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Yet even as life pulsed through me once more, as I gazed at Wenzhi—a part of me remained dead, and no magic in the world could bring it back again.

Wugang was dead. His army gone. Yet the scars of his brief reign remained, some reaching so deep, they might never heal. Would it have pleased him to know this? I believe it would. He had achieved immortality in a way he would treasure more than the infinite years bestowed upon him, that he had squandered in vengeance and hate. He did not deserve this; he deserved to be forgotten, his name trampled to dust along with his body. As for me, I would cast him from my mind, for he was unworthy of a place there alongside those I had lost, whom I still cherished with every breath I drew.

I glanced around the Hall of Eastern Light, my gaze falling on the Celestial Empress’s body in the coffin of clear crystal upon the dais. She had died in battle—a hero’s death, with songs already composed in her honor. When I knelt before her body today, it was the first time I had ever meant the respect the gesture conveyed.

Her magnificent silver brocade garments were embroidered with gold phoenixes and their rainbow-hued tails—a splash of color in the sea of white mourners, like winter had descended upon the Hall of Eastern Light. A crown of pearls and gold feathers glittered from her hair—was it the one that had captured my childish imagination before? Her hands were clasped across her stomach, her nail sheaths glinting against her pale skin. A skilled artist had painted her face until her cheeks were radiant, her closed eyelids swept with gleaming powder. She looked beautiful, for eternal slumber had eased the perpetual tension from her features. Or perhaps, I saw her now through new eyes: who she had been, what she might have become had life taken a different turn.

How strange it was to be stirred by her, this unfamiliar pity unfurling in my chest. The Celestial Empress had threatened my mother, forced my flight from home, scorned and schemed against me at every opportunity. She had driven Liwei and me apart. She would have sent me to my death without a second’s hesitation. I had feared her, resented and despised her, even. And yet, she was Liwei’s mother and she had loved him too. Now that she was dead, all that had been wrong between us seemed of less consequence, like chasing shadows through the night. I could never have loved her, but neither could I find it in me to hate her still, no matter what she had done.

Beside me, Liwei shifted. He sat straight with his shoulders thrown back, his head held high before the endless stream of mourners who came to pay their final respects to the empress. His mother would have been proud of him, not a flicker of weakness did he show.

I reached out, wanting to comfort him—but with the weight of all the eyes upon us, I drew back. It was not my vow to his mother that restrained me, for it had been voided the day she attacked me. There was something else … this ceaseless pain in my chest, since that day of loss on the moon.

The Celestial Emperor was present, for once without his crown. A pure white band of mourning was tied around his brow, the same one Liwei wore, the long ends grazing his back. It was the first time I had seen the emperor since his ill-fated birthday celebration. Before, I had marveled at the agelessness of his face, and now it was lined in sorrow, his body stooped like something vital had been lost. Strange that his wife’s death should affect him so, when he never seemed to have much affection for her before. Perhaps we only valued something once it had gone. I buried the thought, a pang striking me deep.

The emperor and Liwei rose to their feet, approaching the dais with measured steps. Behind them, followed Zhiyi, Liwei’s half-sister. Funerals were a family matter, bringing together even those estranged. They knelt before the coffin, pressing their palms and forehead to the ground—once, twice, and thrice. A final obeisance to the empress. When Liwei rose, he raised his hands, his power sheathing the coffin in light. It floated into the sky, toward where the spirits of deceased Celestials lay, in the restored Divine Harmony Sky. As my gaze followed the coffin, a stream of glittering sparks burst forth, forming the shape of a fiery phoenix that soared alongside it into the heavens.

Once the ceremony concluded, the mourners surrounded Liwei, a few nodding to me in acknowledgment. My presence confused them, that I sat with the royal family despite having no official position. Their attention troubled me less these days, my mind already drifting to matters of greater import—lingering on precious memories, past regrets, and the faces of the fallen. They would haunt me for the rest of my days.

THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED passed in a blur. Liwei had offered me quarters of my own, but I chose to stay in my old room in the Courtyard of Eternal Tranquility, across from his. Perhaps a part of me hoped to find the peace I had known before, to regain some of what had been lost. This place had been my haven once—yet now its walls pressed closer around me with each passing day, the fragrance of flowers clogging the air. Nightmares tore me from slumber as I jerked upright—trembling, cold with sweat—trying to block the recollection of the feather’s heat searing my veins, the chill glazing Ping’er’s skin, of Prince Yanming’s lifeless body … and the light fading from Wenzhi’s eyes.

The Celestial Emperor did not return to court. He stayed in his courtyard and admitted few visitors. Was he still in mourning or recovering from his imprisonment at Wugang’s hands? I doubted he had been treated well. I doubted his pride would ever recover from being held hostage by one he had disdained as a mere mortal. The burden of the realm fell on Liwei more, to drag his kingdom from the claws of terror it had been clutched in. To repair frayed alliances and rebuild all that had been destroyed.

His cares were great, his responsibilities onerous. It was no easy thing to be a monarch, or at least a good one. Fortunately, he had sound advisors by his side like General Jianyun and Teacher Daoming. At Liwei’s urging, I accompanied him to court as we listened to endless petitions and briefings. I stayed by his side, offering what support I could—though inwardly I recoiled from the hard stares of the courtiers, the constant jostling for favor, the tedium of matters I had little interest in. Some days I could not bear it, wanting nothing more than to flee to the quiet of my room. Though even there I found little peace, trapped in the bleak solitude of my mind.

The nights were the hardest, for the shadows that enveloped me stretched longer, thickening until the darkness was all I saw. I tossed in bed, inhaling great gulps of air laced with the fragrance of spring, though there was nothing but winter in my heart. A longing consumed me whenever I thought of my home. My mother and father did not come to the Celestial Kingdom, perhaps because they wanted to be alone after all they had endured. Perhaps they had too many unsettling recollections of this place, of the gossip and spite, the secrets and lies. I understood how my parents felt, because I loathed it too.

The favor Liwei showed me fanned the boundless speculation that a betrothal was imminent. He did not speak of it to me, nor did I ask. Whenever I tried to imagine my future, my chest would cramp, wrenched with unspeakable longing. The threat of Wugang had clouded my future once, yet it was nothing to these torments I now faced—for this was a battle I could not win, an enemy I could not fight. For these demons … came from within. My only solace was when Shuxiao was with me, although she was leaving soon to return to her family. Everyone was moving on to seek their own happiness. Everyone except—

I shoved the ungrateful thought aside. It was a miracle that I was alive, to be surrounded by those I cared for. Yet why did I feel so empty inside?

On Shuxiao’s last evening, we shared a meal together. It was just like we used to, except for the pair of attendants standing behind me. They lurched to attention whenever I so much as cleared my throat, their eyes constantly darting up to check that our cups and plates were filled. When I gently suggested that they leave, they exchanged such aggrieved looks, I could not insist.

I sighed, my head beginning to ache from the weight of gold and jade ornaments in my hair, the ones I let my attendant adorn me with. I went through my days in a state of apathy, not caring what I wore or did—with no desire for anything that had once brought me pleasure, whether music, food, or wine. I found myself thinking of the Celestial Empress more, and if she could live her life over, whether she would have chosen differently. I would never know these answers … and perhaps neither did she.

Shuxiao frowned as she placed a piece of braised beef on my plate. A pile of stir-fried beans and shrimp followed, along with a plump wedge of fish steamed in ginger and wine.

“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked. “Are you disappointed that a wedding date hasn’t been set? Or worried the emperor might not give his permission?”

I lifted my cup, draining it in one gulp, the wine burning a path down my throat. “Maybe I should be alone,” I said listlessly.

With love came pain, and I had drunk my fill of it.

Shuxiao glanced at the attendants, lowering her voice. “Don’t you want to marry Prince Liwei?” she asked with her usual bluntness. “Just imagine those arrogant courtiers who’ll have to bow to you then.”

“A pleasant thought.” A thin smile stretched over my lips as I imagined striding into the Hall of Eastern Light, the entire court falling to their knees like a rippling tide. An alluring temptation, to elevate those who had stood by my side and humble those who had scorned me before. Yet such satisfaction would be short-lived. This was not the life I wanted, not even with its trappings of power.

Shuxiao searched my face. “Why have you been so unhappy? Not just today, but since we returned here.”

I had not told Shuxiao of my feelings for Wenzhi. I had only learned them myself, still grappling with what he meant to me, what I had lost. Turning around, I gestured for one of the attendants, suddenly glad for their presence as a shield against these probing questions. She hurried forward, bowing low to me, her cupped hands stretched out. Such reverence unnerved me more than it pleased, but I had learned to feign indifference.

“Could you bring us some glutinous rice balls? The ones dusted in crushed peanuts and sugar.”

Minyi, who headed the kitchens, had sent some over with the afternoon meal. I had eaten them alone at this very table, stabbing one pillowy sphere after another with a jade pick, as though I could drown my misery in sweets. It had not worked, my stomach churning at the memory—even as a weak part of me craved the distraction, the fleeting pleasure on my tongue.

“Shuxiao, must you leave?” I asked. “General Jianyun leads the army again. Wugang’s sycophants have been dismissed. Things will go back to how they were.”

“I did not like it much, even then.” She laughed, resting her elbows on the table. “Even if I did, I am changed.”