I stared at him, anger searing my veins. He knew nothing of Liwei and me. More than our doomed love, Liwei was my friend—my only friend when I had none and those roots went far deeper than my disappointment and hurt. His kindness to me was a debt I owed him, one I would repay.
“How can you say that to me?” I seethed. “I’m no lovesick puppet, begging for a morsel of affection. I have my own dreams, my own principles, my own honor to uphold.” In no mood to explain myself further, I scrambled to my feet to leave.
“Wait, Xingyin—”
His tone was cracked by a note of despair. I halted but did not turn.
He spoke so quietly that I strained to hear. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. I was disappointed and . . . jealous.” He exhaled deeply. “I thought we had come to an understanding yesterday. Was I wrong? Did you not grasp my meaning then? My hopes for our future?”
My heart softened, despite the anger which simmered in me still. All Wenzhi had seen was my despair over Liwei’s engagement, and it was little wonder that he was resentful now. A hard confession for him to make, though it did not give him the right to speak to me so.
I swung around, holding his gaze. “Wenzhi, you must trust in my judgment as I do in yours. Do not try to insult or guilt me into doing what you think I should do. How will we have a future together if you do not see me as your equal?”
“You are my equal. More than my equal.” Wenzhi pushed himself to his feet, clasping my hand in his strong grip. “I just don’t want you to be hurt.”
The wind grew stronger, blowing my hair across my cheek. As I shivered, Wenzhi slid off his outer coat, draping it over my shoulders as his arm pulled me close. “Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe. That you won’t do anything . . . too reckless,” he whispered into my ear.
An urge to laugh rippled through me, dispersing my ire. He knew me well, to say such a thing. And I knew him well enough to sense how he restrained himself from saying more.
The fresh scent of pine needles wafted in the air, kindling a light in my heart which banished the lingering shadows. My feelings for Wenzhi were strong, though different from mine with Liwei before. Perhaps the blazing, all-consuming passion I had known with Liwei was the headiness of a first love, suffused with the foolish innocence that nothing could tear us apart. For those that came after, one tread a little slower, a little warier—after hearts had been bruised and promises broken. And perhaps, the growing warmth of my feelings for Wenzhi was what all love evolved to.
I rested my head against his shoulder, the last of my tension easing away. “I promise. And when I return, we’ll leave this place together.”
We stood there in silence, his arm tightening around me the only sign he had heard my answer. For the first time today, I was at peace. An urge gripped me to spill my secrets to him, but not tonight, not here. In the Celestial Kingdom my guard was always up. One day when we were far from this place, I would tell him of my mother.
How dark the night that stretched before us, yet ablaze with the light of the moon and stars, it felt as bright as day.
24
The Eternal Spring Forest had been the most beautiful place in the Immortal Realm. It was said the Celestial Emperor himself had planted this forest in his youth, with branches cut from the first tree of the world, sprinkled with the dew from an enchanted lotus. Beneath the graceful canopy of towering trees were crystal-clear ponds and silvery rivers, gleaming with fish. Those who wandered to the heart of the forest spoke, enthralled, of trees in eternal bloom, their branches laden with flowers in all colors. Ripe fruits, sweeter than nectar, grew as abundantly as the wildflowers amid the soft grass. The idyllic perfection of the forest had attracted birds, beasts, and immortals. Even the powerful Lady Hualing, the first Flower Immortal, had been enchanted by this place, leaving the Celestial Kingdom to make her home here—peonies, camellias, and azaleas blossoming in her wake.
But this paradise did not last. After Lady Hualing had been stripped of her position, no longer did she raise her hand to plant the flowers, no longer did she revive the faded blooms. And after she had disappeared—the lush canopies browned, the shimmering ponds dried into pools of sinking mud, and the trees withered, never to bloom again.
I stepped off my cloud, struck by the deep silence of this place. Not a chirp from a single bird, not even the flutter of a dragonfly’s wings. A white fog shrouded the forest, glazed with an unwelcome chill. The trees stood tall and straight, their shriveled leaves clinging to the branches in eternal death. Scattered around were murky pools which we steered clear of, to avoid being sucked into their bottomless depths. The stagnant air reeked of decay, a sad mockery of the promise in the forest’s name. As we walked deeper through shadow and mist, my skin crawled as my fingers tightened around the Phoenix Fire Bow. If only I could have brought the Jade Dragon Bow along, as Sky-fire was more powerful than flame. But I was unsure if I could wield it, having never released its arrow before. And I feared, too, using the bow in front of Celestial soldiers who might claim it on the emperor’s behalf.