I turn away, running my fingers over the sheer sleeves of my gown. Over the intricate patterns of swirling stars and crescent moons that Yù’chén conjured with his magic. “You really expect me to believe you? After you tricked me into giving my heart away and then used me.”
“It was real for me.”
Real.The word hits me like a punch to the gut. A strange, tender pain blooms in my heart when I recall the number of times he saved my life—risking his own. When he fought that mó back in my village. When he went up against Yán’lù for me. When he begged his mother for my life.
“How?” I ask at last. “How do you plan to influence things?”
Yù’chén summons a deep breath, as though steeling himself, then looks me in the eye and says, “I am heir to the mortal throne, Àn’ying.”
The dam I’ve built in my mind breaks. Memories of Hào’yáng flood me: his steady brown gaze and warm smile; the steel of his eyes and power of his tone as he issued commands to our villagers; the glint of sunlight on his armor as the river waters bore him like a throne; the flash of his sword as he leapt to attack Qióng’qí to buy my village time to evacuate.
The grief in his eyes whenever he thought no one was looking, grief he’d quietly held from when he was just a child and began to carry the weight of an entire kingdom upon his shoulders.
And I miss him, I miss him so much that it could carve me open.
The sunlight and waters and flowers are gone. I am once again in the darkness. Yù’chén’s words ring in my ears, and the only thing I can think to say is “No.”
Yù’chén draws a swift breath. He blinks quickly, then his jaw clenches.
It’s a few heartbeats before he speaks, a hard edge to his voice. “Whether or not you like it, I am.”
I push myself to my feet. “You willneverbe heir in the way he was.”
His fingers close around my arm just as I turn to leave.
“Let go,” I snap.
“No. Not until you hear me out.” He spins me to face him, his other hand coming to grip my chin in a viselike hold, and I realize, truly realize, the extent of his strength, how gentle he has been with me until now. His eyes are livid with anger and something like grief as he beholds me. “Àn’ying, I brought you here to make you a deal. Help me take the mortal throne and become emperor of the Kingdom of Rivers, and I vow to formally appoint you to a seat by my side—to help me protectit.” He draws a shaky breath, and his grip loosens. “Hard as it is for you to believe, I love the mortal realm, too, and it is, in some ways, my home. I never wanted this war. Help me end it, Àn’ying. Help me save your realm from the Kingdom of Night.”
“You’re mad.” I snatch my hand back, but my heart is pounding. Of everything I might have imagined, this is the last thing I expected.
An alliance. A means to protect my home.
I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of Méi’zi and Ma and Lì’líng and Tán’mù and Fú’yí, gathered in the scattered sunlight beneath the plum blossom tree. I’d sought to achieve that by seeing Hào’yáng on the throne.
The vision shifts: a throne of red scorpion lilies, night and a scythe moon, Yù’chén bearing a crown.
And the mortal realm—home—a world away, my loved ones safe in an eternal twilight.
My eyes fly open. The vision vanishes.
Yù’chén is gone. The shadows where he stood are still and empty.
I dig my fingernails into the sleeves of my gown. In the dark, it is easier to recall Xisenyin’s hands and tongue on me. Easier to remember that I am nothing more than a bird trapped in a cage here.
Prey.
I curl my fingers into fists.
I will not be prey.
I grip the porcelain shard, thinking of the curve of my crescent blade nestled in my palm for that brief moment before Xisenyin took it again.
I’m going to steal it back from her.
Yet as I gather my dress around myself, I can’t help but think of Yù’chén’s words.
Help me save your realm from the Kingdom of Night.
