To be so free, and to be so powerful—what might that taste like? Perhaps one day she would know; perhaps one day she would be able to do more than gift an old, ailing man a slim silver spoon and run when danger knocked on the door.
She tilted her face to the skies and breathed, massaging the part of her wrist where the soldier had grabbed her, wishing to scrub the feeling of his fingers from her mind. Tonight was the winter solstice, marking the Twelfth Cycle of the Elantian Conquest; with the highest Elantian officials in the land gathering for the festivities, it made sense that the government had increased surveillance and patrols across the largest Hin cities. Haak’gong was the Southern Elantian Outpost, the jewel of trade and commerce of Elantian colonies, second only to the Heavenly Capital, Tian’jing—or, as it was now meant to be known, King Alessandertown.
The Twelfth Cycle,Lan thought.Gods, has it been that long?
If she closed her eyes, she could remember exactly how her world had ended.
Snow, falling like ashes.
Wind, sighing through bamboo.
And the song of a woodlute weaving to the skies.
She’d had a name, once. Her mother had given it to her.Lián’ér,meaning “lotus”: the flower that bloomed from nothing but mud, a light in the darkest of times.
They’d taken that from her.
She’d had a home, once. A great courtyard house, green weeping willows sweeping stained-glass lakes, cherry blossom petals coating fanstone paths, verandas yawning to the lushness of life.
They’d taken that from her.
And she’d had a mother who loved her, who had taughther stories and sonnets and songs, who had nurtured her calligraphy stroke by stroke across soft parchment pages, fingers twined around hers and hands wrapped around her entire world.
They had taken her mother, too.
The long, booming tolls of the dusk bells echoed in the distance, cutting through her memories. Her eyes flew open, and there it was again, the empty sea looming so lonely before her, echoing with all that she had lost. Once upon a time, she might have stood here, at the precipice of her world, and tried to make meaning of it all—how it had all gone so wrong, how she had ended up here with nothing but broken memories and a strange scar only she could see.
But as the bells’ sonorous tolls continued to sound across the skies, reality washed over her. She was hungry, she was tired, and she was late for the evening’s performance at the Teahouse.
The scrollhadbeen promising, though…. She brushed a hand over her left wrist again, each stroke of the strange, indecipherable character burned indelibly into her mind.
Next time,she told herself, just as she had for the past eleven cycles.Next time I’ll find the message you left me, Mama.
For now, though, Lan tipped her dou’lì over her head and dusted off her sleeves.
She had a Teahouse to return to.
She had a contract to pay off.
She had Elantians to serve.
In a conquered land, the only way to win was to survive.
Without another glance back, she turned to face the colorful streets of Haak’gong and began making her way up thehills.
In life, qì blazes and moves as yáng; in death, qì cools and stills as yin. A body with a restless qì is indicative of a restless soul.
— Chó Yún, Imperial Spirit Summoner,Classic of Death
The shop was in ruins, and the night air stung with the acrid scent of metal magic.
Zen stood in the shadows of the dilapidated houses down this alleyway of Haak’gong, wrestling with his shock at the scale of destruction mere steps from him. Though it had been neither unexpected nor uncommon throughout the earliest cycles of conquest, he hadn’t prepared for such a brash display of violence and dominance in the supposed crown jewel of Elantian power. The reminder rang almost personal: that the Elantians loved to make examples out of Hin traitors and rebels, to send their message in blood and bones that there was no hope, there was no point in resisting.
Zen had almost believed them.
He hesitated only a moment before removing his gloves. The air was cool and crisp against his fingers, the flow of wind and humidity brushing against his skin. He could sense fire, too, in the candles that burned low in this district—the people too poor to afford the alchemical light supplied by theElantians—and the ground, holding steady beneath his two feet. The metal and wood, in the housing structures along the street.
No other disturbances in the flow of energy—the qì—around him.
