Zen pulled Nightfire from his master’s chest and slid it back into its scabbard. Blood defiled his hands, warm and slick. When he straightened, the world looked different, as though his life was forever splintered between present and future, defined by this moment. He had been running from the person he was meant to be for so long.
It was time to face his fate.
To his clan, destiny was dictated by the stars beneath which he was born, carved into the bones of the wildhorse chosen for him at birth and written in the way the red sands ofthe plateaus blew in the Northern Steppes. It was something undeniable, something woven into stories that lasted beyond time. His father had known this when he’d sacrificed himself to save Zen. His great-grandfather Xan Tolürigin had known when he’d fought against the emperor of the Middle Kingdom.
And Zen knew as he walked from Skies’ End, sword in hand, black flames rolling from his skin and curling over his feet, the roar of his energies cresting over as though he were screaming to the heavens.
As Dé’zi’s golden Seal faded, something rose within him and behind him as high as the night sky itself, starless and fathomless as an abyss. A voice echoed inside him, ancient and vast, a shadow without light.
Xan Temurezen, last heir of the Mansorian clan,his Demon God whispered.At long last, you have risen.
Grief is for the living. The dead feel nothing.
—Puh Mín, Imperial Scholar and Spirit Summoner,Classic of Death
Skies’ End was a flurry of movement. People hurried to and fro, Archery disciples taking the highest vantage points, Seals disciples the very first line of defense, and Swords and Fists set up in ambush locations throughout the trees and buildings. Overhead, storm clouds surged, galloping across the sky, whipped by a rising wind. The air was charged, swollen with impending rain.
Lan fought her way through the crowd.
“Lan’mei!”
She spun, loosing a breath of relief when she caught sight of Shàn’jun’s slim face and pale robes emerging from the direction of the Chamber of a Hundred Healings. A thousand words might not explain what had happened since the last time they saw each other, and she steeled herself against anger, sadness, or disappointment from her friend. But as they reached each other, he took her hands in his and squeezed.
“Tài’getold me everything,” he said. His hemp satchel hung by his side; inside, she heard the clinks of various bottlesand vials—his emergency pack. “Dilaya is awake and already reaching for her sword—though there will be a bump to make her head even larger in the next weeks.”
Lan summoned a grin for him. “Good. Dilaya fights best when she’s mad, so I’ll take credit for when she single-handedly cuts down the Elantian army.” She grew sober. “The grandmaster asked me to fetch you. I think he is going to try to save Zen.”
Shàn’jun’s lips parted. He swept a glance around them, at the disciples running about, his expression softening in the way it did only for Tai.
Lan stood on tiptoes, searching, but there was no sign of the awkwardly tall boy with his head of curls.
Shàn’jun blushed when he saw her watching him. “We go,” he said, tugging on her hand, but she hesitated.
Lan knew the pain in a goodbye left unsaid.
“Ài’ya,” Shàn’jun sighed lightly. “I will see him soon enough.”
The nine hundred ninety-nine steps of the mountain had never taken so long. The energies of Skies’ End had shifted. Darkness—the taste of yin—hung thick in the air. The shadows stretched longer, twisting and morphing as they hurried down the steps. Lightning flashed in the clouds gathered overhead, followed by the rumble of thunder.
They were nearly there when Shàn’jun suddenly grabbed her hand, drawing them to a stop. His lips parted, and for a moment, he looked at Lan, fear written plain across his face.
“I think…I think something has just happened.” The Medicine disciple swallowed, shut his eyes briefly. “Though I lack the ability to channel much qì, I am particularly attuned to its flows. Yáng to yin, warm to cold…life to death. Something has just happened, Lan, and I…I am afraid to find out what it is.”
And then Lan felt it too: a flicker in the world of yáng, a draining of vitality as though a star had just winked out. A single, small star—but a star she knew.
Grandmaster,she thought.
It wasn’t until they had reached the bottom and saw the agitated quiver of the Boundary Seal that Shàn’jun pulled her to a sharp stop. Slowly, ever so slowly, he put a finger to his lips. Then he pointed.
Lan looked to the Most Hospitable Pine, silhouette jagged in the night.
Her gaze fell, too late, to the figure lying prone beneath it. A set of practitioner’s robes, white as snow. Then: movement beyond the pine, cutting off her trail of thought. A figure rose from the body. He had held so still that she’d thought his black páo was part of the shadows.
The moon slid out from behind clouds at that moment, cleaving the scene into black and white, a place of silhouettes and ghosts. Zen straightened from the grandmaster’s body, blood-soaked and trailing darkness as though he’d been cut from a piece of the night. Something behind him reared up, expanding until it stood taller than the highest summit and seemed to devour the moon and extinguish the stars. Lan held tightly to Shàn’jun’s hands, watching with her mouth open as the thing—themonster—let out a breath that shook the mountains.
Then, its great shadow seemed to wrap around Zen, and both disappeared.
Shàn’jun’s face had drained of blood. “Was that…?”
