Hào’yáng’s fists are clenched, his knuckles white in the moonlight. He swallows, and when he looks back up, his eyes glisten with tears. “I can,” he whispers, and it is a hollow sound. “But, Lady, it hurts.”
The scene blurs again, and this time, it is one that I recognize: the rosewood pillars, the gauze drapes, and the soft chirps of cicadas. Dusk at the Temple of Tranquil Longevity, in the immortal realm.
I recognize this scene—or what happened moments beforeit.
Hào’yáng, now in his present-day age, leans against a pillar as we approach through Meadowsweet’s memory. His foreheadrests against his arms, but every line in him is drawn tightly.
How did it go?Meadowsweet’s voice rings in my mind.
Slowly, he tips his face up. Tries and fails to meet Meadowsweet’s gaze. “She went to him,” he says, so quietly that I barely catch it.
Meadowsweet approaches him. Gently, she touches his hand with her snout. It is all the comfort she knows to offerhim.
Hào’yáng squeezes his eyes shut, reining in his expression. The pain on his face is gone, and there is only a shatteringgrief.
I dream, sometimes, of a lifetime in which I am not destined to be emperor.His voice rings in Meadowsweet’s memory as he speaks to her through their minds, and I hear it as though he speaks to me.I dream of not being shackled to my duty, Meadowsweet, free to live and love as I please. I dream of a life where I did not take her family away from her. A life where I deserve to love her.
The last of the sunset rays have drained from the immortal skies, and the memory fades from my mind. Night of the mortal realm sweeps in as the present returns. Hào’yáng lies before me, his life bleeding out with every passing moment.
Tears roll down my face. I take his palm and press it to my cheek, knowing that these hands wrote those careful, golden words that helped me live, day by agonizing day, through all of nine years.
“Àn’ying?” He opens his eyes. They reflect the light of Meadowsweet’s glow, of my talisman’s spirit energy working to heal his impossible wound. His fingers cup my cheek, his thumb tracing a caress across my skin. Wiping away my tears. “Àn’ying, don’t cry. Don’t cry for me.”
I can’t move on from Meadowsweet’s memories. All these years, I’ve had his comfort in my solitude, his encouragement in my grief. Yet when it came down to it, there was no one by his side to take away his tears.
I know instinctively what to do as I lean forward, pressing my fingers to my heart, where my life energies thrum with the pulse of my blood. I guide them up as I lean down, place my palm to his cheek, and kiss him.
He inhales as I exhale, my life energy streaming into him with my breath. Hào’yáng’s eyes fall shut, his lashesfluttering against his cheeks. I exhale again, following the rhythm of his breaths as they grow steadier. By contrast, my heartbeat slows as my life energy continues to drain from me into him.
“Àn’ying.” His voice sounds distant to my ears even as he folds me into his arms. I lean into him, too tired to hold myself up any longer, yet all I’m aware of is my own overwhelming relief as I listen to the song of his heart.
“Stay,” I whisper. “Please, stay with me.” For half my life, Hào’yáng has been the steady presence by my side, a warmth like sunlight. And now, finally, possibly too late, a realization spills from my lips, falling like teardrops: “I can’t bear the thought of a world without you, Hào’yáng.”
His eyes shine, the corners softening until all his masks fall away. He’s smiling at me as he parts his lips to speak.
The hellbeast comes out of nowhere. I feel only a rush of cold wind, sense a darkness denser than night pressing at my back, and then—
Impact.
My head’s ringing. The world is spinning, a kaleidoscope of stars and clouds and the deep, deep sea beneath. Dimly, I hear Meadowsweet’s scream, feel Hào’yáng’s hands slipping through my fingers…
“No,” I gasp, reaching for him as I orient myself again. I’m not falling—I’mrising, there’s pressure around my midriff.
When I look down, I realize why.
A pair of giant claws hold me, tightly enough that I can’t move but not enough to hurt me. A shadow envelops me; from above comes the beat of wings.
Qióng’qí.
Beneath us, hanging between me and the deadly drop to the sea, is Hào’yáng. He grips my fingers with one hand, his other reaching for Azure Tide at his hip. But with each wingbeat of the hellbeast, Hào’yáng’s grip slips farther and farther down.
I draw my lotus sword and slash at Qióng’qí’s talons.
The first swing falls on empty air.
The second is when it happens: As the blade arcs, it slows, and the surface of the blade brightens. I catch my reflection on the ancient metal the sword is forged from, catch the way my eyes widen in horror as, with a streak of light, the blade shatters into a million glittering pieces. For a heartbeat, they linger in the air, fractals in a kaleidoscope of motion and soft light.
Then, they fall. Pieces drift onto Hào’yáng’s and my skin so that, for a few heartbeats, the two of us are aglow in the remnants of the sword. Light threads through Hào’yáng wrists, his fingers, his cheeks, the curves of his throat, dissolving into his veins. When he looks up at me, his eyes shine with the color that once ran through the lotus sword.
