She miscarried her unborn child shortly after.
“Fú’yí.” I use the shortened version of her last name andaunt.
My father led an army comprising soldiers from our province during the initial resistance effort by the Kingdom of Rivers. Yet when he saw the trajectory of the war and how quickly our forces were falling to the Kingdom of Night, he made the critical decision to withdraw our people and focus on fortifying Xi’lín’s wards. Now many of the villagers owe their lives and the lives of their families to my father. That is the small comfort I have in leaving: knowing that my mother and sister will not go hungry, that someone will bring the rice harvests to them and help patch the roof over their heads if needed.
After my father’s death, I chose to take Fú’yí under my wing. I am not sure why, for she was frail and a widow and had nothing to offer me. Yet I found myself leaving small packs of meat from my hunting trips at her doorstep; I made sure her firewood and coal were stocked in the winter.
And she, too, was there for me, in the ways my mother could not be. She showed me how to strap the cotton padding onto my inner garments when I had my first bleeding. She helped me bind my breasts when they filled. She watched over Ma and Méi’zi in the early days when I sought out the light lotuses and my sister was not yet old enough even to take care of herself.
“You are going today,” Fú’yí says softly. Her hair is streaked with gray now. Faded, like most of the rest of our realm. Likealways, she smells like a mix of bitter herbal medicine and the faint scent of chrysanthemums that she keeps in her husband’s memory.
I cannot think of what to say, so I nod. I have never let myself grow close to Fú’yí. Letting more people into my heart means giving myself more ways to get hurt. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that most of the people you love eventually leave you.
But Méi’zi has no qualms about giving her heart to many. She must have discussed my journey with Fú’yí.
“Not many of us are left, but we will hold the fort until you return,” Fú’yí continues, a hint of steel coloring her tone. “Don’t you worry about Méi’zi or your mother. These old bones have some martial arts skills in them yet.”
I blink. Though I know I am respected for my practitioning skills and my father’s legacy, I had not expected any sort of acknowledgment from the remaining villagers—those who have stayed behind because they are old, because they cannot survive the journey out of the Central Province, or perhaps because they have grown roots in our little village and want their ashes laid to rest here. All these years, I have assumed that we’ve survived on codependency and mutual need; I am unprepared for the emotion in Fú’yí’s voice.
“Thank you,” I manage.
The woman nods. Something in her face shifts as she reaches out and grasps my hand tightly. “You let those bastards in the Kingdom of Sky know,” she says fiercely. “You let them know we are still here. You let them know we are still alive. You show them how strong you are. And when you have learned the arts, just as your father did, you come back and win this war against the Kingdom of Night.”
My breath catches. There it is: the sickness of hope. It lights Fú’yí’s faint gaze. It lends strength to her fingers.
I have never let myself think that far. For the first few months after the war began, I hoped. We all did. We thought there would be an end to all this.
But then my father died, my mother became a walking corpse, and nine years later, I know better than to think of anything grander than my three promises to myself.
I swallow and briefly squeeze Fú’yí’s hand before extricating mine. “You take care, Fú’yí.”
She gives me a long look. “All these years and we still don’t know why those mó bastards did this,” she murmurs, turning to the red sun in the sky. “But you know what I think?”
I sigh. “What?”
“I think there’s a reason the mó haven’t taken over the entire kingdom yet. I’ve heard rumors from the Imperial City that the mó cannot sit on our mortal throne or expand beyond the Central Province.” Pride lifts Fú’yí’s gaze, and her smile is one I will remember for years to come. “It is because there is old magic in the bones of our land—magic as old as the Heavenly Order itself. It safeguards this kingdom for mortals. And it remembers who the true rulers of this realm are.”
I know this story: that the dragons—gods of the rivers and seas—created the mortal realm, and a queen among them, the Azure Dragon, laid down her bones across our land. Where she slept, waters gushed, forming the Long River that gave birth to our civilization and gave our land its name: the Kingdom of Rivers.
“But the emperor’s line is dead, Fú’yí,” I say gently.
“The magic buried deep within this earth is alive, Àn’ying, and it waits for us,” Fú’yí says with the patience of one teachinga five-year-old. “When the gods created the realms, the dragons gave the first mortal emperor a drop of their blood. That power runs within us still, centuries later.”
I know that tale, one as old as time and told to children before they sleep. I cannot rely on bedtime stories to save my family.
“The signs are there, Àn’ying,” Fú’yí finishes. “The truth waits for those who know where to look.”
Then she turns and ambles off to her lonely cottage down the road.
Her words echo something in the note my father left me:The truth to everything is at the Temple of Dawn.
Fú’yí’s right. Nine years and we still don’t know why the Kingdom of Night did this. Why they suddenly broke the Heavenly Order that has governed all realms since the beginning of time, shattered the wards between our realms so that the mortal lands began to sink into theirs.
Now our emperor and his heir are dead, the mortal throne is empty, and we live in a dying world where the nights grow longer and darker.
Leaves crunch behind me. I don’t need to turn to know that my sister has come outside.
“Was that Fú’yí?” Méi’zi asks, squinting. She catches my worried look and grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her when you’re gone.”
