Page 44

The Prophecy

THREE DAYS LATER

“They kept me in the dungeons,” Jeon Eunwoo of Bonseyo says, leaning back in his chair and smiling. The bastard prince is always smiling, but it is not one of cheer. There is something distinctly unhinged about Eunwoo’s smile, and his dark eyes are hungry for something—perhaps even ravenous.

For what, I cannot fathom. Revenge, most likely. Yet sometimes it seems like he longs for something more , something that runs deeper. And it feels like he smiles because he has heard, somewhere, that a smile brings forth whatever he is seeking. An end to his eternal loneliness, perhaps. He is starved for even a sliver of affection, and I will gladly give it to him, if it means his loyalty. A winged prince is a useful tool to keep in one’s pocket.

And this winged prince is Jeon Eunwoo. Bastard son of Emperor Jeon and—if this strange bird boy is to be believed—a winged Seonnyeo, one of the pantheon’s Heavenly Maidens, renowned for their beauty. The emperor was frightened of this son, with the feathered extensions of a raven and sharp, purple eyes—who the maiden left on the palace doorstep before returning to Okhwang. In the Jeon Dynasty, the royal family is known to kill each other for power, and it was clear that even as an infant, Eunwoo was powerful. The emperor would have killed him, yet he feared the Seonnyeo would punish him for his transgression.

I watch Eunwoo warily as he walks his pale fingers across the wooden surface of the long table in the Sanyeongto war room, on which a map of Bonseyo is spread. “They chained me to the ground so I couldn’t fly. I spent most of my twenty years down in that dungeon. I made friends with the rats. Knew all of them by name. Yet above ground, nobody knew of me.”

Eunwoo was allowed to step foot above only for sunlight and for when the emperor knew the maiden would look down for her son, which she did on every eve of his birth, perhaps only out of some distant nostalgia. It did not seem as though she was particularly interested in seeking him out any other time of the year.

They kept him well-fed in there, in preparation for his mother’s annual glimpse. Allowed him outside every week to feel the sunlight on his face. Yet they never let him fly, keeping a heavy chain with an iron ball attached to his ankle. He showed me the pale band of flesh where it used to be.

Used to be, because Jeon Eunwoo apparently escaped from Bonseyo four months ago on the eve of his twentieth birthday. It had been a plan years in the making, and he had just barely pulled it off. In the dungeon, he had trained, using the heavy chain around his ankle to his advantage. He learned how to move with the weight, working his muscles until he was strong enough to learn to fly beneath the towering ceiling, even with the iron ball. No guards reported this to his father; no guards were there. Everybody thought Eunwoo complacent.

They were wrong.

The moment he was unchained and released on his twentieth birthday, Eunwoo killed the three men accompanying him in the royal garden and flew out of Bonseyo as quickly as he could manage. Without the chain, he was faster than he’d ever expected, and even his father’s archers could not shoot him down. Eunwoo flew and flew until he reached a rural Bonseyo village far away from the palace, where he heard of me. Of my war. Of my plan for Bonseyo, which the royal family has still disregarded.

Thirsting for vengeance against the family who imprisoned and abused him, he set off to Sanyeongto. And now he sits before me, tapping the Bonseyo map.

“And because I was in the dungeons for near to twenty years,” Eunwoo says, “I know their secrets. Secrets that could be useful for you.” He eagerly walks his fingers over the sketch of Bonseyo’s palace, which is surrounded by a dense grove of persimmons and apples. Bonseyo is renowned for their fresh produce—fruits and vegetables so sweet and so fresh they’re sold for an impossibly high sum of yeokun in the Sunpo Fingertrap. “Such as how to enter the palace without anyone—even my father’s army—knowing.”

Taking a moment to eye Eunwoo carefully, I lean forward and lace my hands together. Sonagi is beside me, gleaming eyes watching the prince in more than a little interest. Ever since he helped secure Wyusan for my own, Eunwoo has been with my forces, acting as if he is one of my own. Yet that does not mean I have given the entirety of my trust to this strange bird of a boy. Never had I heard of a bastard son in Bonseyo.

What if he is a gift horse that I have looked in the mouth?

That is to say, what if he is a spy, sent by the gods?

Or by the Jeons themselves?

But then why would he have attacked the Dokkaebi emperor, why would he have given me this second kingdom? The armies had no choice but to retreat after Wyusan’s claiming had sent tremors through the earth, and as my Imugi—crazed with both triumph and bloodlust, such a beautifully dangerous combination—had surged forth with renewed vigor. The Wyusan-Gyeulcheon alliance regroups in Gyeulcheon, suffering heavy losses.

No, it is likely that I can trust Jeon Eunwoo. His motives are selfish, which secure my belief in him. I know all too well the craving for revenge, how sweet it is once tasted.

“I will gladly take this intelligence. But first, the army you’ve mentioned,” I say. “Tell me, Eunwoo, are they entirely unaware of the approaching threat? Do you know?”

“All sounds travel down to that dungeon,” Eunwoo replies, the legs of his chair abruptly hitting the ground. His smile wavers but then sharpens, as if he is afraid that a glimpse of weakness will not impress me.

The prince is right. It won’t.

“I’ve heard every single whisper in the palace these past twenty years. Of course I know,” he says. “Emperor Jeon’s army is not worthy of any accolades.” Eunwoo waves a pale hand at the map. “Oh, they have weapons, and they have a line of command, but what use is any of that when there’s barely any semblance of military training? My father ”—a strange expression crosses his face, half longing and half hatred—“spends the royal budget on himself. Gold, baubles, secondary palaces, luxury ships, etcetera, etcetera. And the only trained soldiers are the ones who guard him from my backstabbing aunts and uncles and cousins. They don’t have leave to share their knowledge with the base troops.”

Interesting. Until now, I have taken Bonseyo’s silence to mean ignorance. But perhaps it is a pre-emptive surrender. Perhaps they know how woefully underprepared they are. If so, they are cleverer than Wyusan by far. If only dealing with Empress Moon had been half as easy.

“In other words,” Eunwoo continues, searching my eyes eagerly, “you have no reason to worry. As for whether my father knows you approach, the answer is yes. It would have been impossible for him to ignore all the Dokkaebi who came to barter with him. He plans to hand over the keys to the kingdom when you arrive. He wanted to flee, but he wants power more. He stays only to make sure that none of his relatives seize the throne when he’s gone. And he thinks he can strike some sort of deal with you, get a title as a lord, maybe a slice of land for his trouble.”

“And the people?” I ask slowly.

Eunwoo shrugs in a jerky, unsure motion. “How many people do you think live in a kingdom run by a dynasty who have more fun killing each other than tending to the kingdom’s infrastructure?”

That’s true. Most of the Eastern Continent’s population is concentrated in Wyusan and Sunpo.

“The few villages there probably won’t even care about your invasion,” Eunwoo explains, and it’s clear he’s waiting for my satisfaction and thanks, as a dog salivates over a bone. I make my lips curve upward ever so slightly. Eunwoo’s relentless desire for connection is growing tiring, yet it is a sacrifice I must make. “In fact, they’d probably like being ruled by you more than they like the Jeon Dynasty. What’s your opinion on basic necessities like rations of rice and clean wells?”

“I am not entirely opposed to them.” A goddess needs healthy and hale worshippers, after all.

“Well, there.” Eunwoo’s strange smile takes on an excited edge. His words come faster and faster in clear hopefulness that he has proven his worth by providing this intelligence. Pathetic. “You’re better already. Now, back to the route I think you should take.” His finger returns to the map, tracing a line through the persimmon grove. “Not even my father knows of the underground tunnels leading into the palace dungeon. The Bonseyo Shadowshafts. I’ve seen them; I’ve explored them while imprisoned. I could never use them to escape, though: they’re blocked off. But something tells me you’ll be able to get through.” He flicks a hesitant glance at Sonagi. “The Shadowshafts start here, where the old mines were.” His finger moves to the very beginning of the vast orchards, just after Habaek’s Bridge. Habaek’s River winds all along the continent, with a good portion dividing Wyusan from Bonseyo. “Take them, and you will enter the capital’s palace with the Jeons none the wiser.”

I tilt my head, tracking the path from here in the Wyusan capital to that first stretch of orchard. We would journey north for a few days before reaching Habaek’s River. The bridge is a large, stone arch and could easily hold the weight of my Imugi.

My forces, despite the losses at the Battle of Sanyeongto, are recently replenished. The Imugi injured in the Battle of Seocheonkkotbat are recently returned from Jeoseung and fully healed thanks to Daeyang’s excellence. With them, we could make quick work of Bonseyo, even with the possibility of the gods becoming involved for this final battle.

“Clever,” I murmur. Clever, indeed.

Eunwoo practically preens, feathers ruffling.

With the Prisoner running amok in my mind and no doubt intending escape, and with the gods discontent in Okhwang, this strategy could make quick work out of reaching Fulfillment. Once Bonseyo is taken—once the tunnels take me to the palace located in its capital of Gohtan—my Imugi, my beautiful, beautiful Imugi, will transform into Yong. Dragons, taking to the skies, delighting in the power that they have waited so long for—waited through hunts for their scales, wars against gods, and time spent in Jeoseung.

“What do you think, Chan?” I croon, turning to look at the general tied to a chair in the corner. He is just barely conscious now, with bloodshot eyes, matted hair, and pallid skin. He cannot reply, of course. There is a sedative-soaked gag stuffed in his mouth.

Killing him would have been such fun, but I think I prefer drawing it out this way. Letting Haneul rot in the knowledge he could have saved him with a simple switch. I’ve told Chan, of course, of Haneul’s refusal. I’d like to let that stew. Simmer. Perhaps, when I finally capture the Dokkaebi emperor, I can torture him with his friend’s hatred.

“No opinions? Pity. You had such strong ones in the past,” I purr before turning back to Eunwoo. “This was most useful,” I say. “I assume you will want a part in ending the Jeon line?”

“You assume correctly,” the prince replies, smile finally dropping, eyes darting toward his feet.

“Then you shall have it.” I incline my head. “But still, there is one more thing I need from you.”

Eunwoo’s wings ruffle in excitement. “Consider it done,” the princeling breathes.