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For her sake, I hoped General Mengqi would not select the bow.

“Such childishness. Do not indulge such rash impulses when the lives of my soldiers are at stake.” General Mengqi’s stare was forbidding, yet bright with speculation.

Shuxiao deliberately turned her back to the general. “Xingyin, take care.” Her words were laden with meaning as she glanced at my mother.

I clasped her hand. “As should you. I will see you when we return.”

“Till then,” she agreed. “We will share our stories over a jug of wine.”

“Are you ready or do you have more farewells to make?” General Mengqi asked brusquely.

Shuxiao’s lips parted in more of a grimace than a smile. “I’m beginning to regret this. Battling undead Celestials would be preferable.” Shaking her head, she followed General Mengqi. They stood apart as they mounted a cloud, soaring toward the Cloud Wall soldiers.

The sun descended, a lull falling over us, riddled with gloom and a shred of relief. There would be no confrontation this evening. Battles were for mornings, which offered the shining promise of glory, the dawn of hope. The nights were for slinking back into the shadows to lick one’s wounds, for stifled cries and fears, unbound … and those dark acts of deceit.

Wugang would come for my mother soon. With the impending battle, he would need a fresh harvest of laurel seeds to replenish his depleted forces. Dread warred with anticipation, not because I hungered for danger but because my nerves were strung taut. The heat from the Sacred Flame Feather seared through my pouch, surging against the barriers woven around it. I did not know how much longer I could sustain this drain on my power—a struggle to maintain this farce.

“Mother, we must get you someplace safe,” I called out for the benefit of Wugang’s spies, to whet his appetite. The Cloud Wall courtier had been dispatched to betray my mother’s location to Wugang in exchange for a favored position. A lie concealed within a lie.

My mother and I flew back to the Cloud Wall palace, making our way to her room. It was elegantly furnished with mahogany furniture, the dark wood inlaid with iridescent mother-of-pearl. Bronze incense burners flanked the entrance, and I had grown accustomed to the rich scent.

She helped me into a set of her garments, draping the white silk robe over my shoulders, tying the vermilion sash around my waist, then fastening upon it a few of her jade ornaments. Finally, she coiled my hair up, securing it with gold hairpins before sliding a red peony just above my ear.

The weight in my chest sunk lower. Was it the familiarity of her gestures that caught at me? It was like I was a child again, being dressed by her. How effortless life had seemed then, akin to gliding through a lake rather than wrestling with these turbulent waters.

“Ping’er would not have wanted this.” My mother’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “She would not have wanted you to risk yourself this way, not even to avenge her. She only ever wanted you to be happy and safe.”

My throat closed tight. “This isn’t just about vengeance; this is greater than us all. I want Wugang to pay for what he’s done, but more than that—I must do this. He is a tyrant, a ruthless madman, who thinks nothing of sending his armies on an endless rampage of death. He has killed so many, and he will murder countless more if not stopped. What future will await us under his reign?”

I turned to look her full in the face. “I used to think the outside world did not matter, as long as they left us untouched. I prided myself on not being unduly burdened by the inconveniences of honor or ambition, caring only about my home, my family and loved ones. I was wrong.” My voice broke then. “Trouble reached us, no matter how we tried to keep clear of it. Our home was taken. We were hunted. We lost those we loved.”

Evil must be struck at its roots. The Long Dragon’s words echoed through my mind.

My mother pressed her palm to my cheek and I leaned against it. She did not speak, the love shining in her face thawing a little of the ice in my heart.

A knock on the door broke the tender moment. As my father, Liwei, and Wenzhi entered, I rose to my feet and grasped the Jade Dragon Bow. It tingled with a frenetic energy, as though sensing my intent. Had it hoped for this all along? Had I merely been its custodian? It did not matter. This was something I should have yielded before, except I had been too selfish—relieved even, when my father had refused it the first time. It hurt to give it up, but I did not need it where I was going, and I was glad to have finally found its true owner.

“Father, this is yours.” I bowed, raising my hands to offer him the bow.

He pushed it aside. “Keep it, Xingyin. I do not need it.”

“The Jade Dragon Bow belongs to you,” I repeated. “You must take it. Sky-fire can bring down Wugang’s soldiers. Use it to keep Mother and you safe. Be careful not to exhaust yourself.” I stopped then, feeling a little foolish like I was trying to teach a fish how to swim. This weapon was an extension of his arm.

He made no move to take it, but perseverance was a trait we both shared. Taking his hand, I pried his fingers apart to press the bow into his grip. The jade glittered, light rippling through the frame across our joined hands—just as when I had first touched it—my skin flushing cold, then hot. The carved dragon writhed and shuddered, before stilling once more.

And then, it was gone—that pull I had always sensed from the bow. I let go, leaving it in my father’s grasp. An ache pierced me, as though I had bid a dear friend farewell; I did not think I would miss it so. Wielding the bow had made me feel special. Powerful. Strong. Yet I did not need it to be those things.

“Wugang’s soldiers are on their way. We must make haste,” Wenzhi said.

As I nodded, Wenzhi drew out the scroll from his sleeve, unrolling the yellowed strips of bamboo, crammed with tiny characters. As he passed his palm over it—agleam with power—the characters leapt off the scroll, hovering in the air like dark moths.

“This enchantment can only be performed once,” he cautioned, taking my hands firmly in his.

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Look upon your mother. Keep her face firmly in your mind,” he instructed.

I studied her slender eyes beneath delicately arched brows. Skin of moonlight, hair of night. When I was young, I had wished to look like her, and now it might be the death of me.