Page 25

The Prophecy

I am not accustomed to being injured, and it is not a pleasant experience.

My shoulder seeps green as Sonagi slithers through the night. If I had been struck by a mortal sword, this wound would have healed by now. Yet it was one of those fireswords that struck the blow. The weapon in question is strapped underneath the saddle with my bow and arrows. It was tempting to destroy it, but the Dokkaebi emperor wears armor of Imugi scale. If this blade can pierce my snakeskin, surely it can pierce his heart as well.

Chan, half unconscious, is carried atop Uloe. I have trussed him up like a pig for roasting, and he is slumped over himself, golden blood leaking from a thick gash on his forehead that heals slowly. Despite my pain, I smirk at the sight of the Supreme Commander of Gyeulcheon reduced to this. An ant I can easily crush with a single finger.

We encounter one more village, and it is all too easy for me to remain atop Sonagi as my Imugi do the work for me, dismembering the Dokkaebi soldiers stationed at this point. There are less of them here, perhaps because this village is smaller, or perhaps because Gyeulcheon expected the first village to hold up more of a fight. In any case, its defeat is easy enough even with the fireswords and without my engaging in combat.

My forces camp for the night in a large thicket. I slide off Sonagi and replace the bandages around my shoulder with fresh ones from the satchel that Beongae carries—in which also lies more weighted ropes. Bomin, knowing the routine well by now, gives me a cigarette to smoke as I lean against a tree.

I’ve tied Chan to a tree, and it’s quite amusing to watch him wrestle with his bonds, only to fail. The weighted ropes were invented by Im Yejin, Sunpo’s shipsmith. Originally, they were meant to hold cargo down during the large storms my Imugi and I summon, but I’ve discovered another, more entertaining, use for them. Wounded and tied down, Kim Chan will not be able to teleport away any time soon.

I have only just closed my eyes to seek out the elusive Dokkaebi king when the thicket suddenly plummets in temperature. My eyes snap open as frost cracks across the ground, jagged veins of white slicing toward where I sit. I leap to my feet, drawing my scaleblades and ignoring the twinge of pain in my shoulder. The night’s darkness seems to thicken. Swirl. The glowing ember of my cigarette is the only pinprick of light, and despite my preternatural vision, even I can hardly make out the trees around us.

This is unnatural. Somebody—some thing —is here, lurking on the borders of the thicket. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I unleash a low snarl of warning. Suddenly, there is a cool breath on my skin, and I whirl—but familiar, golden eyes tell me that it is one of my Imugi. Sonagi.

“Child,” Sonagi murmurs, “do not fear. This visitor we know. He has come to us before.”

“He?” I demand lowly, still tense. “Who is ‘he’ ?”

A low laugh flickers out of the darkness. “ ‘He’ means me ,” a voice, tinged with an unidentifiable accent, whispers. There is something familiar about that tenor, as if I am intimately familiar with it, as if I have heard it before—but in another language, an unfamiliar tongue. I narrow my eyes as the darkness recedes, and reveals—

“Yeomra,” Sonagi hisses in pleasure as the God of Death inclines his head, stepping into view.

Yeomra.

One of the absent deities.

Former ruler of the now-godless underworld.

The god who, alone, seemed to delight in the death and destruction brought by the Imugi and offered to them Jeoseung as a resting place after the end of the first war, veiling it underneath the guise of an exile. The god who brought them a Prophecy, a “ guideline of how to truly reclaim Iseung ,” according to Sonagi.

My, my. This is certainly interesting.

In my head, I feel the Prisoner—peering out from behind my eyes—gasp in shock and longing. One of her forgotten gods, standing in the flesh. Fine. I’ll let her look, as I do so cherish her suffering, her knowledge that it is not her meeting this deity, but me.

I cock my head slowly, eyes devouring the god in the thicket. I have seen him once before, in Sonagi’s memory, as he gave to the Imugi the very premonition that birthed me as I am now. His skin is as pale as the frost glittering on the ground, and his hair a deep, dark blue that reminds me of the darkest crevices of the sea where dark creatures lurk and hunt. Slowly, I lick my lips. Yeomra’s face is all harsh, cruel angles, and it is beautiful, yet terrible, all at once. Yet it is not his beauty, nor his towering height of at least seven feet, that enraptures me.

No, it is the power that streams from him, palpable in the air, that captivates me so. I have never felt anything like it before, and I want it. I have called myself a goddess, the Goddess of Wrath, but until my Imugi take to the skies, I know I will not taste a power such as this.

It is death, digging fingernails into my skin, pushing and probing at my organs, measuring their health, calculating when they can reach in and tear them out. It is the feeling of plummeting through the air, although I am standing on firm ground, my stomach dropping with sickening speed. It is the struggle to pull air into my lungs, and the taste in my mouth—dry, stale, as if I am drawing my last breath even though I am not.

This is the power of a god. And it is visible, a dark aura surrounding his long frame.

“Yeomra!” my Imugi cry in glee, slithering closer, swaying in pleasure. “He who gave to us our Prophecy! He who gave to us our Empress! He who gave us ssshelter and our ssavior! Yeomra!”

Angular lilac eyes shine in the darkness. “Hello, my little serpents,” Yeomra greets as some of the young ones flock to him, nudging his hands with the tops of their heads, hissing in pleasure as he obliges them with gentle strokes on their scales. “It has been far too long.” He tilts his eyes, looking straight at me. “And hello to you, my Prophecy,” he says with a smile that reveals sharp fangs and is like no smile I have ever seen before. Small. Barely a tilting of the lips. Yet within it is the hard assurance of power, of self-assurance that only a deity can possess. It is staggering to look upon, yet I hold my gaze and incline my head.

“Yeomrawang,” I reply, speaking his formal title in respect. This is a god, after all, and the god that gave to the Imugi hope and a rightful future. The very same god that the Prisoner, staring through my eyes, used to imagine as her patron. King Yeomra. “I would be a liar if I said I am not surprised to find you here, on Iseung. Your kind abandoned this plane long ago.”

Yeomra’s smile flickers and fades. “What is that mortal saying?” he muses. “All good things must come to an end?” Leaving the Imugi who are practically purring underneath his hands, Yeomra steps closer, and I fight the urge to back away as he stoops down to peer into my eyes.

It is almost as if he can see the Prisoner there, for before he once again steps away, he chuckles and murmurs, “How very, very interesting.”

“What do you mean,” I whisper, “that all good things must end?”

He stares at me, silent. Waiting. Until slowly, so slowly, realization settles into my bones. “Do you mean to tell me,” I say slowly, having some terrible inkling where this is going, “that the pantheon of Okhwang is watching Iseung?” At the war I wage? Are the deities foolish enough to disagree ? Once, they fought against the Imugi.

Now, will they turn against me?

Could the gods…stop a Prophecy?

The thought is not pleasing. I lick my suddenly dry lips and wonder what it will take to kill a deity.

“I am not supposed to be here,” the god replies softly. “Hwanin is furious. So much faith had he in the Dokkaebi that the heavenly emperor felt secure enough to rest with us in the heavenly palace and leave Iseung to them. Yet their victory in the war wasn’t a victory at all.” Yeomra smiles again, revealing another bit of white fang. “And perhaps not all of the gods are as unfeeling toward this realm as they seem. Trouble approaches, and I am its canary. More enemies descend from the skies.”

I take a shallow breath, vaguely aware of Bomin hyperventilating somewhere in the dark thicket. I resist the urge to snatch a roll of halji from him. The gods. The damn gods who are supposed to be forever absent have decided to stick their noses into my war. Fury crests through me, enough for my vision to tinge red, red, red. “Yeomrawang,” I manage to say through gritted teeth as a migraine begins to pulse at my temples, “thank you for the warning. Tell me, will the entire pantheon descend? Will you fight by my side?”

“I will not,” he replies coolly, and I clench my jaw. “Even Hwanin’s anger has its limits, and I have no desire to be banished to some forgotten corner of Iseung for my insolence. Others will come, but not to stand by you.”

“Who?” I grit out, tone bordering on acidic.

Yeomra bristles, but still, he responds. “It is the deities who were once human that feel the most strongly toward the destruction you bring to this plane. Myself, I enjoy it. As furious as Hwanin is, he knows he cannot punish me for bringing this havoc to the world, nor for warning you now. Feeding the forces of death is my nature as their father. Now, listen. Dalnim the Moon Goddess and her brother, Haemosu the Sun God, are growing restless. They were once children in Sanyeongto, chased up to the heavens by a hungry tiger. They do not like seeing Wyusan’s peoples afraid. And I am sure you know that the Dokkaebi emperor is a descendant of Dalnim. So they will try to stop you, but they will not directly intervene until they deem it necessary. There will be obstacles in your route to the kingdoms. You will need to be ready.”

Obstacles…

Yeomra narrows his eyes. “My kind have never involved themselves in Iseung’s Prophecies before. It is unknown, the effect of divine intervention against a Prophecy. Do not get cocky. I cannot say, child, that your victory is assured anymore.”

No. No .

They would dare try to stop me?

My nails dig into my palms, burying deep into the calloused folds of skin. “Tell them that this is not their war,” I hiss. “They cannot abandon worlds and return only when it suits them. The Eastern Continent has a new goddess now, and the Goddess of Wrath does not welcome those who invade her home.”

Yeomra clicks his tongue. “Ah, ah, ah,” the death god replies, and suddenly, I’m stumbling back, head wracked with visions of my own death—all in such horrible ways. Beheaded like Empress Moon. Stabbed in the heart by a firesword. Tossed into a ravine, burning with blue Dokkaebi flames. I cannot tell if any of them are real, if any of them are premonitions. Green blood dribbles out of my nose, and I think I must be screaming as pain sears through my bloodstream. Yet none of my Imugi help me. Not even Sonagi, as I fall to my knees, blinking desperately, trying to see past the horrors Yeomra has summoned to me. The dirt is frost-bitten underneath me, and my fingers curl around clods of cold soil as I finally manage to make out Yeomra’s face. He is kneeling before me, and two long, pale fingers slip underneath my chin and lift it so his violet glare sears into mine.

“Do not give orders to a god,” he murmurs. “It is truly amazing that I even need to say this.”

Humiliated, on my knees before him, I choke on my own rage. I do not want my Imugi to see me like this. I do not want the Supreme Commander, tied to the tree and watching every single moment of this horrible exchange, to see this.

Yeomra stares down at me for a long, unimpressed moment before snatching away his touch and standing once more. I rise unsteadily and force out an apology that Yeomra seems to snatch midair before scrutinizing it and deeming it acceptable.

“Now,” he says casually, as if nothing has happened, as if there is not dirt and blood smeared on my face, “I expect you will try to demand the return of your dead sister. It has been a long while since I have interacted with any of Iseung’s denizens, but this is what you usually do. So go on, I suppose.”

I spit onto the ground. Truthfully, it hadn’t even occurred to me, but I nod curtly. “I have travelled to your realm by spilling my blood and saying your name thrice,” I rasp, “but my sister refuses to come into sight on the other end of the bridge. But—are you saying you could bring her back to life?” Eunbi would carry on the Shin line, as would her future children, and theirs.

The god’s eyes are unnerving in their intensity as he replies, “I’m not, actually. For I cannot reverse the effects of death. I abandoned Jeoseung long ago, and as such, my connection to it has slipped. Jeoseung, direly as it needs one, has no ruler. The throne is there, empty, yet many of the dead no longer have a wish for power. And to rule, one must first die. Therein, I suppose, lies the underworld’s problem.” Yeomra laughs, cold and cruel. “I just wanted you to ask, so I could tell you ‘ no .’”

I feel a dull, emerald flush rise to my cheeks. Chastened. I am being chastened for having the gall to demand of Yeomra what I wish. Chan is laughing hoarsely against the tree, and my embarrassment is as hot and as painful as Dokkaebi fire.

“Goodbye, my little serpents,” he whispers, turning back to the Imugi, who hiss their goodbyes. “You are such wonderful creatures. I will be awaiting your triumph, my loves.”

The death god does not bother to say goodbye to me before he vanishes—there one moment, and gone the next.