His sword glistened, black steel carved with ancient characters that flared to life as the energies of his Seal poured in. Nightfire, one of the few family heirlooms Zen still owned, had been forged by the greatest blacksmith in the north of the Last Kingdom, imbued with the essence of fire and heat.
The demon whirled through the air, slashing with clawed hands that had turned green from rot, dark hair trailing like wisps of rope from a patchy scalp. As it opened a mouth full of blackened teeth, it let out a long, drawn-out wail. Vicious whorls of yin energy emanated from it, invisible to the eye yet pressing toward Zen with a maelstrom of fear, of anger, of hatred, of despair, of darkness.
Two paces away from the being, Zen sent a jet of qì to his heels. He leapt, propelled higher, farther, and faster by the technique of the Light Arts. His páo fanned out as he arcedhis back, using momentum to flip over the mó, sword arm outstretched.
Nightfire drew blood: greenish-black, splattering onto the tiled ground. A bitter scent curdled in the air.
Zen landed. Spun.
And found himself facing an unvanquished demon.
Nightfire had left a pale slash across the demon’s chest. Yet even as Zen watched, torrents of yin energies writhed over the wound like shadows, smothering the light of his Dispelment Seal until it extinguished.
The mó slashed a hand down—and Zen felt the searing pain of its yin energies hit his chest.
He stumbled back and coughed up warm, copper-scented liquid. It dripped down his chin as his qì churned in a maelstrom within him, jumbled from the demon’s attack. His thoughts spun; he shook his head, willing it to clear.
He’d drawn the correct Seal. He’d injected it into his sword and cut the mó—so long as his Dispelment Seal came into contact with the demon, a single incision should have done the job.
So what had gone wrong?
A growl rent the air. Zen looked up as the demon crouched to leap again. This time, when Zen raised Nightfire, he was wholly unprepared.
A flash of pale silk, dark hair. A figure small and quick darted between him and the mó.
Lan lifted her arm. Time seemed to slow as she traced her fingers through the air: a stroke that called upon wood, twisting through the characters for metal and earth in a grid structure, then brushes of defense arching overhead. She was drawing the Seal for a protective shield that he’d taught her during their travels barely two weeks ago.
And she was performing it with utterly fluid strokes, asthough she’d been using it for cycles. Pulling on the different elements in the energies like an experienced lute player, weaving them together as though she held a brush in her hands.
Zen watched in utter astonishment as she finished in the blink of an eye, the beginning of the circle meeting the end to enclose the Seal.
It pulsed to life, shimmering a dull silver even in the lightless night. Cracks sounded as the ground, the trees, the metal in the structures around them rose to their defense, weaving together as the Seal called upon them and twined them into a barrier.
The mó screeched and drew to a halt.
Zen tamped down on his shock, mind hurtling forward to understand why his Dispelment Seal had not worked. He flipped through cycles of lessons and theories.
Mó: a soul trapped in a deathless death, fermenting in negative yin energies of fury and ill will.
Yin had to be met with yáng: tethers to the physical world around them, which he’d written into his Seal, grounded by the elements…also, thesentimentsof yáng to counter the demon’s wrathful hatred.Will,Master Gyasho had always said,is the crux of the Seal. A Seal without the core of will is like a body without soul.
The will to counter the mó was peace. Joy. Love. All that made this world, this life, worth living.
All that separated the living from the dead.
The mó lashed out with qì of its own. Debris exploded all around as it smashed into the barrier.
Lan cried out, That Which Cuts Stars flashing as she was flung back.
Zen moved before he could even think, slamming qì into the soles of his feet. A breath, and he was by her side. He caughther as she fell, drew her against him even as the splinters of her shield rained down all around them. There was an inexplicable ache in his throat. The look in her eyes as she’d traced the Seal—he’d seen it before, in the Teahouse when her world came crashing down around her; again in the clearing when she’d turned to face the approaching Elantian army, a slip of a girl in a torn dress, armed with nothing but a butterknife.
First time you’ve seen a massacre?
No.
It was the look of someone who had lost everything yet continued to fight. A look he knew so intimately, as though he’d glimpsed a reflection of his own past.
Manners, propriety, customs, codes be damned—a fire had sparked in Zen’s heart, and he gave in as it spread. His arm tightened against her, wrapping over her waist. His breath caught in his chest as she responded, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder, hands coming to rest on his back.
