Demon.
My mind flashes to the gate in the wards leading to the mortal realm.
I’m moving by instinct, Shadow and Fleet in my hands, mind open to the currents of energy around me. The blood is still fresh, gleaming and trickling beneath the fading crimson light. Whoever—whatever—did this could still be nearby.
A crackle of footfalls. By the time I pivot, it’s too late.
A hand closes around my wrist, the touch cool and unfamiliar. Wind stirs across the clearing, lifting jade-colored willow leaves into the air. The setting sun catches against pale silk with gold threads as the newcomer brushes past me. With a light tug, he draws me into the thicket of trees.
My back bumps against willow bark, and my blades are up, but the newcomer has already let go and stepped back, moving effortlessly as though he is in a dance.
It’s him—the immortal whose face I dreamt in the sea. He presses his index finger to his lip, then soundlessly draws his sword and lifts his gaze to the skies. He is masking his spirit energy, yet this close, I sense great waves of it rolling off him, just like last time we met on the bridge.
From somewhere far above, voices sound. Flashes of white cut through the dusk, trailing wisps of cloud as they descend.
Immortals.
The guard turns to me and holds out a hand. Without thinking, I take it. I feel a familiar ripple of spirit energy as he lifts his other hand to trace a talisman.
Strange.Immortals don’t usually use the techniques that mortals use to channel spirit energy. When you possess that much power, you can weave magic with a flick of your finger, a passing thought.
The talisman masks our movement. I follow him as he hurries through the Celestial Gardens, his movements fluid and powerful. He slows only when the landscape grows familiar and I begin to recognize the patterns of the trees and flowers.
We come to a stop by a small pavilion overlooking a pond. Sprigs of camellias grow by the water, and farther away, I spot a pair of mandarin ducks resting, their brightly colored feathers reflected on the surface. From a distance drifts the sound of conversation and laughter from the other candidates near the Clear Skies Pavilion. Here, though, we are alone and shielded from view.
The immortal releases my hand; his goes to the hilt of his sword. Everything about him is carved with sharp intent, and he looks at me with a practiced blankness. His eyes, though, are swift and assessing, constantly evaluating our surroundings. “It’s safe here,” he says. His tone is not unkind.
I’m still gripping my blades. I believe him, but I refuse to let go. “Why did you take me away?”
“My priority was to get you out safely.”
I watch him carefully. “Why?”
He blinks slowly, his face betraying nothing. “Lady Shi’ya vouched for you that day upon your entry to the temple. It is not only your reputation as a candidate at stake should you become entangled in dangerous affairs.”
Dangerous affairs.“You saw it, too,” I whisper. “Her heart…”Was eaten.
“Yes, I saw it,” he says. “There is something afoot here, but investigating it is my job. Please stay out of it; this has nothing to do with you.”
But what if it does?a small voice whispers in my mind, and the confession is on the tip of my tongue:There is a demon halfling in the Temple of Dawn. We opened a gate in your wards last night.
If I tell him, I risk losing my place in the trials.
I risk losing Ma.
I try not to falter beneath his piercing gaze, as unyielding as sword metal and as cool as ice. A faint wind stirs his robes; the dusk light gilds his features and weaves molten gold into his hair, and as the willows and camellias dance around us, I feel I have stepped into a fairy tale. This immortal’s beauty is as effortless as sunlight dancing on river water.
“Listen to me.” He takes a step closer and fixes his gaze on me. Deep, brown eyes, steady as the earth. “From the moment Lady Shi’ya spoke for you in the Hall of Radiant Sun, your fate was pulled into the nexus of ours. The politics of immortals is a long, twisted game, and there are many who would wish to oust her for the slightest misstep. If you wish to thank her, thenwin.”
At his words, I swallow, the confessions sinking to the pitof my stomach. Instead, I study his face: the chiseled angles of his jaw, the slim yet strong curves of his cheeks, the symmetry of his lips. Here, this close, the moment in the sea no longer seems like an impossibility.
He is still, studying me, too. The cool austerity of his gaze shifts, and I have the strangest feeling he is searching for something in my eyes. His lips part; he looks as though he means to say more. But then he draws back and begins to turn away. And for some reason, in this clearing lit by the setting sun, beneath the murmuring willows, I feel as though I am dreaming and that I have dreamt this dream before. As though I have more questions I should ask him, but they flit through my mind like dust motes, impossible to catch.
“I’m Àn’ying,” I find myself saying to his retreating back.
From between the willow branches and flowering trees, he glances over his shoulder at me. His eyes soften at the edges. The effect is like watching ice melt over a sunlit river.
“I know,” he says. “I’m Hào’yáng.”
