29
Àn’ying
The Imperial City, Kingdom of Rivers
The distraction we’ve set up has worked. While the Eight Immortals’ army engages the Kingdom of Night in battle at the Temple of Dawn, no one follows me as I make my way down the Immortals’ Steps. The stone steps vanish into the clouds, and soon, I’m surrounded by a mass of swirling gray and shadows again, with only the sounds of my own breathing and pounding heart to accompany me. I focus on my footwork, boots landing sturdily against moss-slicked stone.
The clouds begin to diverge from the steps as I reach the mountains of the mortal realm. Here, the skies are overcast, and raindrops soak me as I draw closer to the Heavens’ Gates.
When I’m far enough away not to be seen by any mó from the Temple of Dawn, I flare my spirit energies and summon an iridescent cloud.
I race through the skies of the mortal lands. The rain whipsin my face, and the wind tears at my cloud. As I near the Central Province, an unnatural cold sinks into my bones, and the shadows begin to stretch longer. Here and there, I catch glimpses of the land: bamboo forests, once-brilliant emerald leaves now dim and gray; undulating mountains wreathed in darkness.
I descend. It feels like instinct, finding the way back to my village.
But nothing prepares me for the sight of it.
Between the red and gold treetops and the muted darkness, a clearing opens with the bones of my home.
Xi’lín is in ruins. Charred remnants of our cheerful houses sit, desolate, in the downpour, burned to nothing but jagged wooden pillars. I recognize the places where I used to play with the neighbors’ children before they moved away; the street corner where an old willow used to grow and we’d sit beneath it for shade in the summers; the carpenter’s house, where I’d admire his craft and, after the realm fell, I’d visit his daughter to ask for help with thatching our roof.
I soar around the most familiar corner in the village, where the plum blossom tree once stood, and my heart breaks. My house is gone; on the flattened ground are wood scraps and torn pieces of the curtains Ma and Méi’zi sewed, the bright colors of the floral patterns trampled into the mud.
From the ruins, a figure steps out. Gold lamellar armor gleaming wet with rain, the blade of a sword glowing with turquoise light. Through the pouring rain and wind, Hào’yáng’s eyes meet mine—and I realize I would cross realms again and again to find him.
He reaches out as I land, and he folds me into his arms. I hold him like it’s the end of the world, because part of mine has ended here along with the home I swore to protect.
But I hold Hào’yáng, and he anchors me in this storm, and I know I will see the sun again.
Hào’yáng draws back, his hands cupping my face. “The last time I was this afraid,” he says, “I was twelve years old and the war had just begun. As heir to the mortal realm, it is my duty to put kingdom above all—but I don’t know that I can make that same choice again when it comes to you, Àn’ying.”
“Once the war is over, you won’t have to,” I tell him fiercely. “Once the war is over, we’ll rebuild. Xi’lín, the Imperial Palace, every single village they took and home they destroyed, we’ll rebuild it all from the ground up.”
Hào’yáng presses a kiss to my forehead. “Together,” he vows. Then he slides his fingers through mine and says, “I received your message.”
He reaches into the silk pouch at his belt. When he unfurls his palm, a tiny pink butterfly flutters out. It lands on the hilt of my sword and transforms into a lotus petal, joining back with my vessel.
A shout rends the air, and I turn.
“Àn’ying!”
A small white blur darts through the rain to me, and the next moment, I’m laughing and crying as I greet my assailant in a tight hug.
Lì’líng draws back, amber eyes bright like the sun, hair still done up in two buns. She beams at me and then waves to someone behind her.
Tán’mù emerges, tall and dashing in her black cloak and boots. She nods at me in greeting, and though her expression is as neutral as ever, I think I catch the hint of a smile curving the edges of her lips.
Behind her, several other former candidates of the Immortality Trials trickle out. I count eight of us in total.
“The others chose to stay behind with the villagers,” Lì’líng informs me. “But a makeshift army of volunteer fighters has gathered from across the provinces in Hào’yáng’s name.” Her eyes twinkle. “They arrived here not too long ago.”
Dozens of figures emerge from the edge of the forest, led by someone very familiar.
Fú’yí’s hair is done up in a graying bun, her eyes fierce as she gives me that fiery grin. She is dressed in blue battle robes, lamellar armor glinting with every shift of her strong, wiry frame. She was a martial artist and practitioner, I knew, but she didn’t go to war after the first invasion, as she was pregnant at the time. When her husband died, she lost their unborn son as well.
“Oh, my girl,” she says as I throw my arms around her. She strokes the back of my head and whispers, “I amsoproud of you. Today, we show those bastards from the Kingdom of Night just how strong we are.” She draws back and squeezes my hand. “Your mother and Méi’zi say hello. They asked me to bring you this.” She presses something soft into my hands.
It is a handkerchief, intricately embroidered with golden threads unique to the desert silkworms in the Western Province. I recognize Ma’s and Méi’zi’s handiwork in the stitches, Ma’s coming a little neater and Méi’zi’s a little wilder. They’ve sewn me a portrait of the three of us seated beneath the plum blossom tree of our house. The sun spills across the scene like honey; the world is bright and clear, like the air after a storm. It is as though they have peered into the dream I hold on to and stitched it into this handkerchief.
