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Shuxiao’s face darkened. “Over a hundred. They will come today or tomorrow, at the latest.”

“A hundred?” I repeated numbly. Did they expect us to fight? This was no invitation to yield but a troop sent to subdue an enemy and to seize what would not be surrendered. A year ago, Celestial soldiers had stood by me and now … they were marching upon my home.

My deepest fear, my worst nightmare, come to life.

“I can’t let them take us.” I spoke on instinct.

A brief silence followed, before General Jianyun cleared his throat. “What of the laurel?”

“They can have it if they leave us in peace.” Rash words spoken with a child’s terror, offering a futile bargain to delay inevitable punishment.

“In the wrong hands, who knows what the laurel can be used to do,” General Jianyun argued. “While we don’t understand its power, neither can we ignore it.”

“How can we fight them? Not just because we’re outnumbered, but the soldiers helped me once.” I was sickened by the thought of attacking those I had fought alongside before.

“The Celestial Army is not what it used to be.” General Jianyun’s tone was heavy. “The soldiers who came to your defense that day have been sidelined, their loyalties cast in doubt. Many have left, and the ones who remained were sent to distant borders.”

Their support of me had cost them dearly. A simple gesture rooted in gratitude, yet striking a keen blow to the Celestial Emperor’s pride. It had been one of the greatest moments of my life, and now it was tainted with guilt.

Precious seconds were slipping away, the emperor’s soldiers drawing closer. I searched General Jianyun’s face, hoping for guidance—yet he remained silent. Sometimes there were no answers, sometimes we had to make them up as we went along.

Cupping my hands before me, I bent low from my waist. “Thank you for warning us. I apologize for the discourtesy, but it might be safest for you both to depart before the soldiers arrive.”

Lines deepened across General Jianyun’s brow like fingers trailed in the sand. “What will you do?”

I did not answer, my nerves strung taut. All I ever wanted was to be left in peace with my family, and yet all I did plunged us into more danger.

No, my mind whispered. You wanted more than that. You wanted to help the dragons. You defied the emperor by attempting to force his hand. You tried to steal the elixir. Even now you’re trying to think of a way to stop this attack. You were never content to leave things as they were … always wanting more.

Peace does not flow in your veins.

My teeth sank into my lip, tearing at the soft flesh. I had kept quiet before, trying to avoid the emperor’s wrath, foolishly thinking that past grudges would be forgotten in a decade or so. What did I care for the politics of the realm, these shifts of power? Such things were beyond my paltry influence. However, the seeds of betrayal had been sown and its harvest needed to be reaped. The emperor did not trust me, nor did I him. My stomach roiled at the thought of the laurel in the emperor’s possession, all the more terrifying because I did not know the consequences.

If only we had allies of our own, those we might seek refuge with. Prince Yanxi could not harbor us; they would not risk their alliance with the Celestial Kingdom. I still possessed the scale the Long Dragon had gifted me. Could I ask the dragons for aid—not to attack the soldiers, but to flee? Yet their presence would be detected, and the dragons had no desire to be pitted against the Celestial Emperor again. I would not endanger them lightly, not before exhausting every other path.

Doubt clouded my resolve, wavering like a flame caught in a crosswind. Each path before us was fraught with peril. If we fled, the emperor would not forgive us, he would hunt us across the realm. Nor could we fight, outnumbered as we would be. The only alternative was to remain and accept our punishment—yet dare I trust in the emperor’s benevolence, that he might eventually relent and set us free?

The Celestial Emperor’s words surfaced in my mind, what he had warned me of the day I won my mother’s freedom: As the Moon Goddess it still falls upon her to ensure the moon rises each night—without exception.

This was my mother’s second offense against the Celestial Emperor, and the insult paid a personal one. There would be no mercy, not that he was ever inclined to it. Their Celestial Majesties had no love for my family, and this was an ideal opportunity to rid themselves of us.

Part of me was glad that Liwei was not here. He would have supported us against the Celestial invasion, setting himself against his father who would view it as an unforgivable betrayal. This way, Liwei could claim ignorance of my plans—for in truth, they had only just formed.

“We will flee.” My heart was laden with regret, pricked with shame. But I had little faith in the justice of the Celestial Kingdom.

Disappointment shadowed General Jianyun’s face. Perhaps he had hoped I would take a stand to defend the laurel. Perhaps he imagined that a spark of my father’s heroism burned in my spirit. I was neither so noble nor valiant. Some might call me selfish, but I would look out for my own. I had done my part for the realm, and been repaid by mistrust at every turn.

“I understand. Be careful,” he said at last.

“We must prepare ourselves,” Shuxiao said.

“We?” I asked.

She crossed her arms in seeming challenge. “I’m not leaving until you get away safely.”

“How can I let you stay?” I countered.

“This is not your choice,” she said fiercely.