“Two princelings were born, sun and moon brothers,”the mó croons, plucking the strings of her instrument.“Neither can be emperor without killing the other.”
“What is that song?” My voice roars loudly in my ears, and I’m breathing fast.
The mó smiles suddenly. “Do you like it, sweetling? It is common knowledge in our realm. There are two heirs—one mortal and one halfling—so neither can triumph. And now we will be handsomely rewarded to bring the mortal princeling to the Empress of Fallen Darkness.”
A halfling, she speaks of.Yù’chén.
Yù’chén, illegitimate child of the demon queen and the late emperor of our land, and half brother to Hào’yáng…could also be a contender for the mortal throne.
Hào’yáng and I discussed this possibility, yet there is no precedent for a demon halfling taking the mortal throne. Still, the mó’s eerie song and words give me pause.
If the demon queen Sansiran has issued a reward on Hào’yáng’s head, then the news this mó brings must be fresh from the Kingdom of Night. That means Sansiran, at least, believes there are two heirs—and that her own son is one.
I can’t help it: I glance back at the churning river where the waters swallowed Hào’yáng, my certainty dissolving in the morning air. Hào’yáng said the entire bloodline needed to be aligned with one ruler. If there are two living heirs, will the land hold off on selecting its rightful emperor?
“Blood, bright and sweet as nectar, O…imbued with a drop of…the dragons,”the mó finishes singing, her voice deepening as her smile shows her canines. “I can smell it, sweetling. That same strange scent that runs through the veins of our prince. The fabled blood of the dragons. Reveal him, and I may let youlive.”
I angle my daggers. “Over my dead body.”
She laughs, a sound high-pitched and jarring. In half a blink, she’s vanished and reappeared a half step from me. Up close, I can see the cracks of her camouflage: fingers strangely curvedand nails sharp like claws, eyes that flash between silver and black as though she bears an affliction. A trail of saliva glistens down her chin as she tips her head back and inhales deeply.
I lash out. Fleet enhances my speed as I plunge Striker down into her chest—where, instead of a heart, a demon’s core pulses—with enough strength to crack open stone.
Except Striker arcs through empty air where the mó was. And I know I’m in trouble when I hear a soft giggle at my ear.
The mó’s razor-sharp teeth sink into my shoulder.
As pain sears through my bones, I grit my teeth.
Then I turn and I stab her.
The mó hisses and leaps, impossibly far and fast, to the tree line, where she nurses her wound as I nurse mine.
Spirit energy flows to my fingertips as I trace the talisman for healing upon my skin. I learned this from my father’s engraving on Healer, one of the eight crescent blades he gave me. Over the past days, I’ve been practicing my magic beyond using the blades. During the Immortality Trials, when I lost two of my weapons, I realized that there may come a day when all I have are my own two hands and my practitioning abilities.
Warmth infuses my shoulder as the talisman takes effect. My bleeding slows; the pain subsides.
The sound of rushing water comes from the direction of the river, and I turn just as a wave rushes up onto the bank, leaving behind a familiar figure.
Hào’yáng lies motionless, his dark hair fanning out under him. Next to him, Azure Tide gleams.
A scuffling noise sounds from behind me. I turn just in time to catch the glimmer of the mó’s pale skin as she springs for Hào’yáng.
I throw myself forward, pivoting in midair. My vision sharpens as though time has slowed, and there, as I drive Striker upward, it happens.
Light blooms from beneath my skin, spiraling up Striker’s handle and pooling in the blade. It’s that same glow that saved me before, when I slew the beast Áo’yin during the Immortality Trials. A glow that I cannot explain.
But with the wound in my shoulder, my aim is just off.
The mó screams, a strangled noise that sounds neither human nor animal, as I open another gash in her abdomen—just a handbreadth below where her core should sit. She leaps back again. A trail of ichor dissolves like smoke from a gash in her side, and it is with grim satisfaction that I catch the dark substance staining Striker’s blade.
The mó’s form is changing: Webbed wings sprout from her back, and violet veins begin to darken her skin. Her face has warped: an animalistic snout, thick cords on her neck, and muscles bulging on elongated limbs. She must be severely weakened to be morphing back into her true form like this.
The mó turns and vanishes into the thicket.
I send a pulse of spirit energy into Fleet, preparing to give chase, for I cannot have her bring news of Hào’yáng’s whereabouts to the Kingdom of Night.
I have taken several steps forward when a thought stops me abruptly.
