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I doze off at some point, and I dream of her. In my dream, it is night: she stands outside my window beneath the old plum blossom tree, skin pale as milk, hair the black of a raven’s wing, lips red as blood. She does nothing. Only watches me. When I turn to look at her, she’s gone, and all that’s left is a swirl of crimson petals, silvered by the moon. It’s the same nightmare, the one that jerks me awake in the dark, wondering about the shadow outside my window shutters. The one that I no longer know how to distinguish from reality.

I wake with my heart thumping, mouth dry, drenched in sweat. Méi’zi is curled up next to me in a pool of sunlight. For a moment we’re ten and five years old again, sleeping in the daytime, huddled together on the floor of our living room. We were terrified of the dark and took to sleeping only when the sun rose and its light warmed us. There is no sense to that—mó have no preference as to whether they hunt us during night or day—but it was one of those foolish childhood beliefs that helped us survive the first years: get through one more night and the sun would be up, and we’d live.

Méi’zi and I got through it all together.

I don’t move but hold her tightly against me, breathing in her scent and soaking in the warmth of the sun. After our province fell, several in our town chose to end their own lives. Our world was barren, bloodied, and dying, and they found no reason to live any longer.

But I know my reasons to live. I count them to myself every night, like a litany in the darkness. Three, to be exact.

To protect Méi’zi.

To save Mā.

And to hunt down that Higher One who took my father’s life and my mother’s soul.

All this I can achieve at the Temple of Dawn, the fabled practitioning temple the immortals in the Kingdom of Sky once set up with the mortals of the Kingdom of Rivers to train us in the arts of practitioning. It’s said that the temple is more beautiful than any mortal palace, with burnished golden roofs wrought from molten phoenix feathers, pillars built from the pearls of the Four Seas, and jade floors gifted by the gods themselves. The temple has produced the most powerful mortal practitioners in history, some so great the legends say the gods took favor upon them and granted them immortality.

With tales like that, it’s no wonder thousands of mortals used to kill themselves trying to get there and get in each year. Hope, as I’ve said, is the cruelest affliction.

And I’m no exception to its lure.

I know from Bà’s notes that the tales are real but that reality is not nearly as romantic as the stories. Each year, the Temple of Dawn accepts mortal disciples and begins their training. At the end of the discipleship, the temple holds a set of trials. The mortals who pass these trials—the best of the best—are granted a pill of immortality to strengthen the spirit energy in their cores. As a result, some grow so powerful that they live to be hundreds of years old…or even become immortal. Those who choose to accept the pill are offered a place in the Kingdom of Sky, a chance to cultivate the eternal life of glory and power the immortals hold.

But my jade pendant told me something my father’s notes did not: a pill of immortality can also mend a broken soul. A mortal’s soul is made of life energy that is slowly drained throughout the course of our limited years. But spirit energy, the makeup of an immortal’s blood and soul, is eternal, and even one drop can replenish a mortal’s soul and save it from the brink of death.

That’s what the pill of immortality contains.

Without disturbing Méi’zi, sleeping against my chest, I reach to my neck and pull out my jade pendant. It glimmers in the sunlight as I brush a thumb against it, my heartbeat calming at the familiar sight. It is a broken circle of jade, plain and jagged at the edges where the missing half should be, but it is the reason I have found the courage to go on all these years.

This pendant is another riddle of my father’s that I may never solve. He gifted it to me along with my blades when the Kingdom of Rivers first fell. Keep this with you at all times, he said. Inside is a magical guardian who will always watch over you, even if I am not there. All you need to do is speak to it.

I thought he was just telling a story at the time—for how could a piece of jade watch over me, and why would I need it when I had my own father and my family? I wore the pendant to humor my father, though I misliked how it slapped against my chest when I ran and how its jagged edges sometimes pricked my skin.

But on the night my father died and my mother’s soul was half-eaten, I spoke to the pendant out of desperation. I was curled up in this very spot, doors locked, my mother lying prone on the bed outside, my baby sister in my arms. I was looking for something—anything—to hold on to when I thought of the little pendant. I took it out, and it winked at me in the moonlight.

Help me, I whispered. Please. Someone.

There was nothing at first. Then the jade pendant warmed in my hands. A glow appeared within it, shifting like molten gold into characters.

I am here was all it showed, but those three words held together my world.

I spoke to the pendant that night. Then the next. Who are you? I asked it.

There was a pause. I cannot say.

I frowned then, wondering if this was simply a trick enchantment my father had left me.

Yet the words kept coming. But I am as real as you, it continued. Just far away.

I knew nothing else about its identity, and so I tried not to rely on it too much for fear that it would abandon me eventually, as my parents had. Yet slowly, I began asking it questions. They started small, innocent. How to sow seeds, how to smoke meats and preserve vegetables for the winter. Then the pendant told me of light lotuses as a way to replenish a mortal’s life energy and keep my mother alive. It taught me the craftsmanship behind each talisman I used and where I was going wrong, how to channel my spirit energy for the most effective kick.

I remember sitting and staring at the blank surface of the pendant, frustrated that all I had was a few characters at a time. I spent hours imagining who might sit at the other end.

Do you ever feel lonely? I asked it one day.

Another pause, and I could feel my guardian in the jade hesitating; I imagined them on the other end, inkbrush raised, other hand holding their sleeve, as they crafted their response.

It had been a simple one.

Yes.

Several months ago, on my nineteenth birthday, my guardian in the jade told me about the Temple of Dawn…and the trials where, if I won a spot, I would be granted a pill of immortality that would replenish Mā’s soul.

That quiet, reassuring hand writing those words to me had saved my life countless times throughout the years. I often wonder if it is possible to love someone you’ve never met, someone you aren’t even sure exists. The pendant now rests upon my breast, the guardian a companion to my heart.

Pulling myself from memories, I narrow my eyes, tracking the angle of the sunlight seeping through our shutters. I’d planned to leave in the morning with the full sun behind my back. Night is always when I am at a disadvantage: with weakened visibility, and with the Kingdom of Night continuing to seep into our realm, the moon and stars, too, are fading in the ever-lengthening dark.

But I would take on another mó just to spend five more minutes here, in the sunlight, with my little sister. Just five minutes.

So I do, stroking Méi’zi’s soft hair and breathing in her familiar scent as I count down each heartbeat.

When my five minutes end, I stir slightly. “Méi’zi.” My voice is a whisper, and I gently pat her shoulders.

She mumbles in her sleep, and I catch the unmistakable words: “Jiě’jie.”

I swallow and swipe a thumb across my face, making sure no wetness remains. “Time for chores,” I say softly.

She’s awake in an instant. The sleep vanishes from her warm brown eyes. She knows what I am really saying: that this is the last time in a long time we will be doing chores together.

Don’t cry, I silently implore her. I need you to be strong for me. For us.

Méi’zi blinks rapidly, and the vulnerability in her gaze dries up.

“All right,” she says firmly. “Chores.”

—

Méi’zi fusses over my ruined silk dress and insists on cleaning it for me before I set out. I know she wants to do this, so I don’t object. Instead, I go to our room to finish packing.

There isn’t much I’ll take with me. A bedroll, a set of spare clothes, a gourd for water, and some plain steamed buns. The items I treasure most, I always keep on me: the battle-ready dress Méi’zi designed, my eight crescent blades, and my jade pendant.

While I wait for Méi’zi to finish, I check the drawers and cabinets one more time. They are filled with my father’s tomes on practitioning: hundreds of scrolls I’ve memorized, shelf upon shelf of practitioning art and magic I have taught myself over the years, starting from the basics at the very bottom.

A ghost of a smile flits across my face as I pull out the very first tome. This was the tome: the only one my father taught me before he died. I remember those days as one would a hazy, golden afternoon out of a dream. They were days filled with uncertainty, but my family was alive and whole. We thought there would be an end to all this, that the mortal armies would rise again under our emperor, that the immortals in the Kingdom of Sky would ally with us to reestablish the Heavenly Order across the realms.

I haven’t touched this tome since my father died. Now I crack it open.

In the swirl of dust, I find something tucked within the pages that wasn’t there before.

It is a half-sewn silk handkerchief. I recognize the design: pale osmanthus flowers drifting over a sparkling blue sea. Beneath the waves are hints of shimmery scales and a serpentine body—a dragon.

I stare at this handkerchief, trying to remember how I ever could have created such a thing. When I was young, I was fascinated by the stories my mother told me of the realms of this world: besides the mortal and immortal realms, there was the Kingdom of Green Hills, ruled by nine-tailed fox gods; the land of flower spirits; the fiery clouds ruled by the clan of phoenixes; and my favorite, the realm of dragons in the Four Seas.

Though I’d never seen the ocean, I had fervently imagined it: long, rolling currents that the various blues of my silk threads could never capture. My mother promised me we would travel the kingdom as seamstresses, for how could one hope to capture the beauty of our realm in fabric without having seen it? How could I hope to detail the blush of a fragrant jasmine without ever having seen the way the morning dew clung to its petals?

The memories feel as if they belong to a stranger. It is difficult to believe that I was once a girl who loved flowers and wished to sew oceans. The same night my father handed me my crescent blades, he took my needles and silks and shut them in a cabinet.

Life as we know it is about to end, he told me, eyes black as ink, reflecting mine. Will you give up your dreams to protect our family?

Now I cannot recall my dreams, cannot fathom ever having had any. I know they must have existed, that I must have wanted more than this life. But that was before everything crumbled to dust, dreams became ashes, and the world turned into a living nightmare.

I don’t know how my handkerchief got tucked into this tome, but it doesn’t matter. I left that part of me behind when I made that vow to my father.

I’m about to tuck it back when a piece of parchment falls out. It flutters to the floor like a butterfly’s wings.

A note. I pick it up and hold it to the light.

My dark blossom,

I leave this for you in case I am no longer with you someday soon. I chose to train you for a reason. The truth to everything is at the Temple of Dawn. Find the One of the Vast Sea.

It is written in my father’s hand, the characters falling vertically in that beautiful, scholar-trained way of his. Dark blossom —that’s me, àn’yīng. How many times did he tell us the story of my name, the tree blossoming in the dark?

I frown at the note. My father had many secrets, but I have always assumed that he selected me to train in the practitioning arts because I was the eldest, because Méi’zi was barely old enough to run without falling, and that the purpose of my training was solely to protect our family. Yet as I stare at the note that has remained hidden from me for all these years, everything that I believed begins to shift.

I chose to train you for a reason.

My father never spoke of the Temple of Dawn, much less any intention for me to go there. And yet… the truth to everything is at the Temple of Dawn. Was it his plan all along to have me go there? If so, why? What truth will I find there, and who is the One of the Vast Sea?

Questions swirl into my head with a dizzying rush. My father never told many stories of his time in the immortal realm. All I know is that he passed the Temple of Dawn’s trials, but he did not take the pill of immortality and chose to return to the Kingdom of Rivers in pursuit of a mortal life. I do not know why.

I reread his words several times but cannot glean any more meaning from them. The note is intentionally cryptic…as though he was afraid this information might fall into the wrong hands. But who could he have been guarding against?

I hear Méi’zi calling my name from the next room.

I crumple the handkerchief and note in my fist. No time to think about my father’s riddles. Whatever his reasons, I am going to the Kingdom of Sky.

When Méi’zi comes in with my dress freshly cleaned, I slip it over my thin shift. It is easy for me to tuck the handkerchief and note into one of my long, billowing sleeves.

Then I strap on my crescent blades, one by one.

—

I walk the perimeter of the house, checking the protection talismans I’ve freshly drawn in my own blood on the clay and bricks. In the past months, I’ve gone around the periphery of the village, replenishing the old, fading wards from our dead village practitioners. I know mine are nowhere near strong enough to hold off a Higher One, but I can at least keep the lesser demons away until I am back again.

When my work is done, I lean against the trunk of the old plum blossom tree. The sun blazes from behind clouds, igniting the sky in shades of fire. I take in the familiar curves of my town, how the houses wind over hills, the gray tiles oftheir roofs like a dragon’s scales. There used to be willows threading between the buildings, red lanterns hanging from them, and everywhere the cacophony of children’s laughter and street hawkers.

Now the trees are bone-dry and all is eerily silent but for the whistle of wind.

“àn’yīng.”

I turn to see my neighbor, Fú Róng, coming up the path. My father’s senior, she lost her husband to the initial war against the Kingdom of Night, when all able-bodied people were drafted into the imperial army. Fú Róng was pregnant at the time, which is why she stayed behind; as a capable martial artist, she would have made a good fighter.

My father was the one who brought back the ashes of her husband from the war.

She miscarried her unborn child shortly after.

“Fú’yí.” I use the shortened version of her last name and aunt.

My father led an army comprising soldiers from our province during the initial resistance effort by the Kingdom of Rivers. Yet when he saw the trajectory of the war and how quickly our forces were falling to the Kingdom of Night, he made the critical decision to withdraw our people and focus on fortifying Xī’lín’s wards. Now many of the villagers owe their lives and the lives of their families to my father. That is the small comfort I have in leaving: knowing that my mother and sister will not go hungry, that someone will bring the rice harvests to them and help patch the roof over their heads if needed.

After my father’s death, I chose to take Fú’yí under my wing. I am not sure why, for she was frail and a widow and had nothing to offer me. Yet I found myself leaving small packs of meat from my hunting trips at her doorstep; I made sure her firewood and coal were stocked in the winter.

And she, too, was there for me, in the ways my mother could not be. She showed me how to strap the cotton padding onto my inner garments when I had my first bleeding. She helped me bind my breasts when they filled. She watched over Mā and Méi’zi in the early days when I sought out the light lotuses and my sister was not yet old enough even to take care of herself.

“You are going today,” Fú’yí says softly. Her hair is streaked with gray now. Faded, like most of the rest of our realm. Like always, she smells like a mix of bitter herbal medicine and the faint scent of chrysanthemums that she keeps in her husband’s memory.

I cannot think of what to say, so I nod. I have never let myself grow close to Fú’yí. Letting more people into my heart means giving myself more ways to get hurt. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that most of the people you love eventually leave you.

But Méi’zi has no qualms about giving her heart to many. She must have discussed my journey with Fú’yí.

“Not many of us are left, but we will hold the fort until you return,” Fú’yí continues, a hint of steel coloring her tone. “Don’t you worry about Méi’zi or your mother. These old bones have some martial arts skills in them yet.”

I blink. Though I know I am respected for my practitioning skills and my father’s legacy, I had not expected any sort of acknowledgment from the remaining villagers—those who have stayed behind because they are old, because they cannot survive the journey out of the Central Province, or perhaps because they have grown roots in our little village and want their ashes laid to rest here. All these years, I have assumed that we’ve survived on codependency and mutual need; I am unprepared for the emotion in Fú’yí’s voice.

“Thank you,” I manage.

The woman nods. Something in her face shifts as she reaches out and grasps my hand tightly. “You let those bastards in the Kingdom of Sky know,” she says fiercely. “You let them know we are still here. You let them know we are still alive. You show them how strong you are. And when you have learned the arts, just as your father did, you come back and win this war against the Kingdom of Night.”

My breath catches. There it is: the sickness of hope. It lights Fú’yí’s faint gaze. It lends strength to her fingers.

I have never let myself think that far. For the first few months after the war began, I hoped. We all did. We thought there would be an end to all this.

But then my father died, my mother became a walking corpse, and nine years later, I know better than to think of anything grander than my three promises to myself.

I swallow and briefly squeeze Fú’yí’s hand before extricating mine. “You take care, Fú’yí.”

She gives me a long look. “All these years and we still don’t know why those mó bastards did this,” she murmurs, turning to the red sun in the sky. “But you know what I think?”

I sigh. “What?”

“I think there’s a reason the mó haven’t taken over the entire kingdom yet. I’ve heard rumors from the Imperial City that the mó cannot sit on our mortal throne or expand beyond the Central Province.” Pride lifts Fú’yí’s gaze, and her smile is one I will remember for years to come. “It is because there is old magic in the bones of our land—magic as old as the Heavenly Order itself. It safeguards this kingdom for mortals. And it remembers who the true rulers of this realm are.”

I know this story: that the dragons—gods of the rivers and seas—created the mortal realm, and a queen among them, the Azure Dragon, laid down her bones across our land. Where she slept, waters gushed, forming the Long River that gave birth to our civilization and gave our land its name: the Kingdom of Rivers.

“But the emperor’s line is dead, Fú’yí,” I say gently.

“The magic buried deep within this earth is alive, àn’yīng, and it waits for us,” Fú’yí says with the patience of one teaching a five-year-old. “When the gods created the realms, the dragons gave the first mortal emperor a drop of their blood. That power runs within us still, centuries later.”

I know that tale, one as old as time and told to children before they sleep. I cannot rely on bedtime stories to save my family.

“The signs are there, àn’yīng,” Fú’yí finishes. “The truth waits for those who know where to look.”

Then she turns and ambles off to her lonely cottage down the road.

Her words echo something in the note my father left me: The truth to everything is at the Temple of Dawn.

Fú’yí’s right. Nine years and we still don’t know why the Kingdom of Night did this. Why they suddenly broke the Heavenly Order that has governed all realms since the beginning of time, shattered the wards between our realms so that the mortal lands began to sink into theirs.

Now our emperor and his heir are dead, the mortal throne is empty, and we live in a dying world where the nights grow longer and darker.

Leaves crunch behind me. I don’t need to turn to know that my sister has come outside.

“Was that Fú’yí?” Méi’zi asks, squinting. She catches my worried look and grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her when you’re gone.”

Since when did my baby sister grow up? I wrap an arm over her shoulder, she slips hers around my waist, and we stand together, just watching the clouds move across the sky like molten flame.

Eventually, though, my thoughts turn to the journey ahead of me: two days to get to the pass between the Gods’ Fingers, the mountain range that marks the midway point between the mortal and immortal realms. There I’ll catch the convoy that will cross the most dangerous lands: mountains and forests haunted by not only spirits and monsters of the mortal realm…but the hellbeasts from the Kingdom of Night seeking to break through the wards protecting the immortal realm.

My thoughts must spill through to my sister, for Méi’zi pulls back slightly and glances at our house.

“Mā’s asleep,” she says softly.

“I know.” Perhaps it is better this way. Whether or not I say goodbye to my mother, the woman inside will not know. Still, I can’t help but glance at the open bamboo door. In the darkness within, I think I see my mother’s silhouette, her tufts of white hair.

I think of the five vials of elixir stored in our coolbox. Five months for me to survive the journey to the immortal realm, hone my skills so I become strong enough to pass the trials and win a pill of immortality. Then I will be free to return to the mortal realm and give the pill to Mā.

I turn away. I shoulder my pack, checking again for my crescent blades, my silken handkerchief, and the jade pendant at my neck.

Méi’zi grabs my hand. “I’ll go with you to the gate,” she says.

It’s a short walk. All too soon, the pái’fāng appears, with the gold-inked characters Xī’lín Village now faded and covered in dust. We stop just before it.

Méi’zi turns to me and throws her arms around me. Her grip is like steel. “I’ll miss you,” my baby sister whispers, and the tremor in her voice breaks my heart open all over again.

I hold her tightly. I can’t speak, but I think she understands.

She draws back, and though tears run down her face, she smiles. “But I’ll be just fine,” she says. “Me and Mā. I’ll count down the days to the snows. That’s when you’ll be back, right?”

“Yes.” I reach into my sleeve. “I have something for you.”

Her eyes go wide when I retrieve Shield. She darts a glance up at me, and the delight on her face is real. “Truly?” she gasps. “But…she’s your favorite!”

Of the eight crescent blades my father gifted me, Shield was the first he taught me to use, because it can serve as both a blade and, with just a spark of spirit energy, a shield.

“She is,” I say, and press Shield into my sister’s palm. “Protect her well. I’d better not see a single scratch on her when I come back for her next season.”

Méi’zi beams at me. “I’ll keep her safe, don’t worry.”

“I’ll find a way to write,” I promise. Then I swallow. “Méi’zi, if I don’t return…”

Méi’zi’s hand flies to cover my mouth. “Don’t say that, jiě’jie. It’s bad luck.”

Gently, I remove her hand. “If I don’t return…” I steady my voice. I have to speak the hard truths. “Go south. Or west. Anywhere but the Central Province. Promise me.”

Méi’zi’s eyes shine. “You heard Fú’yí,” she whispers. “There is an old magic guarding our land, our people. Even if you don’t, jiě’jie, I’ll believe in that magic. I’ll believe in you.”

I cup her chin with my palm. My sister might still trust in magic, but I know better than to trust anything other than my own two hands and my crescent blades.

“The first snows,” I tell her. Then I turn and march out through the pái’fāng. I leave my baby sister standing alone beneath the gate, cradling my blade like a favorite doll.

I don’t look back.