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The grounds near the Hall of Radiant Sun are a flurry of movement. The night skies are filled with streaks of light—immortal guards and warriors astride clouds, descending upon the mó on the ground. Already, sounds of swordfights and battle ring out.

We circle around to the back of the hall, where the bridge splits off to the immortals’ residences in the clouds. As we plunge through the layers, our vision becomes a blur of fog and shadows. I reach for my blades, waiting for monsters with teeth and red eyes to appear—but the dragon seems to know where she’s going.

The clouds clear. An island appears, adrift among the stars, large enough for a single courtyard house. The first thing that strikes me is the great cherry tree that spirals from its center, flowering branches reaching for the moon. A stone bridge arcs over a pond, and the curved eaves of tiled roofs appear as we circle lower. Flowing drapes ripple gently in the wind, stirred by our presence when we alight on the rosewood patio.

Hào’yáng carries Shī’yǎ into the house. I can’t help pausing at the sight of the peaceful courtyard, at the cherry tree whose flowers fractal into the sky, petals brushing against stars. Something stirs in me—a strange feeling of destiny, of foreboding, of a secret tangled between its roots that I am about to unearth.

I hurry after Hào’yáng into a room. Besides a cherrywood bed, on which he has laid his mother, and bookcases filled with tomes, the chambers are simple. A waterway trickles in from the outside, pooling into a small pond at the center. Blush lotuses drift on its surface, and I realize this must be Shī’yǎ’s house.

“Niáng’qīn.” Hào’yáng’s voice is gentle. It is the first time I have heard him address her as “Honorable Mother,” and there is something so profoundly tender to the gesture. He kneels by her bed, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other clasping the immortal’s. “Rest. I am here.”

Shī’yǎ murmurs something, and Hào’yáng turns to me. “àn’yīng,” he says, “she would like to see you.”

As I approach, my alarm grows. The immortal bears a gash across the center of her chest. From within spills a glow from a core so bright that to look at it is like attempting to look into the sun. An immortal’s core, I think, my stomach tightening. The light that bleeds from it scatters into this realm and dissolves even as I watch.

I know immortals cannot die, at least not in the mortal sense. If fatally wounded, they reincarnate without any of the memories or powers they once held. Their experiences and lives may differ, but their souls are one and the same: permanent in the endless churn of realms and time.

Shī’yǎ’s gaze is dim, but it brightens as I kneel by her side. I bow my head. “Honorable Immortal, you asked for me.”

“àn’yīng,” she murmurs, and I startle at the tender way she says my name. “Look at me.”

I obey. One look at her face from this close and I understand the stories of lovesick mortals spending their lives searching for their immortal lovers. She is more radiant than words can describe. Yet the golden glow that thrums within her skin flickers as her brows crease in pain.

She holds out a hand. Her core glows brighter, and strands of light begin to interweave on her palm, condensing into a shimmering, pearl-like object.

The immortal meets my gaze. “For your mother,” she whispers.

The world falls away as my gaze homes in on that small, sparkling speck on her palm, no larger than my pinkie nail. It pulses with spirit energy, with magic, and I know instinctively what it is.

A pill of immortality. The cure for Mā I have sought for nine years.

“Honorable Immortal.” My voice shakes. “I cannot—”

“Take it,” Shī’yǎ breathes.

“Niáng’qīn,” Hào’yáng says quietly, “what are you doing?”

Shī’yǎ turns her gaze to him. “My spirit energy has withdrawn from my blood to my core in order to heal the wound there. In my current state, only a piece of my core will be strong enough to serve as a pill of immortality.”

Hào’yáng’s brows pull together in confusion. “If you give away a part of your core, you may not reincarnate.”

“Hào’yáng, my son,” she murmurs, and his eyes soften at this. The immortal takes her sword, which has transformed back into a pink lotus flower, and holds it out to him. “You know what this is. You know what to do.”

“Niáng’qīn. I need you, for the rebellion.” Hào’yáng’s hands close around his adopted mother’s, but he does not take the lotus.

Shī’yǎ smiles faintly. “Son of my heart,” she says gently, “I have lived many lifetimes—too many to count, for one who began her life in these realms as a mortal. Mortals desire the eternal life that we immortals are blessed with, yet they never know how much we envy the one lifetime they have. Immortality is long, my son, and it is lonely and cold in these skies. We gaze upon the mortal world, aching for the warmth of a fire and food on the table, for the laughter of a family huddled together, for the burning love of a lifetime that never fades.”

My throat knots, and I recall Yù’chén’s words: Why is it in our natures to want that which we cannot have?

Shī’yǎ turns to look at me. “I have known one great love in my long life,” she murmurs, and I am suddenly frozen, a slow and impossible realization beginning to grip me. “I am fortunate to have those I care for by my side in these moments. Son of my heart, daughter of my blood, know that my love for you is greater than anything else in these realms. Treasure each other.”

Hào’yáng’s gaze snaps to me, and I see the open shock on his face. His lips part, and he says something, but I can’t hear it.

All of a sudden, the fragmented, broken pieces of my life fall into place. My father’s secrets, the writing on the handkerchief, the reason he chose me, and the reason I am alive today. How I survived that fall into the ocean during the First Trial; how my body carried me through the trauma of the Second and Third. My name, àn’yīng, the cherry blossom in the dark, and the very tree that sits in Shī’yǎ’s courtyard.

Shī’yǎ presses the gleaming pill of immortality into my hand and closes her fingers around mine. “Know that you have the love of more than one mother: the one who gave birth to you and the one who raised you.” She squeezes my hand. “You can still save her.”

I hold her fingers in my trembling ones as I search for traces of my face in hers. Mā always told me I took after my father when I was growing up, yet now I find in Shī’yǎ’s countenance the curve of my nose, the shape of my cheeks, the taper to my jaw. My face is less refined, a shadow of hers, the way pond water might wish to capture the full beauty of the stars.

“àn’yīng,” she says softly, my name like song on her lips. Her gaze turns to the cherry tree outside her window, radiant in the darkness, in the moonlight. “The cherry blossom in the dark. You were named for both your mothers, did you know?” She heaves a breath, and when she speaks again, the weight of the past twenty years seems to unspool from her. A story half-forgotten, the missing parts now pieced together. “When your father returned with you to the mortal realm, it was in the thick of winter. It began to snow heavily as he sought shelter from the endless forest.”

As she speaks, it is as though a memory plays in my mind—one Bà and Mā have told me countless times over. It was in the thick of a blizzard, and your father thought he was lost.

“The blizzard was worsening, and the temperature plummeting. Your father was afraid he would lose not only his life but that of his newborn daughter as well.”

Then he saw, in the snow, the bright blossoms.

“That was when he spotted a blossoming tree in the blinding snow. He staggered up to it and found a house. The woman who opened the door was kind. She asked no questions about him, only wrapped his newborn in swathes of beautifully embroidered blankets and fed her warm goat’s milk.” Shī’yǎ smiles faintly. “What your father thought would be a short stay…turned into a lifetime.”

The answer to my name; the mistake behind the plum tree standing before our house and my name, the cherry blossom.

My eyes heat, because I now understand the sacrifice both women have made for me. Mā, who took me and raised me and loved me as though I were her own. And my birth mother, who has quietly watched over me all these years.

“Why did he leave you?” I whisper. Why did you let me go?

Shī’yǎ’s lashes flutter. “The Heavenly Order forbade us from remaining together. Your father was given a choice: take the pill of immortality and remain in the Kingdom of Sky forever…or leave, never to return. He was the most honorable man I knew, àn’yīng, and he had come through the trials in order to share his knowledge with practitioners of the mortal realm. He chose his kingdom.” She pauses to draw a labored breath. “Your father and I did not wish you to grow up here, facing a life of ostracism and hostility, so we made the decision that you would be raised far away, in the mortal realm.” A single tear shimmers at the corner of her eye, pooling like a pearl. Slowly, it slides down her cheek. “Know that it was not for a lack of love. I loved your father and you more than I have loved anything else in this long life I have lived.”

There is so much I need to say, yet nothing comes to mind as Shī’yǎ—my birth mother—moves Hào’yáng’s hand to mine. She presses them together. The glow coming from the open wound in her chest is dimming; the sparks grow sparser.

“àn’yīng carries my title,” she whispers. “No matter how tenuous it is…she holds that right to the High Court. Hào’yáng, you understand…you must finish this.” She looks at both of us, at our joined hands. “The key to taking back the Kingdom of Rivers…is with the two of you. Together. ”

“Niáng’qīn.” Hào’yáng is so tense, I realize, his knuckles white against mine. “I will search for you across the realms. I will not stop looking for you—I will never stop.”

“Promise me,” Shī’yǎ breathes. Her core is embers and ashes now. “Promise me you’ll stay with each other.”

And because I have nothing else to give, I give my word. “I promise.”

“I promise,” Hào’yáng echoes.

Shī’yǎ closes her eyes. The last light of her core flickers and dies, and as the radiance begins to drain from her skin, she starts to fade. Hào’yáng holds very still, both of us gripping her hands until they dissolve from between our fingers.

“Niáng’qīn, wait for me,” he says, his voice breaking. “I will find you. Niáng! ”

But she is gone. On the silks of her bed, there is nothing but a faint warmth and the fragrance of lotuses, carried away by the wind. Hào’yáng’s and my hands remain clasped together, palm to palm, fingers interlaced now that Shī’yǎ’s are no longer here.

Between our hands sit the last items our mother left us. Her magic lotus, pulsing gently with enchantment and power…and, in my palm, as round as a bead, is the pill of immortality she gifted me. The one that will save Mā’s life.

Outside, from beyond the cover of clouds, come flashes of bright light and sounds of battle, dulled by the wards around Shī’yǎ’s courtyard house.

Hào’yáng and I sit very still in the now-empty chambers. And though I have the answers to the questions I have been asking my entire life, I have never felt more lost. I am daughter to an immortal and a mortal: a halfling that should not be in existence, according to the Heavenly Order.

And my birth mother, on her deathbed, has asked the impossible of me. I have agreed to the impossible: to enlist in a rebellion against one of the most powerful realms in existence, against a demon queen who was able to slay one of the Eight Immortals.

When I first began this journey, I was just a mortal girl, fighting for a way to save my mother’s life. Now…the enormity of the truth threatens to crush me.

“àn’yīng.”

I blink. Hào’yáng’s voice pulls me back, grounds me in the present. He kneels by my side, one hand still outstretched on the cooling silks. As he lifts his gaze to mine, the unguarded grief in them hits me harder than any of my own fears. He has always been the infallible warrior, the captain of the guard, the heir to our kingdom—cool and collected and unbreakable. But now…now, he looks just as lost as I am.

I wonder if this was how he felt nine years ago, when his father died and his kingdom fell. I had my family, at least; I had Méi’zi and the hope of rescuing Mā all these long years. But Hào’yáng has had only Shī’yǎ. And now she is gone, too.

He seems to gather himself in the span of a few heartbeats. The grief in his eyes vanishes, the walls go up, and his features settle into that practiced blankness I have seen him wear like a shield.

“You should take the pill home to your mother,” Hào’yáng says, and he pulls his hands back from mine. My fingers are cold where his once were. “That is why you were competing in the Immortality Trials in the first place. I know how much your family means to you. I know you committed to fighting with us to restore the Kingdom of Rivers…but now that we’ve lost Lady Shī’yǎ, things will change. It will be much, much harder. So…” He exhales. “I understand if you need to reconsider.”

He looks away. His expression is indecipherable, his stance neutral, but I have since learned to look beyond them. I observe the tightness of his shoulders, the way he clasps his hands together so that his knuckles are white. And I recognize all too well the pain he quietly hides under an armor of steel. I know the signs, because they are a mirror to my life over the past nine years, hiding my pain beneath the armor I’ve built to survive.

Promise me you’ll stay with each other.

I know the answer—I know what it has always been, since I was a child clinging to the broken piece of jade in the aftermath of Sansiran’s destruction of my realm and my family. I know where I am meant to be and what I am meant to do.

The path I was born to walk.

I pull Hào’yáng to me and wrap my arms around him, breathing in his scent, of sunlight on river water, of meadowsweet on the beach. My guardian in the jade.

“I’m here now,” I whisper to him. “Every step of the way, Hào’yáng.”

He stiffens, as if he does not know how to react to someone else’s touch. But as I hold on to him, our heartbeats whiling away the seconds, something shifts. His arms fall against my back, his cheek comes to rest on my shoulder, and he holds me, truly holds me, for the first time since we met.

I close my eyes. I am ten years old again, small and frightened and alone, left to fend for myself in this world with a voice that spoke to me through the jade. I have imagined this moment for so long. In my arms, I hold my boy in the jade.

Hào’yáng draws back. There is something unrestrained to the way he gazes at me now. His hand comes to touch my temple, just a feather’s brush, before his expression closes off and he straightens. “We need to get back to the Hall of Radiant Sun,” he says, his tone steeling as he shifts back into the warrior. The heir.

“The candidates,” I say. “I have to go help them.” I know that in the chaos, no one will be looking out for them; I know they will be as trapped as fish in a net, waiting for their deaths. Lì’líng, Tán’mù—I haven’t seen them since before the Second Trial, which was just several days ago, but it feels like an eternity. An ache blooms in my throat as I think of the memorial banquet the immortals held, of my friends finding out about the loss of Fán’xuān in that manner.

“Go,” I tell Hào’yáng. “You’re needed at the Hall of Radiant Sun, with the immortals.”

Carefully, he tucks Shī’yǎ’s lotus into the pouch at his belt and holds out his hand to me. Together, we stand. “I’m coming with you, àn’yīng,” he says. “I am not losing you again.”

I count my blades as we stride from Shī’yǎ’s chambers. I am down three already: Heart, I realize, I have left behind with Yù’chén.

I grit my teeth and force my thoughts away from the fact that he is alive, away from the moment I could have killed him yet my blade and my traitorous heart spoke otherwise. Away from the moment when he could have stopped me…but he didn’t.

Hào’yáng casts a last glance around Shī’yǎ’s chambers, now achingly empty. A look of deep sorrow passes over his face before he turns away and strides out. I, too, linger before I follow him, wondering if there were any other clues to my father’s first love that the immortal left behind in her chambers. Wondering if I’ll ever know their full story.

Meadowsweet awaits us in the courtyard beneath the flowering cherry tree in her dragon form. The legends describe dragons as taller than mountains, as long as the great rivers that wind through our lands. Meadowsweet is the size of a large horse. The way Hào’yáng treats her, as if they are partners and equals, makes me wonder how they came to find each other.

Hào’yáng glances at me as though he can read my thoughts. “Her real name is She of the Moon-Frosted Sea,” he tells me. “A mouthful, so she likes Meadowsweet.”

I slide onto the dragonhorse’s back and wrap my arms around Hào’yáng. As we soar into the clouds toward the Hall of Radiant Sun, the sounds of battle grow loud. Bright flashes of light penetrate the mist, and in the distance, I hear screams.

With a whoosh, the Sea of Clouds ends, and we are cantering above the Temple of Dawn, spiraling down toward the Candidates’ Courtyard. As we draw closer, I make out figures locked in battle: candidates against the mó army that has slipped into our courtyard looking for easy prey.

As Meadowsweet lands, the mó draw back with hisses. The candidates nearby pause to gape at the dragonhorse in awe.

Hào’yáng grabs my hand. “We can’t take all the candidates, àn’yīng.”

“We can clear a path to the mortal realm,” I reply. “A path for them to live.”

He hesitates, glancing toward the Hall of Radiant Sun. “I have to fight.”

“No, you don’t,” I tell him.

“I’m the captain—”

“There are too many mó. The Heavenly Army is either here or on their way. One warrior in their ranks won’t make a difference.” I pause. “But you are the key to saving the Kingdom of Rivers.”

He gives me a long look.

“This isn’t your fight, Hào’yáng,” I say softly. “Your path has always led back to the mortal realm.”

The echo of his adopted mother’s words seems to settle his decision. Hào’yáng cuts an assessing look at the battle around us. “The Immortals’ Steps will be blocked,” he muses. “The mó are attacking the wards at the front of the Temple of Dawn…there’s no way we’ll all get through.”

My grip tightens on my blades, and I think of a moonlit walk, an ocean in the night. If the mó are congregating at the Hall of Radiant Sun…that might just leave us a path out.

“I know a way,” I say quietly.

Hào’yáng doesn’t question me. He only nods.

“I will help,” comes a voice like bells chiming. It’s Meadowsweet, watching us with her large brown eyes. She blows a puff of steam through her nose.

“àn’yīng!” comes a cry. I turn and my heart soars. Tán’mù charges toward me; by her side is a familiar small white fox—Lì’líng.

I shout their names; we clasp hands, and for a moment, I feel as though things will be all right.

Almost.

We have always been four. Our friend’s absence is conspicuous. I realize we will never again all be together; never again have one of those golden afternoons in the pavilion by the water, watching cherry blossoms dance in the breeze.

“Fán’xuān,” I whisper, an ache deep in my chest.

In a blink, Lì’líng is back in her human form. The sorrow on her face is heartbreaking; her wide amber eyes fill with tears, which fall like raindrops. “He’s in a better place,” she whispers, moving to twine her fingers with Tán’mù’s. “His next life will be one of joy. Of freedom, of endless blue skies and clear waters.”

Tán’mù looks away sharply. “That bastard Yán’lù,” she breathes. “I’m glad he’s dead.” Her eyes narrow. “The next time I see Yù’chén, I’ll kill him myself.”

I don’t tell her that I almost did. That I had the chance and missed it.

“Help me round up the candidates,” I say instead. “We’ll follow the dragonhorse through a gate back to the mortal realm—I know a way. This is not our battle; at least, not one we can win.”

They both nod at me and run off, corralling the fighting candidates. There are only a handful left who have survived the Kingdom of Night’s attack. I turn away from the bodies littering the ground and focus on the path ahead.

“Everyone’s here, àn’yīng,” Tán’mù pants. Lì’líng has returned to her fox form; she gives a little yip of approval.

My heart tightens as I scan the group. There are about twelve of us left, a fraction of the forty-four who came here seeking shelter, safety, and a better life.

Hào’yáng nods at me. His sword gleams as he angles it and turns to the candidates. “Stick together,” he calls. “We’ll follow àn’yīng and Meadowsweet. Form a tight circle and fight any mó that try to attack.”

“Everyone here can walk on water, right?” I ask, and receive nods from the candidates. “Good. You’ll need to.”

As the candidates cluster together into formation, I ready my blades and step up next to Hào’yáng. “Stay with me,” I say.

“Lead the way,” he replies, falling into step by my side.

We break into a run. Though the battle largely takes place near the Hall of Radiant Sun, the Temple of Dawn has become overrun with mó roaming its grounds. Several charge our group; together, with Meadowsweet, we fend them off.

The Celestial Gardens are dark tonight. Branches cast shadows like claws, scratching the fabric of my clothes as we pass. I know I’m going the right way when clouds begin to seep into the grass as we near the edge of the island. The sound of running water emerges between the trees, and when we round a great willow, I see the waterfall…and the open gate.

I remember the last time I was here, with Yù’chén. How his hands wrapped around me, how he led me in a dance across a midnight sea.

How everything was a lie.

It’s deserted here; my guess was true. The demon army is closing in on the Hall of Radiant Sun, leaving the perimeters of the Temple of Dawn deserted.

The candidates gather between the willows. The rippling, iridescent wards rise into the skies ahead; before us, glowing and too bright, are the scorpion lilies that form an open archway leading to an entire other realm.

“What is that?” Hào’yáng asks quietly. The blossoms reflect a harsh red light on his face.

I swallow. “Dark magic.” My voice is barely a whisper.

He looks at me but doesn’t question me. If he knows that I have betrayed his trust with this secret, he says nothing.

“That gate opens into the ocean below, to the mortal realm,” I tell everyone. “It isn’t far from land. You’ll have to jump.”

“I will fly down first,” Meadowsweet says, her voice echoing. “I await you all below.” She splashes into the river, her serpentine body rippling. Then, almost as though she is part of the water, she slithers forward and vanishes over the edge.

“àn’yīng and I will go last,” Hào’yáng tells the waiting candidates, “to make sure everyone gets through safely. Who is first?”

“We are,” comes a crisp, sweet voice. From between the trees, Lì’líng steps forward, her hand tightly clasped in Tán’mù’s. She glances at the other girl, and her eyes light up and soften at the same time. “Together.”

Tán’mù nods. “Together. See you on the other side, àn’yīng.”

“May the winds be with you,” I reply.

My heart is in my throat as I watch my friends wade to the edge of the waterfall. In the darkness, I imagine a third person by their side, his shock of white hair shifting into the feathers of a white heron or the scales of a carp. I think of his easy grin, how his green eyes never lost their light, even given his past. Perhaps it is those who have experienced darkness who can shine brightest.

Still holding hands, Lì’líng and Tán’mù cast one more glance back at me. An errant wind stirs their hair, Lì’líng’s white dress, and Tán’mù’s black robes.

Then they turn, leap—and vanish.

The rest of the candidates go, in pairs or threes, and soon, only Hào’yáng and I remain. He looks at me, then back at the embattled temple. There is a glint of grief at the edge of his lips that only the moonlight can draw out. He moves and it’s gone, and he’s sheathing his sword and turning to me.

Hào’yáng holds out his hands to me. “Together,” he says softly.

I reach for him. Our fingers interlock, and as he pulls me toward him, I think of my jade pendant, of how my path has always led to him.

“Together,” I echo.

We step to the edge of the waterfall—and that is when I sense the presence behind us.

I turn.

From beneath the shadows of a blossoming cherry tree, a familiar figure steps out. I’d have recognized his red cloak and his wild spill of hair anywhere.

Yù’chén’s sword glimmers in his hand. The gash in his shift I made with my blade is still there, and I catch a sliver of his pale stomach underneath—healed. He does not move to hurt me or to stop me. He only stands, watching me with the unnatural stillness of a mó.

Steel rings out in the night as Hào’yáng draws his sword. The motion jars me into action; I flick my crescent blades into my hands. This time, I will not miss.

Even from here, I can make out the red in Yù’chén’s eyes and how, in the darkness, they suddenly ripple with an emotion I cannot decipher. His knuckles whiten against the hilt of his sword.

“Go,” he says quietly to me. “Go with him.”

For some reason, I can’t bring myself to move.

“Go!” Yù’chén’s voice cracks. “Go, before I change my mind!”

With a fluid stroke, Hào’yáng sheathes his sword and takes my arm, tipping us off the edge. The last I see of Yù’chén is his face split by shadows and moonlight, the black veins pulsing beneath his skin, and the crimson of his eyes, on me.

Hào’yáng and I fall through the night.

Back into the mortal realm.