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“But like I said, you are the best,” Hanchen affirms. “We all know it. The only reason you haven’t been promoted already is because your—”

Yuemo nudges him, and he clears his throat.

Because your foolish parents chose the mortals over the gods. Because they dared defy fate. Sometimes I am hopeful that the others have forgotten already, that my parents’ mistakes will smooth out like the sands of the desert, that the red dust will settle and the slate will be wiped clean. Sometimes I forget how naive I can be.

“Either way, the announcement will be made at the banquet for the next eclipse,” Hanchen says brightly. “We’ll be back to congratulate you when everything is finalized. And— Ah, I do apologize for accusing you of attempted murder earlier.”

I dismiss this with a wave of my sleeved hand. Other gods have accused me of far worse. Besides, nothing he says could ruin my mood now, not with the hope of the promotion ahead of me. It feels like I’ve been dipped in the purifying waters of the palace gardens; any grudge will slip right through my fingers, any dark thought will be cleansed before it can solidify. Finally, after all those centuries of waiting, working without complaint, my efforts have been seen.

Rujia. The Celestial Healer.

Finally, my name will mean something.

But before I can lose myself in daydreams, I turn my attention back to them. There is still one thing I have to understand first. “Why don’t you tell me how this happened?”

Another look flits between them, quick as instinct. Hanchen’s brows rise the barest inch. Yuemo hesitates, then nods.

Hanchen settles himself more comfortably onto the bed by Yuemo’s side, his smile turning sheepish. “All right, don’t judge us for it, because I know it wasn’t the smartest of ideas, but . . . we were passing by the Palace of Eternal Peace when we heard someone weeping inside it.”

I stiffen. “The crown prince’s old palace? Are you sure?”

Though Yuemo and Hanchen were only recently promoted to celestial officials themselves, it is common knowledge among all gods that the Palace of Eternal Peace has long been abandoned.

“That’s why we were so alarmed,” Hanchen explains. “And it wasn’t normal, controlled weeping either, like the kind when someone has had their love refused, or is upset about the lack of shrines built in their name—”

“He is speaking from personal experience,” Yuemo puts in dryly.

Hanchen sends him an ineffective glare; his lips are still pulled into a wide grin. “Oh, so you’re insulting me again. You must be feeling better.”

“Insulting you does make me feel better. Perhaps I should do it more often.”

“You know what you should do more often—”

“So, someone was crying?” I prompt.

“Yes,” Hanchen says. “It was—I’d never heard anything like it. It sounded like they were dying. Like they were in unimaginable pain. So we went to go and investigate. I’d insisted on walking ahead, but Yuemo wouldn’t let me—”

“And I was right not to,” Yuemo interrupts. “Or else you would be in my position.”

Hanchen rolls his eyes. “I’d rather it were me.”

“Don’t joke about such matters.”

“I am not joking.”

As the other god’s expression wavers, I pretend to focus on the crushed herbs sitting on my cabinet. How many have walked through my doors holding the ones they love, consoling and chastising each other with equal intimacy, while I stand off to the side? Their warmth might briefly fill the room, and I might bear witness to it, but then they will be gone again. I do not know how it feels to show and receive such affection. I can barely even imagine it.

You will grow to become a bitter, lonely old god like this, I scoff at myself. The kind who visits the Mortal Realm just to feel superior to others and brews up storms out of boredom.

“It happened very quickly,” Hanchen is saying. “The instant Yuemo stepped into the palace yard, some kind of enchantment must have been triggered, and all these swords shot through the air toward him. I barely had time to grab him and flee.”

“Did you end up seeing anything inside the palace?” I ask, leaning forward. “Did you find out who was crying?”

Hanchen falters. “Well, I couldn’t be sure . . . It was quick, as I said, and there was so much blood—I only caught a glimpse, and I was probably imagining it . . . It was only the side of their face, after all, and it was too dark inside . . .” He trails off.

Despite my exhaustion, my stomach tenses with foreboding, my mind pinched alert. “Who did you think it was?”

He does not continue right away. His eyes dart to the intricately patterned windows and the closed doors, as if afraid someone might be listening on the other side. “You must not tell anybody else. I fear—if we are caught, it could be a life in the water dungeons. Do you understand?”