I press a hand to my ribs, willing the ache to go away. And I think, in this moment, that I understand a little of what my mother means.
Maybe this is how love is meant to be for the likes of me. Maybe this is the only kind of love I deserve.
Sansiran kneels by me and grasps my chin. Her fingers are cold, so unlike the heat of my mortal skin. “Let it be known that I am never unmerciful to my son,” she whispers. “I have given you the woman you want. I will bind her to you through marriage. Coax the secrets to the mortal throne from her, my son, and you will become the ruler of all the realms.” Her lips curve, and I believe she actually means it when she says, “I am giving you everything that you desire, Yù’chén.”
Everything my mother is saying makes sense; it’s all that I could dream of, as though she’s pried open my chest and clawed out my deepest, most desperate desires.
I want to be accepted by both realms I come from.
I want to be with the girl I love.
But somehow, it’s all wrong.
Sansiran’s nostrils flare, and her eyes narrow. Her grip on my face tightens painfully. “I give you everything you want,” she says, her voice dangerously soft, “yet still, you are dissatisfied.”
I should return to my mask, to the performance of drunken indifference I’ve put on over the past few weeks. Yet as I gaze into her face, I recall the woman who saved me from the wrath of the man who fathered me; who pulled me from the clutches of death as the mortal imperial army came for us that fatefulday.
I think of the mother who did not know how to raise a mortal halfling like me—but who tried, nevertheless.
She had no one to show her the kind of fiery, blazing love I’d found in Àn’ying. She’d only learned of love’s cruelty, its sharp edges made to hurt.
“Because it’s not right,” I say. This conversation—with me prostrated on the ground before her, her nails piercing my flesh—is the most intimate one I’ve had with my mother in a while. “Taking everything you want like this isn’t right.”
My mother’s lips curl in disgust. “Again, you show your mortal weakness,” she says. “Mortals are so concerned with right and wrong. A set of arbitrary rules, as defined by the Heavenly Order, of what constitutes good and evil. The world is made of pain and cruelty, Yù’chén. Even if you satisfy all their arbitrary rules, the Heavenly Order will still mark you as less-than because of what you are.”
“What does it matter?” I demand, pushing myself into a kneeling position. I face Sansiran. “Isn’t our realm enough? Growing up, I never thought of our kingdom and our way of life as lesser. We live on the energies of darkness and night. Our realm is beautiful beneath the moon. I was never ashamed of what I was until we began the war against the mortal realm.”
My mother is silent, unblinking as she watches me. I’ve spent half my life around pure mó, and still, I find myself thrown by their thoughts, their expressions. Like the immortals, they possess their own codes of behavior, their own traditions and thought processes, which feel so different from mine. It is hard for me to fathom that Sansiran birthed me of her flesh and ichor, that we share a bond stronger and older than any other magic in this realm. The pure mó do not feel love, loyalty, and most other emotions as the mortals do. To them, the world runs on power, pain, and cruelty.
And I have no doubt that, in my mother’s mind, she believes she is doing the right thing for me, for us, for our bloodline.
Sansiran blinks at last. “In this world, no matter which realmyou are born into, power is the only thing that matters. Whether you are made immortal, mortal, demon, or anything else, the only rule that holds true is that the strong will vanquish the weak.” She rises like a serpent uncoiling, impossibly graceful. “If I ruled all the realms, even the Heavenly Order could be remade by me. You see, it does not matter how one goes about attaining power. Once you have it, you can rewrite the entire world.” She smiles at me, and it is dazzling. “The realms will be ours soon, my son. You can choose to come willingly and take all that you desire in this life and bask in the gloryof our power. Or I can force you to by invoking the terms of our covenant. You will always belong to me. And if I find you succumbing to any weaknesses and foolishness of your heart, then I shall have to break it until you no longer feel anything at all.”
13
Àn’ying
Palace of the Aurora, Kingdom of Night
A gentle blush light pulses before me in the dark. I cannot see, but all around me is a rushing sound and the distant echo of voices, as though I am submerged beneath water. I can’t make out the words—like the speakers linger just beyond and I listen through a veil.
Then I hear a name. A familiar voice, one that conjures the sun and the sea. Calling to me.
Àn’ying, wake.
—
When I open my eyes, it is dark. Above me, a silken drape hangs between four bedposts—and beyond that, a ceiling enchanted to resemble a night sky. I lie frozen, unable to place where I am and how I got here.
Yet when I inhale, the unfamiliar bed yields a familiar scent.Soft, dark sheets cool against my skin, smelling of midnight and sharp pine, petals on a breeze.
“Àn’ying.” A most beautiful voice from both my dreams and nightmares speaks.
I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, reaching for my crescent blades—but they’re not there, and I’m not in my normal white dress.
The shadows rearrange themselves into the figure of a man. He steps out into a pool of moonlight filtering in from an open-air pavilion. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, another for me to recognize him without his red cloak.
Yù’chén watches me from across the room. He’s in a set of black robes, stitched through with small silver stars that form the shapes of dragons. It’s transformed him into someone new. Someone I barely recognize.
