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I took the sword from him before he changed his mind. No matter how I felt about him, I wouldn’t spurn this priceless gift. Pride could not slay an enemy; it would not keep me alive. As I unsheathed the weapon, a current darted through my fingers, the blade seeming to shimmer. A magnificent sword; light yet strong.

“Thank you.” It was hard to utter these words, but I had to get used to saying things to him that I didn’t mean.

His gaze was bright as he inclined his head. “Keep it hidden,” he cautioned me.

With a flick of his hand, the shining barrier around Chengyin and Aunt Shou dispersed. A cloud descended from the skies and landed by his feet. I watched as he stepped upon it, then soared into the heavens. My hand tightened around the sword. For a fleeting moment I imagined plunging it through the god’s chest, how easily it would slide through. What color would he bleed? There was little satisfaction in these thoughts. While the God of War was an enemy, he’d also saved my life—an unwanted obligation. Yet it wouldn’t change how I felt about him or his kind. Immortals could not be trusted. Their selfishness went deep, their rare kindnesses were calculated or accidental. They didn’t care about us; they’d never treat us as their equals. To the immortals, we were nothing but tools, tossed aside once we broke.

That was why they didn’t deserve our service, why we had to be free of them. And they’d soon learn that mortals don’t break that easily, that we are stronger than we seem.

4

Long live the Lady of Tianxia, may she rule for a hundred years,” the court intoned.

Liars, I thought as I stepped up the dais to sit upon the throne. A farce we went through each morning since my grandfather’s death. A sea of faces looked back at me, most wearing expressions of bland civility beneath their long-tailed hats, though a few could not hide their displeasure. Aunt Shou had warned they were gathering, bickering among themselves to plot the way forward. Some were angling for position, seeking my favor—as many plotting my downfall. The more ambitious courtiers resented me, having imagined I’d be in a coffin rather than on the throne. Had one of them poisoned me with the waters of the Wangchuan? If I ever found out, they’d learn what a grave mistake they’d made.

Power bred enmity, the worst kind that kept to the shadows, waiting to strike unseen.

My lips stretched into a thin smile—any wider and it would appear weak, a desire to please. How I disliked having to watch myself this way. To be in power was to have a constant light shone over you. While it glittered from afar, any flaws or mistakes were magnified tenfold. As the Lady of Tianxia, I had to weigh my words before speaking, to guard my emotions from the eyes upon me.

Weeks had passed since Grandfather’s death, but his loss was still a nail in my heart. I’d arranged his funeral wearing a mask of calm, breaking down only in the solitude of my room. I wanted to plunge the kingdom into mourning, to command bright colors to be shunned, to cancel the festivities—but my grandfather’s will had stipulated that the rules of mourning were to be waived, for life to continue unhindered. And so I’d honored his wish, though it seemed almost a betrayal that life could go on . . . that it had not ceased the day he died.

For so long I’d leaned upon him, and now—despite the attendants and courtiers who surrounded me—I was truly alone. For that is the real meaning of loneliness, being unable to share your mind and heart freely with another without the fear of being judged or found wanting, or that they might seek to use you.

I quelled the urge to fidget though my head ached beneath my headdress of sapphire butterflies. Gold was my armor. I gilded myself in precious metals and stones not to flaunt my status but to imprint upon others these symbols of power, to rouse awe rather than desire. Maybe it was also to suppress my own doubt that I might be unworthy of the position, though I’d never admit it aloud.

As I stared at the court, I remembered asking Grandfather once, “Why are you so stern to the courtiers? Aren’t you afraid they won’t like you?”

He had smiled, patting my hand. “Rulers aren’t just meant to be liked. Loved. Feared. Hated, perhaps—but what’s most important is doing what is right.” His expression had turned solemn. “Never show your enemy your weakness, Liyen. The wolves are waiting to pounce. The only way to stop them is to be the greater monster.”

“What if I’m not?” I’d asked.

He’d crouched down to meet my gaze. “Pretend.”

I straightened now, lifting my head. Sometimes it felt like I was assuming a role in a play that was greater than my talent, thrust into an ill-fitting costume. But I wouldn’t shirk my part, though the burden grew each day. I wouldn’t give up, just as Grandfather never gave up on me.

We cannot help how the dice fall, but it’s our choice whether to keep playing.

Minister Guo sidled forward with a scroll in his hand, an oily smile on his broad face. He was one of the most ambitious among the courtiers, and I stiffened instinctively. “Your Ladyship, now the period of mourning has been lifted, we must discuss the urgent matter of your betrothal.”

He spoke in a blustery manner, more a demand than a request. I shrank back, catching myself too late as the minster’s lip curled. I’d heard the nobles were jostling for a hand in selecting my consort. Suitors would soon be lining up, mouthing false words of devotion when all they wanted was to rule in my place—to sire a child from my body to secure the succession, with no blood spilled but mine.

I had few illusions about my marriage, but one thing was certain: I would marry when I chose, not because I was told to. “Minister Guo, your timing is inappropriate.” My tone was cutting. “While my grandfather waived the official requirements of mourning, I am still grieving for him.”

Instead of offering an apology, the minister began unraveling the scroll. “We are discussing the possibilities, not arranging a wedding yet. Your Ladyship can use the time to get acquainted with your suitors, of which there are many.”

My fingers clenched the armrest of my throne. Did he think I was so easily overruled? I followed the minister’s gaze toward the back of the hall, where the “suitors” lounged. Some wore expressions of indifference, a few smiling broadly. Most were likely hauled here by their family elders in hopes of whetting my appetite. They were handsome in the forgettable way, dressed in fine garments, with the languid air of the prosperous. None had the presence of the God of War—an unwelcome thought that I furiously buried.

Minister Guo cleared his throat. “Lord Baoshu, the eldest son of the Bao family, is highly eligible. He—”

“Is your godson?” I interjected.

The minster blinked but recovered with admirable ease. “What of Lord Yang? He is capable and virtuous and—”

“Well connected, as your nephew,” I added, grateful to Chengyin for having shared all he knew of the younger nobles.

“Lord . . . Hong?”

I hesitated, struggling to think of something against the handsome and well-liked noble. Minister Guo’s chest puffed up as he prepared to push me further.