Page 40 of The Dragon Wakes with Thunder (The Dragon Spirit Duology #2)

Twenty-Seven

Although spirits cannot directly harm their vessels, the peril of inaction should not be underestimated. Indeed, many powerful summoners have met their demises at the hands of their own spirit masters, who simply neglected to offer a word of warning when it was most needed.

Sunlight streamed in through the thin tent canvas, but the warmth it offered was meager in the crisp morning air. I snuggled closer to my source of heat, before registering that it was Lei’s bare chest.

I had fallen asleep in the Ximing prince’s arms? Only a month ago, I would have laughed at the sheer impossibility. Studying his sleeping face now, I tried to make sense of how I felt about him.

I had not truly forgiven him for the atrocities he had committed against me during the war.

Perhaps his goals had always been the same as mine, and perhaps the ends justified the means, and yet my personal grudges had nothing to do with logic and reasoning.

At times I still flinched when I caught his attention on me, as if conditioned to expect punishment to follow.

And yet, despite all his flaws, despite my lingering trauma, somehow, I trusted him. His brush with death had revealed something undeniable: I cared for him. More than I ever knew.

He stirred, his arms tightening reflexively around me. Considering me with half-lidded eyes, he somehow managed to appear both cavalier and possessive. “See?” he said, his voice husky from sleep. “Nothing happened last night.” When I bit my lip, he unhooked it with his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re very pleasant when you sleep,” he remarked. “Much less disagreeable.”

I scowled at him, but at his teasing eyes, I felt my face soften. With his lips this close to mine, I couldn’t help but recall the last time we’d kissed—right before I’d pulled a knife on him. He had tasted like sin, and I had only wanted more.

My lips parted, and his gaze darkened in response. Did I want him to kiss me? No. Yes. I was a tangle of desire and disgust, loathing and want. Confused, I pushed against him, and he released me, watching me silently as I got to my feet and dressed.

Though I knew I owed Sky nothing, I couldn’t shake the deep-rooted guilt that crept in whenever I thought of him.

He had expected me to fall for Lei, and perhaps in some twisted instinct for defiance, I wanted to prove him wrong.

But was that enough to keep me away? I wanted Lei; that much was evident.

But did I love him? Or was I incapable of love now—in any capacity, for any person?

Outside, the camp felt tense, like a drawn bowstring. I sensed the rebels glancing furtively in my direction but avoiding my gaze. And yet I heard laughter and applause coming from the center of the camp, followed by Kuro’s distinctive booming voice.

Near the firepit, Jinya was smirking with her hands on her hips. “Can you do the same?” she asked, the challenge clear in her tone.

Kuro chuckled and took off his cloak. A few onlookers took wary steps back, and I too kept my distance, watching from the tent line.

Kuro drew a deep breath, before leaping backward—an attempt at a backflip, I saw.

Despite his colossal size, he almost managed it—before flopping on his back like a fish.

Everyone roared with laughter, applauding their commander’s attempt.

Good-naturedly, Kuro righted himself, bowing to Jinya in defeat.

I watched this display with growing unease.

How was Kuro able to twist his back like that—after taking an arrow straight to the shoulder?

I had seen the severity of his wound, how deeply it had cut into his flesh.

And yet he acted as if he were fully recovered, as limber and energetic as a teenage boy.

Jinya saw me, and her ghost of a smile vanished. She whispered something to Kuro, who looked in my direction and waved. As I came forward, the jovial smiles and good humor of the other rebels faded. I was a plague to them, bringing calamity wherever I went.

Jinya gave Kuro a pointed look, as if reminding him of her instruction. Obediently, he cleared his throat. “Listen up, folks. Our good friend Lan is lying in bed right now, nursing his many wounds.”

My chest tightened as I awaited his condemnation. My hand went to my sword, and the rebels mirrored me, readying for a fight. Only now did I notice that some of them were like me—some of them had yellow eyes.

A cold tremor crept down my spine. Could I face this many swordsmen and spirit wielders on my own?

“Let his current predicament serve as a reminder for all of you. From now on, anyone who lays so much as a hand on our Phoenix-Slayer will be put to death. No exceptions,” he said. “She is our friend, and we respect our friends, don’t we?”

His easy tone clashed with his menacing words. The rebels nodded nervously, glancing at me with renewed discomfort. I studied Kuro, trying to understand his motivations. What did he want from me?

He’d used me to kill those bandits, claiming he’d acted out of mere curiosity. But I’d seen the way he’d regarded me after the battle, as if testing me. Why?

I could feel him holding something back, and I didn’t trust his kindness.

Yet he’d saved Lei, helped us escape Sky’s men, and now he even sided with me against one of his own rebels.

Perhaps what secrets he kept didn’t matter; what mattered was that with his horses and supplies, we could reach First Crossing in half the time.

Jinya glared at the rebels, ensuring that they understood their orders. Then she handed me a flaky scallion pancake, which was crispy and warm, melting in my mouth.

“The Anlai contingent is also going the Dian River route to First Crossing,” Kuro told me, as the others dispersed for breakfast. “We’ll have to take the longer course around Weiyang Lake to avoid them.”

“How many men?” I asked, my hands tightening around the pancake.

“The Anlai warlord goes with them, so I imagine an army’s worth.” Kuro shook his head. “No way are we taking that on.”

“No,” said Jinya in agreement. “We are fighting a slow war.”

Was this why Kuro was helping me—so that I could helm his revolution for him? I knew the Leyuan rebels wanted rebellion not only in their kingdom but across all of Tianjia. But how did I factor into that equation? If they believed I would confront Sky in battle they were madder than I thought.

Lei joined us, clean-shaven and neatly dressed. Kuro made room for him before the fire, and he sat beside me, his familiar presence like a balm to me.

“My good man,” said Kuro, clapping him on the back, “what should I call you?”

“Zhao Zilong,” said Lei effortlessly. I nearly choked on my water. It was the name of my former friend—and the name I had given Lei when we’d first met. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I see the bards don’t exaggerate.”

Kuro puffed out his chest with pride, and I contained the urge to roll my eyes. As Lei asked him about our planned route to First Crossing, I noticed he’d changed his accent, adopting the northern Chuang Ning tones as easily as changing clothes. And Kuro was none the wiser.

Lei did not trust him either, I realized.

Wondering what Lei read in him, I thought suddenly to use my impulsion.

I watched Kuro, letting my elemental threads mold to his.

The overwhelming disproportion of earth in his qi perturbed me, and I frowned at his imbalanced energy, which I now sensed as peculiar.

Even more peculiarly, I could not infiltrate his thoughts.

Pressing against his mental shields was like pressing a hand against hard-packed dirt, finding no forgiving soil.

How was he so impenetrable? His mental shields reminded me of Lei’s in their invulnerability. But his qi, in its sheer weight and presence, reminded me of another’s—a man who’d sacrificed his life rather than become the monster Zhuque would’ve made him.

I had not thought of Sima Yi in a long time. The reminder left me restless.

My suspicions deepening, I said nothing as Kuro rose to ready his mount. I waited until he left, before claiming I needed to use the latrine. Then, I followed him.

He was talking to his horse, a stallion with a resplendent red mane. He fed him a carrot from his pocket, then an apple, then another carrot, his demeanor both cheerful and childlike. He gave the impression of a simple man. But perhaps his simplicity was a mask.

Hardening my resolve, I expelled my breath, then reached for my lixia. Before he could turn, I crystallized water in the air, then hurled dozens of ice knives in his direction, which whizzed toward him with a speed no throwing star could surpass.

And yet the rebel leader reacted within the span of a heartbeat. Whirling around, he threw up a wall of stone around him, and the knives of ice embedded themselves in the rock, before melting into harmless puddles of water.

My mouth fell open in astonishment. I stood frozen as his eyes found me and he smiled grimly. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Baihu,” I whispered. I should’ve recognized the distinctive presence of a Cardinal Spirit in his qi. That had been the odd, pressing weight I’d felt, the irresistible charisma of his qi. “You have the power of the Ivory Tiger.”

Baihu was the Ivory Tiger of the west, of autumn, and of earth. Even the ground I was standing on—it was not safe. Not from him.

The dragon does not act alone.

He took off his glasses, and now I saw what was obvious in retrospect—how they concealed the yellow glint of his eyes. Because he had not wanted me to know.

“It was you,” I whispered. “You were the one forming the spirit gates.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “The ones down south, sure. But the northern gates were all thanks to you, my friend. Why do you fight it? Why do you fight it when we seek the same outcome?”

“Is Baihu controlling you too?” I whispered, as if there were a way the tiger spirit could not overhear me. “Is that why you’re doing this?”