of dried plums grandmother had sent months ago, kept for the right road. Her pickaxe, wrapped in oiled leather. The herb knife, because grandmother had once said you do not dishonour a plant with a dull blade, and she had never forgotten it.
The blade went on her hip and the shield on her back, where it lived when she was walking. It took up most of her back when it was strapped. She had worn it long enough now that she could forget it was there until she ducked under a low arch and heard it clip.
And the totems. Water, earth, air, fire.
At the door she looked back at the balcony. She had left homes before. Not this one, not for a bit of mail on a leaf. She was grinning, which was ridiculous under the circumstances, and she knew it, and she did not stop.
"One ask," she said. "I can do one ask."
— Mist