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The sun breaks bright in blue skies the next morning, as though determined to clear away all traces of the storm from the night past. Yet there is a palpable tension in the Candidates’ Courtyard today. The remaining candidates are gathered in clusters, their faces serious as they register the missing or the dead. Within just a week, almost half of us have been eliminated from the trials.

Whispers of Number One’s murder drift through every conversation, and along with it, Yù’chén’s lashing from the night past.

“He killed her,” I hear someone say from a group seated at the water’s edge. “He was ranked second, so he wanted to eliminate his most powerful competition. Why else would the immortals have lashed him for something as petty as theft?”

“I heard her body was found in a bad state,” a second candidate adds. “He always struck me as the violent type.”

I pick up my pace and round the walkway to the moongates. In the daylight, the Celestial Gardens look nothing like they do at night. The flowers are in bloom, chrysanthemums and orchids and peonies and jasmine filling the air with their fragrance and brightening the gardens like gemstones. Guards are stationed on the main walkways, but Hào’yáng is not among their ranks again today.

The Temple of Dawn kept its word about increasing security. All the major training grounds have the presence of guards; seeing the glint of their white-and-gold armor and the flash of their white robes everywhere feels suffocating—especially considering where I’m going.

I slip out Shadow and Fleet and vanish between the trees.

The back of the Celestial Gardens is empty and quiet as I make for the section of the wards where Yù’chén made his gate just two nights ago. It’s difficult to retrace my steps today—we came down a different path directly from the Hall of Radiant Sun—but when the sound of a burbling stream breaks through the morning’s silence, I know I’m close.

Between two willows, the wards appear as an iridescent shimmer in the air like the mist of a waterfall in sunlight. Even here, the hum of their spirit energies reaches me.

I square my shoulders and step toward the stream that plunges off the edge of this realm. If I close my eyes, I remember the way Yù’chén held me as we stood knee-deep in the water. The way the skies opened to me in the realm beyond.

I open my eyes, willing any other traitorous thoughts away as I focus on the translucent wards. Yes, right here, Yù’chén lifted his hands and flowers bloomed from his magic, growing into a door in the wards. They opened into an archway, and everything from the mortal realm grew sharper and clearer, like lifting a veil: the salt-laced wind, the pearl dust stars.

Now the gate is gone—as Yù’chén said it would be.

I let out a shaky exhale.

Yù’chén told the truth. And I don’t know how to feel about that.

Instead, I kneel in the grass before the ward. Since Bà died, I’ve had to learn to hunt for my family’s survival. If a mó or one of the hellbeasts entered from the outside, I should be able to find some form of tracks.

A flash of crimson between the tall grasses catches my eye. I draw my blades out as I lean closer to look.

It’s a red scorpion lily. In the daylight, it has lost its soft, alluring glow, but it rests between the grasses, a thing both beautiful and deadly. As I study it, I realize it’s rooted in the soil and the stream just within the wards, its dew-kissed petals glistening like blood.

I’m about to reach for it when I hear footfalls behind me.

I whirl around, my blades already slicing through the air—and my heart leaps into my throat when I catch sight of the newcomer. White silks, gold lamellar armor.

My blade glances off a metal wrist guard with a plink as Hào’yáng easily blocks my swipe.

“Oh,” I gasp. “S-Sorry.”

A gentle wind plays with his hair, and the sunlight haloes him as he studies me. I can’t help but stare back, recalling each sweep of his features as though I am underwater again, surrounded by the shifting tides.

Hào’yáng’s gaze flicks down at my hand, curled instinctively on my collarbone where my jade pendant is tucked beneath my clothes. Somehow, the silence between us feels as taut as a drawn breath.

Then he says, “Don’t be. I was looking for you.”

My lips part, and as a wind picks up, sending petals dancing in the sunlit clearing, I can’t help but wonder if this is a moment carved in the wheels of fate, brought about by the threads my father has carefully woven into my life throughout all these years, culminating here.

“Why?” I ask. My voice is almost carried away in the breeze.

“Lady Shī’yǎ has asked me to train you in preparation for the Third Trial.”

—

Hào’yáng is indifferent, almost cold, as he leads me toward a part of the Celestial Gardens I have never seen. I trail after him, questions burning inside me.

“Can I ask—” I begin, but he shoots me a sharp look over his shoulder.

“No,” he says, and then amends, “not here.”

We walk in silence through the gardens until the grass and mud beneath our feet turn to sand. Ahead, the flowering trees open up to an endless stretch of water that vanishes into the horizon and the Sea of Clouds.

The Mirror Lake. I imagine all the candidates past and present have gathered here, at the edge of the Temple of Dawn grounds, and gazed into the distance, at the looming mountains and lands and the promise of a life away from death and danger.

The morning sun shining on the lake casts everything in warm gold. Impossibly, cherry blossoms ranging from blush pink to moon white grow from the surface of the water. I’ve seen more of my namesake in this realm than I have in my own, and I wonder if my father named me for his time here.

I glance at Hào’yáng. “Can I ask where we’re going now?”

“Someplace we can train,” he replies, scanning the lake with a narrow gaze. “Away from here.”

“Candidates can’t leave the premises,” I remind him.

“Not by yourselves,” he replies, then lifts his fingers to his lips and gives a short whistle.

In the distance, the slightest ripple dapples the surface of the lake. Then something shoots out from it into the sky: a serpentine shape wrought of a pale gleam of scales. As it twists toward us, it transforms. The mane of seawater and mist remains, but scales shift to hair, claws lengthen to legs and hooves.

It’s a white dragonhorse. Legends say the first of these rare creatures was born of a noble mare who gave its life to bear its rider through the Golden Desert all the way to the Four Seas. Touched by the courage and loyalty of the animal, the dragons took its soul and reincarnated it into one of them, giving it the freedom to roam the skies and the earth in two forms.

The dragonhorse comes to a stop before us. As I study its intelligent brown eyes and mane that ripples like it holds oceans, a jolt of recognition courses through me.

The dragonhorse casts me an amused look and snorts.

Hào’yáng slides onto the dragonhorse’s back and holds out his hand to me.

It’s a tight squeeze to fit both of us on its back.

As the dragonhorse gallops into the waters of the lake, I end up awkwardly digging my fingers into the belt at Hào’yáng’s waist. He is warm, and he smells of sunlight and incense, reminiscent of spring. Water splashes in my face, clean and cool against the sun’s heat. Soon, we’re climbing into the skies, the ground and the temples and the water falling away from us in a thrilling, dizzying way.

The immortal realm is achingly beautiful. The clouds, the distant mountains and lands, the blossoms and willows sweeping the waters—all of it seems to exude a radiant, golden haze, a perfection that the most talented mortal artists might dream of capturing in their art. I hold on to Hào’yáng, and I wonder whether the mortal realm might have had an ounce of the immortal realm’s beauty before it fell. I wonder if I might have traveled the kingdom with Mā, seamstresses seeking to weave our world’s wonders into thread and fabric.

Landmasses and mountains float lazily in the Sea of Clouds. Curved temple rooftops peek out from between folds of valleys, surrounded by beautiful blossoms and weaving waterways. I spot towns perched completely on lakes that drift between clouds, ending in waterfalls that spill over the edges. Larger cities of somber reds and rosewood, connected by stone walkways and arched bridges and flourishing with food stalls, flower fairs, and immortals arriving or departing by the wings of great snowy cranes. The wind carries the sound of distant laughter and music.

We alight on the shore of a lake. Its waters are turquoise in the sunlight and beautifully transparent, lapping against white sands. Gently sloping mountains rise behind us, covered in an array of hibiscus, camellias, lilacs, and violet cresses, which sway in a soft breeze.

I trail my fingers in the water, marveling at how it’s nearly warm, how the currents sparkle as if they hide threads of gold. Deeper in, the colorful scales of darting carp flash like jewels.

Hào’yáng stands in the shade of a great camphor tree that overhangs a tide pool. Wild meadowsweet carpets the sands beneath him, and there’s a hint of a smile to his eyes as he watches his dragonhorse graze. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look relaxed, as though he has stepped out from the weight of his duty to the Temple of Dawn.

“Those are her favorite flowers,” he says, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I didn’t realize he saw me watching him. “She’s nicknamed after them. Meadowsweet.”

Hào’yáng turns to me. The calculation and intensity of his gaze is gone, replaced by an expression bordering playfulness that I haven’t witnessed within temple grounds. He tucks his hands behind his back and tilts his head. “My mother set me to the task of training you,” he begins.

“Your mother?” I repeat.

“Lady Shī’yǎ is my mother.”

“I—oh.” I assumed them to be husband and wife, but now, thinking back, it makes sense. There is an air of deference to how he treats her, and he somehow feels younger than her.

“I should say, my adopted mother.” Hào’yáng’s tone is light. “If you’re worried about this impacting your standing in the trials, don’t. She wouldn’t have gone through all the effort of saving you and keeping you alive just to set you up for failure.”

“But why?” I demand.

“You’ll have to ask her,” Hào’yáng repeats. He’s walking toward me, and for some reason, each step closer he comes sets a strange fluttering in my stomach. My hand goes to my chest, fingers curling over my jade pendant beneath my layers of clothing. “There is no formal training offered prior to the trials anymore. But there is no Precept forbidding it, either.”

“The Precepts forbid any type of relationship between the candidates and the immortals.”

“You’re right,” he says, unfazed. He undoes the buckles of his lamellar armor. “But that rule doesn’t apply to me.” The pieces of his armor fall to the ground, and he steps out in a plain white shift. It’s tight-fitting, and this close, I’m struck by how strong he is, muscles sculpted from what I assume to be an eternity of training and using spirit energy to cultivate his physical form into immortal perfection.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because,” he says with a wry smile, “I’m mortal.”

—

Mortal. He’s mortal.

I think back to all the details I picked up about him, and how this makes perfect sense. The way his complexion lacks the ethereal radiance and perfection of all immortals—how gazing at him feels like looking at the quiet steadiness of the earth instead of the brilliant, blazing beauty of the sun. How his skin is rougher and he carries traces of small scars our mortal bodies cannot heal as the immortals’ can. How he couldn’t fly or summon a cloud but had to call upon Meadowsweet.

Mortal sympathizer, the immortal with the fan called Shī’yǎ, and now I understand.

Hào’yáng watches the shock and epiphany play out on my face. “Don’t believe me? If you hit me, I’ll bruise just like you.” Then he smiles, and it’s like seeing the sun come out from behind clouds. “Your first task: get one hit on me. I’m going to assess your skills.”

I tilt my head, considering. “One hit, one answer to a question,” I negotiate.

“To a question that I can answer,” he shoots back. “One that doesn’t involve the realm’s security or political interests or other people’s secrets.”

I smile innocently at him and clasp my hands behind my back. With a flick of my wrist, Fleet is in one hand, Shadow in the other. “Deal,” I say, and tap my spirit energy into them.

I charge. Hào’yáng swerves back, but Shadow’s talisman is strong enough to bypass mortal eyes. Another pivot and my palm is pressed to his chest, daggers back in the hidden straps within my sleeves.

“Hit,” I say, and release Shadow’s talisman.

The edges of his eyes curve as I reappear in front of him, and he gives me a long, assessing look. “No magical daggers next round.”

“They’re crescent blades,” I correct, but I’m also grinning as I draw my hand back. My grin fades slightly when I ask, “Did they find the killer?”

“No,” he says, and I can see him weighing his response carefully. “But you were right. The immortals believe candidate Number One was killed by a mó.”

A mó. I was right.

My mind inevitably flits to the only part-mó I know that has access to this place: Yù’chén. “You don’t think it could have been another candidate, given the nature of the trials?” I say carefully. “If I were the immortals, I’d begin by investigating the top candidates.”

“They are,” he replies. “They’ve confirmed that the other top five candidates were all in the training temple at the time. We’ll continue tracking everyone, but rest assured, there is heavier guard presence around the Candidates’ Courtyard now.”

A crash of waves roars in my ears. “Numbers Two through Five were in the training temple?” I croak.

“Yes.” Hào’yáng pauses and gives me a narrow smile. “I think that was more than one question.”

I nod and raise my fists, but my mind is elsewhere. Why don’t we survive this trial first, and then you can go back to accusing me of the monstrous things you think I do.

Suddenly, Yù’chén’s anger at me feels insufficient.

Without my blades, I’m no match for Hào’yáng, and my focus slips as my mind wanders to Yù’chén, to all the horrible things I’ve said to him and accused him of. When a missed jab throws me off balance, Hào’yáng catches me by my forearm to stop me from face-planting into the sand.

“àn’yīng,” he says. “ Focus. The trials will only become more competitive; the Third could start any day. You almost died during the First, and I don’t want to have to watch you—”

“How do you know I almost died?” That day, everyone knows I came last—but not that I nearly drowned in the sea. We are close, our chests rising and falling quickly, and it’s through the tangle of our breaths that I catch Hào’yáng’s slight inhale. His hand tightens on my wrist, and just like that, I see the walls go back up, the coolness return to his eyes as he considers his response.

I save him from answering by tapping my fingers to his chest. Unexpectedly, I feel the groove of something sharp beneath his clothes—a dagger, or perhaps another layer of armor.

“Hit,” I say softly.

His eyes dart between mine. Then he gives a slow nod. Yields. “Hit,” he echoes.

I hold his gaze and make my true strike. “Does any of this have to do with my father?”

I see it then, that one unguarded moment, in which his face blanches with shock. Turbulence ripples through his deep brown eyes like a storm breaking against rocks.

Find the One of the Vast Sea.

I was right.

It was him, that day in the ocean, so achingly beautiful that I’d believed him a water spirit; it was his dragonhorse I saw through the tides.

He is the one my father sent me to find in this realm.

Hào’yáng exhales. He still holds my wrist in his hand, as though he has forgotten about it. I find that I do not want him to remember.

“I did not know your father,” he says quietly. “But I owe him my life.”

The waves lap at the white-sand shores, the wind weaves through the great camphor tree leaves, but nothing in this world can steal the weight of his words from me.

My chest hurts. “Hào’yáng—”

“àn’yīng. Please. Don’t ask what I can’t tell you.”

There’s a sting in my eyes and a lump in my throat. For the first time in nine long years, it feels as though my father and all the secrets he left behind are within reach—yet still so far away.

“Can I ask you one more question?” I whisper.

He lets my wrist go and steps back. The skin on my arm where his fingers were now feels cold. “If it is mine to answer.”

“Why haven’t you taken a pill of immortality?” It’s the question I have always wondered about my father, and I don’t know if it is foolish to look for an answer in Hào’yáng. After all, isn’t the pill what most of us are here for? A ticket into paradise, away from all the suffering and pain of our short mortal lives. I would assume that the adopted son of one of the Eight Immortals would be offered one, if all it takes is a drop of their golden blood.

Hào’yáng looks into my eyes, straight and true. “I didn’t want to forget what it meant to be human.”