She hadn’t then, but she did now.Theywere the balance: she and Zen, one made to create and one made to ruin, one to wield power and one to destroy it.
Lan’s song shifted, and the tides of the river of her land began to flow backward. Through the dynasties that rose and fell like the ever-shifting dunes of the Emaran Desert; through the wars and bloodshed and death…all the way back to that clear night of stars and grasses, until she thought she might have stood at the first shaman’s side.
The Godslayer bloomed from her fingertips. She closed her eyes, pouring the story she had learned into its qì, weaving the truth of what was meant to be: balance. Creation and destruction. A cycle of power, approaching its end.
In the distance, something screamed.
When she opened her eyes, the Godslayer shone brightly in the sky beneath the snow clouds. It reached its tendrils of qì toward the Crimson Phoenix.
The Demon God shrieked again, its flames sputtering. Beneath it, Hóng’yì looked up. His eyes found Lan. Understanding lit them, shifting to hatred. He flung out an arm towardher.
Hóng’yì’s qì faltered. He staggered and fell to his knees, undoubtedly feeling the impact of the Godslayer, so inextricably was his qì now tied to the Crimson Phoenix’s core.
She continued to play, guiding the Godslayer forward. Its qì found the Azure Tiger, then wrapped over the Black Tortoise, dimming its thunderous energies; last, it found the Silver Dragon. The demonic energies stabilized as the Godslayer fettered their cores.
Beneath them, Zen staggered. He managed to right himself, swaying slightly as he straightened.
Lan approached them. She faced Hóng’yì, who thrashed as the Godslayer closed over his two Demon Gods.
“You fool!”the imperial heir screamed. “Relinquish me! Do you not remember the bargain we made? I could make you the most powerful empress this nation has ever seen; we could be immortal; we could rule this land, thisworld,into eternity—” He fell to his knees, holding one hand to his heart as the Godslayer began to take effect.
Lan lowered the ocarina from her lips. The Godslayer remained, its unyielding grasp fettering the Four Demon Gods. Waiting for the end of her song, her final command.
“I have seen era after era and dynasty after dynasty of powerful rulers,” Sòng Lián said quietly. “All they have sought is more power. All they have served is themselves. It is time power served the people of this land.”
She turned away from him, toward the other end of the cliffs. Something inside her had numbed, the last flame of a candle gone out. She felt cold, as though she’d set one foot in the River of Forgotten Death. As though she were buried beneath the snows of an eternal winter.
Across from her, Zen met her gaze. He had fallen down and now lay in the snow, his chest rising and falling faintly. The darkness had faded from his eyes as the Black Tortoise’s control over him had been broken by the Godslayer. The light of the Four Demon Gods reflected on his face, red and blue, black and silver.
He smiled, soft with sadness and knowing.
It was snowing heavily now, the flakes gray like ashes, melting on her cheeks as she closed the gap between her and Zen and knelt by his side. Gently, she drew him into her arms. Breathed in the scent of him, of night and smoke and mountain wind, committed the shape of his body to memory, the way his fit so perfectly against hers. Felt the silky locks of his hair brush her cheeks, his lips graze her ears as he whispered, “Finish the story.”
She leaned against him as she unspooled the last notes to the song of the Godslayer. The Seal grew bright, its fetters tightening and expanding over the Crimson Phoenix, cocooning it in water. The Demon God’s flames began to sizzle out, embers turning to ash, fire to smoke. A maelstrom of qì howled around it, unleashed into the atmosphere to rejoin the clouds, the wind, the water, and the earth.
There came a last flare of light, and all that was left of the Crimson Phoenix was a fleck of light the size of a pearl, so bright and golden, it was as though the sun itself shone from within. Then that, too, exploded. A gale swept over the earth like the sigh of a being put to rest.
The Azure Tiger went next, and its core seemed to shimmer every shade of blue as it unwound.
The energies stilled. There was nothing left of either Hóng’yì or the two Demon Gods on the other side of the peak but for a patch of rock untouched by snowfall.
And then the Seal turned toward them.
She heard Zen speak to her, looked into his face, carved in black and white by the shadow and light of the two remaining Demon Gods. He was so beautiful, just like the first time she’d caught sight of him across a crowded teahouse.
“Smile, Sòng Lián,” he said, and pressed his two fingers to the corners of her mouth, just as she had once done to him. She held on to his hand, pressing it against her cheek as her tears fell. “With you by my side, I have already known a lifetime of joy.” The dark crescent of his lashes swept across his cheeks. “Thank you.”
Gently, Zen leaned forward and pressed his lips to her face, kissing away her tears just as he had once a world ago, in the forsaken village of rain and mist. She felt his hand scrape against her collarbone, felt him lift the amulet she’d carried with her.
The Godslayer twined over the Silver Dragon. Its scales began to disintegrate, falling like ash and dissipating into the night. It dipped its great head, one icy blue eye turning to glance at Lan, and she was suddenly reminded of the sight she had seen in the Emaran Desert: the immortal soul released from the sand demon, reaching up and touching the Dragon with reverence. As though facing a god.
Lan gazed up at the Silver Dragon. She could not have hoped to read the ancient, vast emotions on its face, but she thought there was something like peace in the way it exhaled and gave her a slow blink.
Lan inclined her head at the being. It gave no acknowledgment but to close its eyes, and with the next gust of wind it was gone, snow and moonlight stirring the mountaintop where it had stood.
In her arms, Zen shuddered. “Lan,” he whispered. “Will you tell me a story?”
So she did. Sòng Lián lay down next to him and held him in the snow as she told him, once again, the story they had dreamt of back in Shaklahira: of another life, another world, one free of war and conquest, when a boy and a girl would meet in a school courtyard. He would catch her breaking the Code of Conduct, and she would smash a teacup in his face, and there would be something familiar to both of them in that moment, as though they might have encountered this in a past life—though that would be impossible. She would tease him relentlessly, and slowly, he would warm to her, each drawn to the other like sun to moon, flame to darkness, as though a predestined path brought them together. They would fall in love, wholly and irrevocably. They would don red wedding outfits and gather with a great group of their families and friends to exchange vows and bind that red thread of fate between them, the one that, unbeknownst to them, had tied them together through past lifetimes and guided them to each other in thisone.
