Page 42

The swish of a sword cuts through the memory. Yuemo has lifted his weapon, misreading the cause of my concern. “Don’t worry. We will handle him for you.”

“Wait,” I say, but not quick enough.

Yuemo makes a motion for the others to strike.

In unison, the officials stretch out their arms, and gold-tipped spears shimmer into being in their grips. Their expressions are as much mirrors to one another as their movements: the same undertones of fear and outward loathing, the same unwavering resolve to destroy him. There is no hesitation, but of course there isn’t; one does not pause to wonder if they ought to hurt a monster.

Together, they take aim at the back of the Death God’s head.

And without thinking, without even realizing what I am doing or why, I scream—

“Keran.”

The name tears itself from my lips as if I have known it my whole life and I am shaking, breathless, terrified. My mind grinds into a halt as my hands act on their own, my power billowing forth from them in streams of deep, blinding blue, like the sea itself is sweeping through the palace, swallowing up the spears before they can reach him and tossing them to the side. They plink against the remaining walls and fall one by one to the floor.

In the aftermath, I lower my hands, stunned. I can hear my heart roaring inside my chest like waves slamming against a rocky cliffside.

Everyone is staring at me.

Keran—no, the Death God—no, Keran is too far away for me to properly make out his reaction, yet he has turned from the fight and gone deathly still. He is perhaps more surprised than anyone else, which should not be possible. Yuemo is blinking fast, as though convinced he has misunderstood what happened. Hanchen’s eyes are close to bulging out of their sockets. All the other celestial officials have gone quiet, uncertain what to do. Many of them, I recognize: I have sutured their wounds, brewed them the medicines they needed to relieve their headaches and sore joints and dry throats, adjusted their blankets as they fell asleep in the sunlit rooms of my cottage. Slowly, in mending their flesh, hoped to mend their trust, win their approval. I wonder what they must think of me now. The healer, who stands with Death instead of against him.

“What was that? You’re choosing to protect him?” Hanchen demands, his voice cracking with incredulity. “You’re siding with the Death God? You know who he is, don’t you? I’m not—” He releases a high, jagged laugh. Rubs a hand over his jaw. “I’m not hallucinating, am I? I haven’t lost my mind? Made up this very recent memory of you being trapped within the Night Realm and awaiting your death?”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—” I try to say, but I cannot think of how to justify my own actions. I had not made a conscious choice, yet that is almost worse, more incriminating than any premeditated act. Protecting him had been simple instinct. The wrong instinct.

“You weren’t what?” Hanchen asks, brows creasing. Then, with gathering suspicion, “Now that I think of it—why did he storm in here today, after all these years? Did you know what he had planned? Did you bring him in and allow this?”

“Of course not,” I say, but guilt leaks into my words. I wish my heart would quiet. I wish I could stop everything, or better yet, undo everything. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Then what? You disappear for weeks and we’re worried he has done something terrible to you, and then you return looking better than a princess after a long retreat at her summer palace. You’re almost glowing, and I mean that in the most insulting way possible. Is the Night Realm really so comfortable these days? Why, I had no idea. Perhaps I should arrange a visit—”

Yuemo holds up a placating hand to calm Hanchen, even as he continues searching my face for answers I cannot give. Answers I myself do not have. “Listen to her first. She must have her own reasons—”

A short, shrill cry pierces through the noise.

We all turn toward it.

The vortex has grown, like a tear in fabric, widening with every tremble of the surrounding pillars and clash of stone against stone. Its force has doubled with its size; all the debris within a five-foot radius of the swirling portal flies straight into it, patterned tiles and gold-painted fragments and broken beams disappearing with a ripple, as if sinking into a great pool of water. Cold horror fills my lungs as I realize what is about to happen, yet just like last time, just like in all my nightmares since, there is nothing I can do to stop it. I can only watch.

It is that quick. That abrupt. Prince Junyi must have stepped back too far in his efforts to duck Keran’s repeated strikes. His feet fail to find purchase. He sways, and in the moment before he falls, I see it, I see everything—the way the comprehension settles over his features, the way he struggles in vain against a power so much vaster than he is, his eyes wide and mouth open, hands grabbing at the empty air, a lone man drowning in an ocean, and all three realms seem to freeze over, to hold their breath, to cry out—

“No,” Keran snarls. He reaches out as if to hoist the prince out of the portal himself, and for the length of an inhale, it looks almost like he could succeed—

But then the prince disappears into that whirling, storm-gray mass of clouds, and a blaze of white lightning cracks the air so loud that I can feel it in my skull. It seems that nothing under Heaven could possibly make the situation any worse—until a gong sounds thrice in the distance, announcing the arrival of the Celestial Emperor.

There are gods above gods.

This is one of the first things we are taught. Just as there are greater kings and lesser kings, mountains higher than mountains, there exist gods who could make all others tremble in place. The Celestial Emperor is one such deity. He is not constructed of any unique, radiant beauty that others lack—the even set of his brows, the smooth line of his jaw, the pale silver of his hair against the black of his eyes—none of these demand additional respect or attention on their own. But you can sense it as he moves through the ruins of the palace in a haze of gold silks and polished bronze, shadowed by lines of halberd-bearing guards. Power runs in the firmness of each step, the sharpness to his gaze. It is the kind of gaze that reflects everything you feel back at you while concealing any true thoughts or emotions. He was alive when the world was born; that is what the stories say. Exaggerations, perhaps, but I would still be inclined to believe he had witnessed the formation of the Jiuyang Mountains or the deep, glittering forests of the south. That his wrath, once unleashed, could extend from one side of the Heavens to the other.

At the sight of him, everyone flings themselves to the ground. I follow suit, my knees hitting the stone, my hands trembling where they touch the cool, ruptured marble. Only Keran remains standing, watching with unabashed disdain as the Celestial Emperor slows to a stop before the vortex.

The Celestial Emperor makes a sweeping movement with his sleeve, and the portal slams shut. The wind dies down. The sudden stillness is unnerving, as if sound itself has been sucked away into the other realm.

“Half the palace has been destroyed,” the Celestial Emperor declares. He has a voice that reminds me of the deep earth rumbling, of mountains moving over time. Each word is slow, calm, precise, yet his fury is palpable. “The Celestial Gardens have been burned down. The main gates have been broken into. The god of fire’s chambers have been completely demolished, and he himself has been injured in both eyes. Countless rare artifacts, preserved over the centuries, all turned to dust. And the crown prince, Junyi, has now fallen into the Mortal Realm. Who,” he says, louder, his eyes searching the cowering gods and landing, at last, on me, “is responsible for all of this?”

My stomach squirms. My breathing feels very shallow, as if all the air is trapped in the space just between my mouth and throat, no matter how hard I try to inhale.

For a long time, nobody speaks.