What happened next took even me by surprise. The emissary bowed low, only as one would bow to a king, or a great hero. One by one, the other soldiers joined, a rising tide of motion, their spines bent, their heads dipped toward me.
“King Goujian would like to congratulate you, and thank you for your outstanding service to the Yue,” the emissary said, that cold, provocative tone wiped clean. Now he spoke only with respect, hisvoice earnest. “Without your help, the Yue’s resurrection would never have been possible. Your mission is now complete.”
All eyes in the room fell on me. But the only ones I could focus on were Fuchai’s. I would never be freed from the memory; even beyond the grave, I would see it, that moment of terrible understanding, when everything fell into place. Such hurt blazed in them—as if I had dealt him a physical blow, driven a knife through his flesh. It was the kind of grief that could kill you: grief over the living. His sword arm wavered.
“He’s lying,” he whispered.
“No,” I made myself say. My voice came out remarkably steady, like it was a separate entity from me. “No, Fuchai. I’ve been lying to you.”
He shook his head as he stared at me, just stared and stared. He looked completely speechless, clutching at some wound that no one else could see. No one but me. I watched how every memory we’d ever shared was recast in a different light; every soft word spoken, every tender touch, every quiet promise. He was trembling.
“Since when?”
“Since the very beginning.” I let the answer sink in, cutting to the core of him. “It’s the only reason I came. To steal your heart, and ruin your kingdom.”
The tremors in his hands intensified. “So—Zixu was right.”
I could not reply.
The emissary broke the silence. “Lady Xishi, you may take your leave now. We’ll handle the rest from here—”
“Don’t.” The word was breathless, raw. Fuchai was still gazing at me with that wretched, torn expression, his eyes the black of a moonless winter night. “Not—not yet. Tell me something, Xishi. Anything. Isn’t there…” He steadied his voice before it broke. Hishand was reaching for the empty air, grasping at nothing. “Isn’t there something you wish to say to me?”
“I hate you,” I whispered. I had envisioned this moment ten thousand times over. In my imagination, I spat the words out like a curse. I screamed them at him while I beat at his flesh. I watched with pleasure while he crumpled, recited every crime the Wu had ever committed against the Yue. All our fallen soldiers, all our lost men, all our broken homes. Zhengdan, her hand falling limp on the floor. Fanli, the sword twisting deeper and deeper into his chest. All the vengeance-hungry ghosts rising around me like black smoke, waiting for exactly this. And yet my voice was soft, not a weapon, but a song. I could conjure no flames; I was too hollow, drowning in cold blood, my insurmountable sorrow, my unspeakable grief. How much loss could one soul tolerate?
“What?” Fuchai asked, like he didn’t believe it. Refused to.
“I hate you,” I said again, repeated it over and over like a chant, like a prayer. As if it were something I was trying to convince myself of. Ineededto hate him. Everything I had sacrificed led to this. “I hate you, I hate you, I—Ihate you—” I broke off, breathing hard, unable to continue.
His pupils shrank into two fine points, his face ashen. Then, to my shock, he smiled. It was startlingly beautiful, but it was all wrong. “Good,” he said quietly, advancing a step, fingers outstretched as if to brush my face the way he had a hundred times before. There was a rustle of movement; the emissary and the waiting soldiers immediately tensing, weapons at the ready, waiting to intervene. But I gave them a small, silent shake of my head. It was just me and Fuchai: the enemy king, my great tormentor, my heartsick nemesis. “At least you admit you feel something for me.”
Then he turned to the emissary, and spoke calmly, clearly, “Tell Goujian that I thank him for his offer, but there’ll be no need.”
The emissary frowned, not understanding. But I did. My body was frozen to the ground; all I could hear was the violent rushing of blood through my veins, like a hundred rivers churning at once, flowing on to the very depths of the world.
Fuchai was still smiling at me with painful gentleness. Just as gently as one would offer up a bright bloom of flowers, an intricate hairpin, their hand in marriage, he extended his sword to me. “Do it.”
“I… I can’t—”
“If I am to die, I want you to be the one to kill me.” His smile widened, like a burst of light in a gray storm, a melting of ice in early spring. And there was the sword between us, the hilt facing me. A choice. An ending. “I want this to be the last of my memories.”
“Fuchai—”
“Please,” he said. “There can be nobody else but you.”
In the back of my mind the images flashed, a roar of noise and color: Susu gasping her final breath, the heavy creases bracketing my mother’s lips, the fire blazing in our village, the cracks running through our walls like scars. The cold satisfaction of his gaze as he watched Fanli suffer, the mocking, wolfish curve of his smile.
But also: his face in the dawn light when he was just waking, still drowsy and content, turning to me already. His hands clasped around mine in the winter to warm them. His laughter when I teased him, when he leaned in during a meeting to tell me a private joke. His chopsticks dropping the most tender slice of pork or the sweetest red date into my bowl before his own.
How could I ever forgive him?
Yet how could I ever fully hate him?
I saw my fingers close around the hilt, as if I were a spirit suspended over my own body. I saw my grip tighten—twice. I was shaking so hard I almost dropped it. The sword was so heavy itcould have been molded from pure jade or gold. I saw my arms move.
Fuchai closed his eyes, his lashes outlined dark and long against his cheeks, tilting his head back slightly. When the tip of the sword sank in, he flinched, a low sound escaping his throat, but didn’t try to retreat. He just stood there, letting me drive the blade through his heart. Ribbons of red spilled over my palms, trickled down my wrists. My skin was too hot, wet and clammy with blood.
And there was blood on his lips, too, a stain of crimson in the low light.
