Past—

Morning dawned with the sticky feeling of humidity across his skin and the faint scent of cherry blossoms on the breeze. It was spring in the Pondlightian Empire, Qian Meng's least favorite season. He had a pollen allergy, and every time the blasted stuff landed on his healing back and got sucked into his lungs, he cringed.

The prince pushed off his hands to sit up, squinting into the darkness. While he could hear the merry chirping of magpies just outside the door, the room was pitch black. No windows. No furniture. Only the packed dirt floor and a massive wooden door that locked from the outside. Just as he was about to crawl to his feet and try said lock, a fist pounded across the wood, rattling it.

"Get up, cretin! Your father plans on entertaining an audience this evening. Your presence is required."

The voice was gruff and unforgiving, letting Qian Meng know it was his father's High General, Pan Feng—the man responsible for his 'care' when Qian Meng's father grew bored with him. Thankfully, such an occurrence didn't arise often, but yesterday was one of those days. Thus, his body was in a sorrier state than usual. He could barely move from the floor, let alone stand as the door was flung open, light flooding the space.

Qian Meng hissed, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. "I'm awake," he croaked.

The general toed the boy with his boot, clicking his tongue. "You're filthy. It will take an hour, at the very least, for the palace maids to scrub you."

Yeah, and whose fault is that? Qian Meng thought, not daring to utter the words aloud. He'd learned early in his childhood that doing or saying things without permission warranted harsh punishments the prince preferred to avoid.

"Get up. There's a basin drawn up in the barracks and two women waiting for you. No dawdling."

Without another word, the general left in a swirl of ivory and gold, stomping away while muttering under his breath. For a moment, the boy only watched the man leave, a twisted expression on his face. Despite being no more than eighteen, Qian Meng often thought of killing him. Of peeling Pan Feng's flesh from his bones as he screamed in agony and wept for his mother. Such thoughts kept him alive, kept the fire of vengeance burning low in his stomach. But he was forced to bide his time. As it was now, he stood no chance against all those who'd wronged him. Shoving the notion away, Qian Meng stood, near crawling up and out the door to stagger across the courtyard.

"Ah," he groaned, shivering with pain.

Steel against steel rang out around him, as did the boisterous laughter of men. Despite the cherry trees swaying just beneath the clay-tiled roof, it smelled heavily of iron and hot oil. This was the barracks, the section of the castle their royal guard used to train, sleep, and drink their nights away. They'd earned it, though, as the men around him were fifty of Pondlightian's greatest war heroes.

Their skill with a blade was unmatched if one didn't count the cultivators high up in the mountains. His eyes followed their movements with sparkling intensity. Nothing had ever been more exciting to him than learning from the best soldiers his country offered.

Yet, they trained without pause as he hobbled past, blood dripping down the length of his bare back. Seeing him in such a state was nothing new, and those who once tried to help him ended up in a similar position, so the good men of the royal guard no longer glanced his way. Even the kinder ones who offered salves and tonics when no one was looking kept their eyes averted. Qian Meng didn't hold it against them. Life was about survival, after all. The weak fall prey to the strong, and those who held compassion were no more than cannon fodder.

"In here, my prince," a soft, feminine voice called.

He tore his dark gaze from the dazzling sight of glinting steel to find Miss Mao smiling at him. Her dark hair caught in the wind, whipping to the left and shrouding her emerald eyes. She reached up to push it aside, thin brows furrowing. This was a woman he knew well. She'd been his mother's handmaiden before her death and had remained in the castle to care for the queen's sons long after.

He dipped his chin to her and scrambled past, feet tripping over each other in their attempt to keep him upright. The door closed softly behind them, sealing them into a sweet-smelling, steamy room. Without having to look, he knew there was a wooden basin in the center and a cheap folding screen on the far left.

Another woman, this one much younger than Miss Mao, stood beside the tub holding a familiar box carved with cranes taking flight from a katsura tree. It was once his mother's jewelry box, but now it was filled with gauze and ointment. He tried not to let the obvious innuendo of it bruise his pride too much.

"Please strip, my prince," Mao Lin murmured, jade eyes blazing as she took in his emaciated appearance.

With such an expression, she was so similar to her mother standing behind him it amazed him. Slowly, he did as he was told, kicking aside the soiled trousers and stepping into the hot water. For a moment, Qian Meng hesitated to lower his body beneath the surface. It was sure to sting against his weeping back and stain the bath a ruddy crimson. And even the thought of experiencing more pain than he was already in sent him into a dizzy spell. Miss Mao steadied him before gently pushing against his shoulders, urging him to sit.

"Do not worry, my prince. The bath is laced with a healing tonic I purchased from the city square early this morning. It will not hurt you."

"Yes, my prince," Mao Lin agreed. "We will wrap your wounds in as much of the numbing agent as possible without it seeping through your court clothes."

Qian Meng's chest felt tight upon hearing the words. Out of everyone in his life, these two women were the only people who had ever given a damn about him. He felt unworthy given that Miss Mao was once his mother's greatest friend, and he'd. . . He'd killed her. Tore her asunder as he wailed his first breath and left her to take her last.

"Thank you," he replied, voice low.

The next fifteen minutes were spent in silence. Miss Mao scrubbed his body while her daughter carefully cleaned the wounds left by Pan Feng's discipline whip. It was silver-studded, so each blow ripped the skin and left seeping flesh behind. He was sure his back looked like minced meat, but Qian Meng couldn't bring himself to care all that much. He'd been drugged, beaten, and whipped more times in his life than he could count. It was as normal to him as taking a meal or laying down to sleep.

"How many lashes this time?" Mao Lin whispered.

"Hush," her mother chided. "It's improper to ask such questions."

Qian Meng lifted his ebony gaze to look at Miss Mao. He wasn't one to shy away from his trauma, nor did it bother him to speak of it. And Mao Lin always asked, just as her mother always chided and he always answered.

"Eleven," he muttered. "It was set for ten, but the general got a little carried away."

Mao Lin made a noise of distress. "He's so cruel! How does our king sleep at night knowing such a man commands his armies?"

"Very well, I'd assume," Miss Mao snorted.

Qian Meng chuckled, then winced. "Correct. It is a blessing for him to have such a terrible man wreaking havoc on his enemies. No one wants a soft-hearted general. They'd get nothing done."

"Up, up!" Miss Mao urged, splashing him a little. "You're too young to think about such things. Same for you, Lin Lin."

The two exchanged a glance but said nothing more. As children who grew up in the palace, there was no way for them to be shielded from the evils of reality. Qian Meng rose from the bath, admittedly feeling refreshed. Whatever tonic Miss Mao bought for him must have been expensive, and he told himself to steal a few pieces of silver from his father to pay her back later this evening. His fingers were quick and the king wouldn't miss the money.

They dried him off before sitting him down on the far side of the folding screen, getting to work on salving his wounds. Qian Meng faced the open window, where a plum tree limb in full bloom attempted to sway its way inside. The sweet smell of it turned his stomach, as all nice things did these days. As if, deep down in his consciousness, he believed how unworthy of his station his father claimed him to be.

"Ah!" Miss Mao exclaimed. "I forgot your hair ornament. Forgive me, I will retrieve it right away."

She bustled out of the room without another word, leaving the two teens behind. It wasn't uncomfortable, as Qian Meng had known the girl all her life. They grew up splashing in the same bathtub. And she'd never been shy with him. Speaking her mind when she deemed it fitting and smacking him when he was up to no good.

Mao Lin wrapped his chest in layers of soft gauze, even looping it over both shoulders to ensure it remained secure throughout the stuffy meeting he was forced to attend.

"There we go," she murmured, tying off a knot. "Now, your robes."

He stood, turning to grab the heavy fabric off the hanger before she could do it for him. "No need to worry, Lin Lin. I can do it myself."

The girl blushed and backed away with a dip of her chin, granting him privacy. It took him twice as long to don them alone, but he didn't mind. Moving his body slowly so as not to disturb her healing work. When he stepped out from behind the screen, he looked the part of the prince.

Ivory robes pristine and of the highest quality, with a belt of silver and gold around his waist. Mao Lin, still flushing, came over to cover him in jewelry. Layers of golden necklaces, rings on every finger, and glittering cuffs on his ears. If he'd let her, Qian Meng was sure she'd line his eyes with kohl.

All that was left was his hair. They'd kept it from the water, choosing instead to use a cleaning talisman on it to keep it dry. Mao Lin combed it out with long, methodical strokes that Qian Meng very much enjoyed. It was one of the few things he looked forward to when called to act as a dutiful son beside his bastard father and resentful twin brother. Without thinking, he hummed to himself, swaying into each pull of the brush.

"It's nice to see you at ease, my prince."

Qian Meng didn't stiffen or open his eyes. Not yet. He needed a few more minutes of this bliss. "Mn."

"I don't know how you do it. . . How you live from one day to the next, knowing what awaits you," she whispered.

The silence stretched between them for an incense time before he could even think of an answer. In truth, Qian Meng didn't know how he did it, either. All he knew was he continued to wake up and fall asleep and then wake again. There was no method to this horrid life he led, only the monotony of time. Counting each second into the next until the pain passed.

"You need not know, Lin Lin. All I wish is for you to be healthy and happy. Do not concern yourself with my misery."

She sniffed. "How can I not? You're my brother, Meng'er!"

For the second time today, his heart warmed. "Then promise me something else instead."

Mao Lin was crying now. He could hear it, but she didn't give him the chance to look at her. Only continued to comb out his hair.

"Anything for you," she replied through quiet sobs.

Qian Meng steadied his fingers—shoving the useless tears clogging the back of his throat down into the recesses of his stomach to be eaten by the darkness writhing there.

"Promise me that despite your worry, you will never put yourself on the line for me."

She gasped, hands stilling. "W-what? How could I promise something like that?"

His brows furrowed. "Promise me."

The words left his mouth like the whip-cracking across his skin. Mao Lin could not argue against them, didn't dare.

"I promise."

⚔

The reception hall was as immaculate as always. Vaulted ceilings draped with fine, fluttering golden chiffon. Several low mahogany tables lined the space with enough seating to comfortably fit over thirty men. Between the two rows was a stretch of fine, white marble leading to the high table carved in the shape of a roaring dragon. Anyone unfamiliar with the Pondlightian Empire's abundant wealth would gape at its beauty of it. His father had it commissioned as a marital gift to his wife years ago using a fine imperial jade.

It was surrounded by velvet pillows his father and brother were seated upon, heads bent together as they whispered. Qian Meng didn't falter when he spotted them, only strode forward with the same lazy arrogance he knew the king hated. His steps echoed in the wide space, catching their attention.

With every movement the king made, the wealth of his person clinked and swayed. The beaded headdress trapping his raven hair was a carved, solid gold that caught the light of the dripping, crystal chandeliers. His lithe fingers were clad with rings just as Qian Meng's were, and while he'd refused kohl, his father had not. It heightened the frigid air he carried with him at all times.

High brows, a severe expression, and full lips. He knew no one looked at a man as beautifully cruel as Qian Wei and thought him unworthy of his station. Qian Meng touched his own mouth, recalling all the times he'd been told how lucky he was to be as handsome as his father. Perhaps that was why the man hated him so much. While his twin inherited the gentle good looks of their mother, he was a carbon copy of the king. As if hearing his son's poisoned thoughts, Qian Wei's obsidian gaze grew cold as it narrowed.

"Come in and take a seat. You are late."

Qian Meng did as he was told, sitting beside his brother and doing his best to pretend he didn't feel the sharp glare carving holes into the side of his head. They'd never gotten along, not even as babes. Miss Mao once told him Qian Zihao would bite him despite having no teeth, tug at his ears, and slap his face before he even learned to speak. As if the two were destined to be opposites from the start.

"I detest seeing you wear one of my robes," Qian Zihao snapped at him.

Qian Meng looked down at the heavy outfit, holding in his sigh of exasperation. It was true he did not own a single scrap of ornate clothing, but that had never mattered to him. Most days, he wore a simple black tunic Miss Mao had sewn for him years prior.

"Yes, I'm aware," he replied dryly.

"Don't speak back to me without permission!"

His brother's voice rose with every word until it was a screech in his ears. Qian Meng barely reacted, only chanced a glance at the boy beside him. If one didn't know they were twins, it'd be hard to guess. Among those in the castle, they were often compared to darkness and light. Good and evil. While he had skin tanned by hours spent in the sun of the barracks courtyard, his brother rarely stepped outside. Such fair skin paired perfectly with Qian Zihao's blond hair and crystal gaze. While his features were prominently eastern, he had their mother's air of elegance from the Neolani Temple to the North.

No one looking at him knew just how ugly his soul was underneath.

"Calm yourself, da-er-tze," their father scolded. "Our guests will arrive shortly."

Qian Meng was curious to know who would come to visit their empire. Few souls dared travel so far into Pondlightian; the nation filled with the most dangerous of Demonic Beasts and ghosts of the damned. It was suicide for people untrained in martial arts or cultivation. And the meeting of the kings took place three months ago, only happening once per rotation.

That was one of the few times Qian Meng was called into the reception hall. If a distant family member or cultivator from Achak came to visit, they did not even bother. So whoever it was must be incredibly important. Not long after the king spoke, a servant entered the hall with a deep bow, announcing the visitors.

"Your Grace, the grand master of Zephyr Temple and his sons have arrived," the man demurred with a sweep of his hand.

Without waiting for permission, a towering, elegant man strode forward. Sweeping back his golden robes with a flick of his wrist. Qian Meng's eyes widened. It'd been a long time since he'd even seen a famous cultivator, let alone met one.

Five years prior, the head of the Achak Temple came to visit his father regarding a series of attacks on the capital city of Pondlightian, but that was the closest he'd ever gotten to the legendary warriors of time and magic. His eyes drank him in. From the aurous robes sewn with scrawling talisman warding off evil to his stunning, ethereal beauty. His ebony hair fell well past his waist, only held back from his eyes by a single, worn ribbon. Yet, what truly drew attention were the crimson irises that the two younger men behind him had as well.

"High King, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," the man said with a dip of his chin.

Qian Meng almost gasped at the lack of a bow. Although, his father didn't seem to mind it.

"Truly. To what do I owe such a pleasure? You're a long way from home, grandmaster Lei."

Rather than sit at the low tables where someone below the king belonged, the grandmaster strode up the dais stairs and fluidly lowered himself to a velvet cushion right beside Qian Wei. The two young cultivators with him did the same, moving to sit beside Qian Meng in silence. And, in that moment where the shock was so very plain on his father's face, Qian Meng decided he loved grandmaster Lei. No one had ever been so bold.

"Apologies for the quick nature of our letters and visit, but this matter is of great importance. My sons and I are in search of a demonic beast that has eluded capture for months."

Qian Wei's brows twitched. He'd always hated having to deal with cultivators. While he didn't dare say so aloud, everyone knew the king thought it too obvious that they held more power than him. How was one supposed to be the high ruler of an empire if he could not prove himself stronger than any adversary? Qian Meng was sure it kept his father awake at night, and he quite liked the thought.

"Why not reach out to the great cultivators of the Achak Temple for assistance, then?" The king asked carefully, pouring everyone a round of steaming tea.

Grandmaster Lei's eyes tightened. "There is no time for delay. The beast has maimed and killed many innocent lives, including that of my fellow cultivators. And—please excuse my bluntness—the Achak Temple has never been known for brisk cooperation."

Oh, snap!

Qian Meng sat up straighter, immediately regretting it when his back spasmed with pain. He winced but remained stoically upright despite a sheen of sweat coating his palms. No matter the tonic of the bath or the healing salve Mao Lin, his injuries were too severe to ignore. The prince shifted from side to side, trying to get comfortable, to no avail. His father's conversation with grandmaster Lei, which had been so interesting just moments before, faded into the background.

"Are you alright?"

Qian Meng startled, his dark gaze sliding to meet the man's crimson one. For a moment, the prince was struck speechless. This man was a younger, more delicate version of his father. Stunning features, clear alabaster skin, and a quirk to his mouth that shimmered with warmth. As if every word that escaped those lips was said with unwavering truth. His mouth went dry, and he forced himself to pick up the jade cup of tea with unsteady fingers.

"I am fine, thank you for asking," Qian Meng replied.

The cultivator raised his brows as if he didn't believe him, but didn't push it. "May I ask what your name is?"

He felt his brother subtly kick him beneath the table, alerting Qian Meng that he shouldn't get too chummy with the visiting cultivators. Normally, he took such a warning at face value and didn't dare continue the conversation, but this time. . . He found it near impossible to stop himself.

"Qian Meng," he blurted. "And you?"

The cultivator's smile widened. "Lei Hua. It's nice to make your acquaintance."

Qian Meng opened his mouth to say something else, not even knowing what, when—

"Do not speak while the elders are talking," the man beside Lei Hua murmured without looking at them.

With the single sentence, the younger cultivator fell silent, properly chastised. Qian Meng followed their example, pulling back his shoulders and refocusing on the conversation at hand.

"The palace of Pondlightian is honored to provide you with accommodations for the duration of your hunt. I will have my servants prepare rooms at once," his father said, snapping at a woman standing idly at the bottom of the dais.

She bowed and left at once to do his bidding. Grandmaster Lei's eyes followed the woman out, unreadable save for the remaining tightness there. It seemed Grandmaster Lei didn't like his father very much. The urge to blurt that he agreed rose in his chest like a tidal wave, but of course, Qian Meng held his tongue.

"Thank you, High King. Your generosity is much appreciated," the grandmaster replied. "We will not take up any more of your precious time."

Without another word, the cultivator and his sons rose in sync to leave the reception hall, gliding down the dais in silence. The king scrambled to stand and see them out, followed by his eldest son. Qian Meng was far slower. He couldn't get his body to move any quicker if he begged for it. And by the time he got down the stairs to move stiffly toward the grand double doors, the group was already parting ways with polite dips of their chins.

Yet, the prince felt a set of eyes on him.

He looked past grandmaster Lei to his sons. It was Lei Hua who stood there, gaze unwavering. The warm smile he sported earlier was gone, replaced by a frown so stark it shocked him. The expression didn't suit the cordial man, so Qian Meng shot him a soft smile.

Lei Hua didn't return it.

Instead, his attention shifted back to the king, crimson eyes blazing with a fire that could destroy empires.