“Mydarlingson has done so much in service of our realm,” Sansiran begins. Her voice reverberates across the vast hall. “Whether intentionally, that matters not. When he asked me to spare the life of the woman he loved”—by my side, Yù’chén tenses—“I made a generous decision.” Sansiran pauses, and her lips curve. “But for more reasons than one.
“Tonight, my decision pays off.”
Whispers of alarm tighten my chest. From around us come subtle movements as Xisenyin, Weirufeng, and Niefuzan and his underlings all emerge from the crowd to surround us from across the spring.
Yù’chén’s eyes flash. He, too, has taken notice.
Suddenly, he stands.
Sansiran pauses, her lips parted, eyebrows raised, as she beholds her son.
“Your Majesty,” Yù’chén says. “Before you proceed, I have conditions.”
Amusement glimmers in Sansiran’s eyes. “Conditions?” she repeats with a silken laugh. “What makes you believe you have the right to demand anything?”
“I exercise my rights as the prince of the Kingdom of Night and heir to the Kingdom of Rivers.” Yù’chén’s jaw is clenched as he stares down his mother. From this angle, I’m struck by how similar their profiles are: straight noses and sharp jaws, soft lips and raven’s brows.
Similar, yet so different on the inside.
Sansiran laughs. “I see,” she says, a finger stroking the armrest of her throne. A ring of oleanders grows beneath her touch, their spiky leaves glittering the color of emeralds. “Very well, then.”
Yù’chén blinks—the only show of his surprise, which mirrors my own.
“I will listen to your conditions, my prince and my heir,” Sansiran continues, her smile widening, “as soon as you prove yourself worthy of both titles.” Her gaze cuts to the Higher Ones lurking near the dais. “Seize him and reopen the gateway to the mortal realm.”
Dark magic clamps hard over my body, freezing me in place as the Higher Ones pounce.
Scorpion lilies shoot up from the ground, faster than imaginable, cocooning Yù’chén in a shield of his magic. He has drawn his sword; the garnet on the hilt flashes as he slashes through the first two of Niefuzan’s underlings. They dissipate in screeches of pain, ichor gusting past him like ashes in wind.
Weirufeng’s unyielding silver gaze pins me in place. He hasn’t moved, he looks almostbored, and yet his power over me is absolute. No matter how much spirit energy I push into the talismans on my body, I cannot budge.
Xisenyin and Niefuzan clamp their power over Yù’chén. I can feel the tremor in the air and ground as they descend upon him, the resulting clash as he pushes back with all his might.
Prince he may be, but his other half is only mortal—and he is no match for a Higher One.
His knees buckle, then he’s on the ground on all fours, veins darkening and eyes reddening as he fights. Scales begin to bloom on his skin, climbing up his collar and spreading across the back of his hands as he nears the limit of his power.
Niefuzan’s underlings leap on him, dragging him to the center of the throne room. They fling him beneath the pái’fang and hold him there, hunger parting their mouths as they stare at the Higher One commanding them.
Niefuzan and Xisenyin approach. The underlings peel back Yù’chén’s sleeves to bare his arms.
Xisenyin makes a slashing movement with her hands, and blood sprays against the stone pillar of the ancient pái’fang, dark red and glistening. Yù’chén makes a low sound in his throat as gashes open on his palms, on his forearms, and oneat his throat. His blood forms droplets like red rubies, streaming toward the base of the pái’fang, where the stone glows and absorbs it all.
Where Yù’chén’s blood joins with the stone, the vines twined around the pillars begin to shift. Scorpion lilies bloom, and shadows pour from them, twining with his blood to darken the center of the pái’fang.
Beyond, the night of this realm vanishes and a new scene appears: Flowing silk banners. Cherrywood pillars. A throne carved of gold. And at the end of a very long, grand hall, a sliver of blue sky.
The Kingdom of Rivers.
Home.
The gateway ripples once and settles, the scorpion lilies framing it pulsing softly with energy. With Yù’chén’s lifeblood.
Throughout all this, Sansiran watches me with a small smile. As unsettling as it is that most mó cannot mimic the emotions of mortals very well, it is terrifying that hers look so natural.
“It seems you do care in some capacity for my son, then,” she says softly. “I see it in your eyes. Mortal hearts are so weak, so fragile, so easily manipulated.
“Well, then, I give you a choice. Tell me what you know about ascending the mortal throne of your own volition, or wait for me to prise it from your lips.”
