Startled by the archer’s impossible aim, the star god stumbled from his place in the sky and plummeted beyond the horizon with an earsplitting scream. Before the rest of the stars had a chance to react, Houyi let loose another arrow, and then another—and then another. One by one, the stars fell from their seats in Heaven until only one remained.
“Still thy bow, Lord Archer,” the final star pleaded. “A grave mistake it would be to kill me as you have done my brothers.”
“Tell me why I should spare you after the torture you have wrought.”
“You cannot survive in total darkness, mortal. Spare me, and I will ensure your forests will flourish and your bountiful harvests will bloom. Without my aid, all will freeze and die.”
As angry as he was, Houyi knew the star spoke the truth. Life and light went hand in hand, as did Death and darkness.
“How do I know you will not retaliate?” Houyi asked. “I let you live, and you use the rest of your magic to burn me when my back is turned.”
“Then this, too, I shall promise,” the star god replied. “I will bestow upon you and your line my godly blessing. Seal my magic within your souls to protect you through all endeavors, and in turn, you will be the protectors of mankind forevermore.”
Houyi could not be sure if this was a ploy. The gods, after all, were a crafty sort. With this offer, Houyi’s wife and child—and the rest of the world, for that matter—would finally be unburdened.
“Very well,” he said. “Let it be so.”
Slowly, he lowered his weapon and shrugged off the overbearing weight of his linens. Houyi was pleasantly surprised when his skin did not immediately burn and blister.
He welcomed the delightful warmth of the singular star, where it would remain for the rest of time—known solely as the Sun.
4Yue
Hunting Log #159:
Trust your instincts. Not all is as it appears.
Ifind my way back tothe main street, pulling the hood of my cloak up and over my head. The merchants of the water market are packing up for the night, while the local teahouses grow rowdier as the evening drags on, the orange light spilling out through the latticed windows to paint the cold ground outside. I’ve never been inside one, for I’m sure the beauty of my mask would bring ill-wanted attention, though a part of me likes to dream. What do sweet bean buns taste like? What gossip might I overhear?
I wander, as I do so many nights, nothing more than a leaf drifting upon the current of people. I’m drawn less so to the crowds than to areas of noise, where folks gather merrily beneath the flickering golden glow of paper lanterns. It’s a special sort of thrill to walk among their kind undetected. Sometimes, I can pretend I’m one of them. Especially now that my stomach is full.
I peer into homes through cracks in their windows, spoiled with the sight of families enjoying their nightly meals. A few blocks away, I spy a mother tucking her children into their beds bycandlelight, lovingly combing her fingers through their hair as she wishes them sweet dreams. The home after that, I peek in to find an elderly couple, their bodies frail and little, curled up together beneath a shared blanket. Their faces are peaceful in sleep, the gentle rise and fall of their chests in time with one another.
I don’t stop until I accidentally find myself in what the humans call the Pleasure District, pulled in by the scent of floral perfumes and the melodious songs of painted women. A column of large buildings stands on either side of the single street, their walls painted red with heavy golden accents. It’s so bright and ostentatious that it hurts my eyes. Ladies stand by ground-floor windows in sheer dresses, making flirtatious eyes to the men and women browsing as they would in the markets. It never occurred to me that pleasure could be a commodity—both bought and sold like any other good.
Settling into the mouth of a narrow alley, I take a seat behind a stack of abandoned crates, soaking up the movements and sounds and colors. Across the way, I spot a young couple stumbling out the front doors of a pleasure house. The buck looks drunk, likely on both wine and kisses, the doe on his arm giggling sweetly against his ear.
“Promise you’ll come again tomorrow?” she asks him.
He whispers something. Although my hearing is better than most, I can’t make out what he says at this distance. It’s a secret, just for her. One that causes her cheeks to flush pink and her eyes to widen in delighted surprise. Did he promise to whisk her away? Or did he murmur something scandalous in nature?
The man takes her hand, carefully threading his fingers between hers, all the while holding her gaze with a tenderness that makes my chest feel… strangely tight.
Curious, I hold my own hands up before me and thread my fingers together. They are soft and warm, but it’s hardly as magicalan experience as the couple makes it seem. I laugh bitterly under my breath. How pathetic am I, yearning to have my hand held like a child?
“Are you lost, madam?” a deep voice reaches my ear.
I nearly jump out of my skin, turning so quickly I almost lose my balance. I look up to find a night watchman.
From what little I understand about human aging, I estimate him to be in his early to mid thirties, though his steep frown makes him appear a decade older. He’s dressed in armor—a leather chest piece pulled over mulberry red robes—with his dao at his hip and black leather gauntlets pulled up to below his elbows. Strong and regal and much too serious, his features teetering just on the other side of unfriendly. His hair is cropped short at the sides, where the length on top is pulled back into a neat bun in typical Southern Kingdom fashion. I note his thick brows, square jaw, thin lips, and rough stubble. Some might call him a rugged brute.
But his dark axinite eyes and impressive stature aren’t what beguile me so…
It’s hissmell.
Crushed cinnamon, star anise, and sweet dried mango. An assaulting combination of sweet and earthy. I wonder if he’s been spending time with the spice traders near the markets. My mouth waters. My stomach growls with a painful ferocity. I fight the urge to unhinge my jaw and swallow him whole, my baser animal instincts rising to the surface of my skin.
I damn near lash out to bite him when he suddenly says, “It’s a little late to be wandering the streets alone, madam. Do you require an escort home?”
