Page 22

The Prophecy

The blade gouges deep into my shoulder, and I scream in furious rage as the white-haired Dokkaebi yanks his firesword out of my flesh and spits in my face.

He waylaid us two miles from the next village, leaping from his shadowed corridor, a blade of blue extending from the sword hilt he carried along with his dangpa. I had been expecting him, and it was easy enough to grab my bow and arrow from underneath my saddle and begin shooting venom-tipped arrows toward him.

I had not, however, expected him to—for once—actually think past his bloodlust and strategize .

When he hurled his dangpa, that giant trident, through the air, I had no choice but to launch myself off Sonagi to avoid it. He waited until my left leg buckled at the impact of hitting the ground, and then he rushed forward. Taking advantage of my momentary weakness, he had kicked my left knee hard, and when I fell, he brought the firesword down. I rolled just in time for it to hit my shoulder, and not my heart, but the pain still has me roaring as the blade leaves my skin.

I am the Prophecy . I am the Goddess of Wrath . I am the Yeouiju .

And yet I feel this pain? Green blood pours from the wound as I roll away from the Supreme Commander, and as my Imugi lunge for him, mouths snapping. He fends them off, but only barely. I stagger to my legs, clutching the green-seeping wound, and bare my teeth.

This will not do.

Scaleblades drawn, I leap into the mayhem of writhing Imugi and a furious Dokkaebi. It is different this time. When he appeared, I was almost amused at his optimism of undertaking such a foolish task.

Now, I am angry.

He whips the firesword through the air, and with each stroke, I arch my back, avoiding the blue blade even as I question—furiously—why my wound is not healing. I have healed from Dokkaebi fire before, but still my shoulder leaks and leaks.

Chan’s fighting style is sharp and precise. His kicks, when he leaps into the air, are straight and neat. He can spin in a blur, bringing his foot toward my face in a motion that is difficult for even me to track. I counter this by moving with serpentine grace, smooth and sinuous despite the new immobility of my injured arm. My Imugi sense that I want this victory to myself and hold themselves back, but only barely. Beongae is hissing something about how delicious Kim Chan’s bones will taste, ignoring how his rider—Bomin—is shrieking in terror.

As Chan’s sword approaches me in a wide arc, I drop to the ground, spinning and slicing my foot underneath his boots. It is enough to throw him off balance, allowing me to somersault away from the still-descending blade, leap to my feet behind him, and press a scaleblade to his throat. “Yield,” I say, and my voice is guttural with both pain and displeasure.

“Go on,” Chan spits. “Kill me.” His sword drops to the ground.

I cock my head. “Well, that was certainly the plan,” I purr. “Until just now.” He wants to die. I can feel it. He failed in his mission, and he is overcome with humiliation and a desire to see his poor, dead lover. Oh, please.

Trying to ignore the wound on my shoulder, I shove Chan to the ground with my unwounded arm and place a boot on his neck. I’ve never taken a prisoner of war before. I feel as if it will be amusing to torture this troublesome Supreme Commander. And perhaps he will come in useful. I plan to retrieve Iseul directly, but I have learned that war yields…unexpected surprises. Having a hostage may further guarantee the return of my Gumiho.

“Bomin,” I snap, “bring me the rope. Uloe, I hope you’re content with carrying a hostage .”

“Daughter. Are you well?” Sonagi sounds concerned as she winds closer and eyes the blood dribbling down my arm.

“Fine,” I pant. Albeit slowly, the wound has begun knitting itself back together. But it will be hours, I suspect, before the pain recedes and the injury fully closes. Chan went deep enough to nick bone.

Sonagi says something else, but I do not hear. I feel something instead, somebody watching from behind my eyes. Grimacing, I shove the Prisoner away from the scene…

And pause.

What is this?

Such a strange feeling, as if there is not one, but two small splashes of consciousnesses lurking deep within the recesses of my mind. One of them has faded, like a whiff of fragrance lingering in the air long after its wearer has left. Plum blossom. Licorice.

Lips thinning, I blame it on the blood loss.

But still, I wonder.