Past—

He couldn't fight his father's personal guards as they drug him into the main hall, locking the doors behind them. Nor could he do anything other than flinch when they threw him down to splay across the marble, his knees cracking against it. His dantian strained weakly, trying to flare but failing each time. There was simply nothing left to aid him.

"Do you court pain, my son? Is that it?" The king snapped from above him, landing a bruising kick to the prince's ribs.

He coughed, refusing to curl in on himself even when his body begged for it. "No."

Qian Wei stooped, gripping Qian Meng by his oily, mud-filled hair and yanking his head back. "Then why did you disobey me again?"

The words were a feral hiss, dragging along his skin as if prodding for a way inside. He glared back at his father, refusing to let it control him. He would soon be free of this. Whatever came next was something he could endure.

Qian Wei searched his son's face, a look of disdain coating his features, lips pulling back from his teeth. He was the kind of man who did not look happy even when he was. Stoicism had become his shield, and anger his weapon. He threw the prince away, tossing him back into the marble and turning on his heel to the rest of the room.

"String him up and gag his mouth," the king ordered.

The captain of the guard and his subordinate, men who have known the prince all his life, did as they were told. Neither could look him in the eye as they locked manacles around his wrists, leaving Qian Meng to hang limply between them. He let his body sag, unwilling to strain his already tired muscles any further.

"Get the servants."

Another set of guards scrambled to follow Qian Wei's order, leaving the room. The prince watched them go, brows pulled together in confusion. Servants? That could mean anyone. Was his father so tired of whipping him that he wanted some other sorry sap to take over? Qian Meng sent up a silent prayer for whoever was forced to hold the discipline whip even when it grew slick with his blood.

His father stepped forward again, this time flanked by the crown prince who wore a serpentine smile. Qian Meng knew Zihao was pleased with himself. Happy to have lurked out by the barracks if only to catch his twin in the act of defiance. The prince had never wanted to hit the man more than he did right now. His anger was a soft flame, flickering in his stomach and growing larger with every moment that passed. But the best he could do was glare with every fiber of his being.

"What did you expect, hm?" Qian Zihao asked, the two walking in a tight circle around him. "More scars? Poison, perhaps, as we did when you were a child?"

You were also a child, Qian Meng wanted to spit—was about to spit—when the king's ring clad forefinger ran along the sweaty nape of his neck, forcing a shudder. He never wanted his father to touch him again. Ached to make such a wish his reality.

"Oh, no," the king murmured, leaning in so close Qian Meng was forced to look into those dark eyes that so mirrored his own. "It seems you've become stubborn as of late, but I do not blame you. It's a normal human response when one has something to fight for."

Qian Meng huffed into the rag between his teeth, wild eyes flashing with fury. If the man planned to hurt Lei Hua, to drag him in here to watch his torture. . . The prince's blood went cold, sludging in his veins to be followed by dull fear. It seemed to delight the king as he straightened, eyes brightening when the hall doors swung open again, voices filtering inside. Qian Wei moved aside with a flourish, giving the prince a view of the horror before him.

"What is the meaning of this?" Miss Mao screeched. "This is improper! Unhand my daughter, you brute!"

The brute in question held Mao Lin tightly, straining her arm behind her back in a painful grip. And when she whined, a soft, keening noise, Qian Meng wrenched forward. Straining against the bonds and screaming into the rag. It was so muffled, so very quiet, yet Mao Lin noticed. Teary eyes snapped to him, a sob escaping her lips.

"Oh, Meng'er," she wailed, shoulders bowing.

His heart broke, his entire body vibrating with barely restrained terror. Were they to watch him suffer, then? This was not worse, but it was not better, either. He yanked at the cuffs again, not flinching in the least when they cut into the skin of his wrists. Nothing happened, of course. No one but a God was strong enough to break through solid iron.

Miss Mao fought like a wildcat, face flushed with fury as she shoved the guard's touch away, whirling toward the dais. The king, who now sat lazily upon his throne with the crown prince at his side, only looked back at her with a mild expression. Her lip curled back from her teeth, eyes darting between Qian Meng and her daughter.

"If this humble servant may ask again, your majesty, what is the meaning of this?"

Qian Wei sat forward, bracing his forearms atop his knees. "He was disobedient, Meimei. You know what must be done when children refuse to listen."

Her face hardened. "And why am I here for such a punishment? I do not wish to see my charge beaten and bruised. Cleaning up your mess is enough."

The king laughed, rubbing one hand across his mouth. "I've always liked you. You reminded me of my wife so much, but that isn't enough anymore. Not when his pain isn't enough, either."

Qian Meng went still as his father stood up, slowly unsheathing his sword. The high whine of metal on metal was terrible, ringing through his head like the bleat of an alarm. No, he thought, nausea roiling through him. No. No. His body strained toward hers, ached to protect her. Miss Mao didn't look at him, only stood tall with her nose up. Wearing her enmity like a badge of honor. The king stopped two stairs above her, palming his sword.

Mao Lin blubbered in the background, high and desperate. She pleaded for her mother's life, for Qian Meng's life, for clemency and the prince wished he could tell her it was of no use. His father didn't know what being merciful meant. But all he could do was scream into the rag, sizzling tears stinging his cheeks.

"Please," Mao Lin begged. "Please."

Her voice echoed against the wood beams arching overhead, drowning out all rational thought from Qian Meng's skull. The sword came up, hovering beside the neck of the only woman he'd ever loved and catching the light of the lanterns.

"Mmph! Mm, mmm, mmph!"

His father glanced at him, a cruel tilt to his lips. "See? This new method is already working."

Miss Mao shuddered, closing her eyes. "I have never met a man so abhorrent as you. If my dear friend were here, she would have hated you beyond reason for hurting her son."

Shink!

From one moment to the next, Miss Mao's head rolled from her shoulders.

No.

The prince watched it fall in slow motion, ears ringing.

No.

His vision blurred, contorting as he felt hot blood spray across his cheeks. Across his chest.

No.

Qian Meng stared at the body. At the head that had stopped near his feet, eyes closed and a look of peace on her face. He hyperventilated, yanking unceasingly at the bindings.

"Bring her daughter forth."

The girl didn't fight it, hanging soundlessly between the two men dragging her toward the dais. Mao Lin slammed to her knees beside her mother's corpse, bent forward with her forehead to the floor by force. The prince yelled again, coughing and choking on the rag. His wrists were bleeding, rivers of blood running down the once perfect silver vambraces. He sobbed into the rag. Begged. Offered himself instead.

No one listened.

His sister turned to look at him as the blade lifted into the air once again. She wasn't smiling, nor did she seem to blame him. If anything, her face was full of bitter acceptance as her eyes shuttered just in time for the blade to strike. He screamed himself hoarse, digging his nails into his palms so hard that more blood was spilled. Her head dropped to sit at his feet with a dull thud, and Qian Meng couldn't breathe.

He bucked against the chains, eyes bloodshot and tearing into his father. If he had magic, he'd. . . Destroy his body and soul so he would never again resurrect. He'd rip him limb from limb, he'd skin him alive, he'd—Qian Meng's lungs seized in his chest, and he coughed, tears spilling down his cheeks. The king sighed, crouching down to wipe his blade off on Mao Lin's skirts as if they meant nothing. As if he hadn't just Overturned the Rivers and Seas. He wasn't human. He couldn't be, Qian Meng thought dizzily, vision tunneling.

Only demons were so cruel.

"I must go entertain my guests for their celebratory banquet," the king announced, rising to his feet.

The guards nodded, one of them eyeing Qian Meng where he hung bleeding and gasping. "What shall we do with him?"

The king waved the question away. "Let him hang there for a moment."

Without another word, his father strode out through a side corridor with a flick of his robes. Qian Meng slumped once more, dropping his head to his chest and closing his eyes. He didn't want to see their bodies again, didn't want to smell the metallic tang of spilled blood. He gagged each time he inhaled, stomach roiling. His lips trembled around the cloth, and he couldn't stop the steady stream of tears rolling down his cheeks.

Reality sunk in through the silence, trapping him in indescribable darkness. Misery cloaked his lungs as if it held the power of stopping them altogether. The prince thought death would be a mercy, for living had so very rarely given him peace.

"Oh, Meng'er," Zihao whispered, picking up his chin. He barely opened his swollen eyes to narrow slits. His brother laughed, raising a brow. "What? Isn't that what your friend calls you?"

Qian Meng remained silent. There was nothing his twin could goad him with. Not anymore. Lei Hua was untouchable, and the two people in his life he'd be worried about were now—He shuddered, a sob escaping him when his gaze dropped unwittingly to the bodies at their feet. To the buckets and buckets of blood on the floor. So much of it that Zihao's boots squelched with every movement, leaving gory footprints in his wake.

"This is a new low, even for you," the crown prince continued, jerking his face from side to side as if admiring the tears. "Perhaps now I can crawl out of your shadow."

At that, Qian Meng couldn't help it, he laughed. A short, satirical sound muffled by the cloth. Crawl out of his shadow? Such nonsense was so far-fetched he couldn't even begin to decipher it. There hadn't been a time in his life where he stood in the limelight. While his brother was showered with jewels, luxurious clothing, and taught by the best tutors Pondlightian had to offer, he was kicked to the shed. The only equal training they received was by sword and bow, but even that was years ago. He was only well learned through his own diligence.

Zihao's upper lip twitched, aching to transform his beautiful expression into something terrible as he ripped the cloth from Qian Meng's mouth. The prince gasped for air, grateful for the opportunity to catch his breath as he lifted his head, locking their gazes. His twin twitched as if it were a struggle for him to look his brother in the eye, yet they stared at one another for an incense time in pure silence.

Light vs. dark.

Good vs. evil.

Morality vs. corruption.

And while the prince knew with aching clarity that nothing in life was ever so black and white, this situation argued against it. Because what was the point of killing innocent people? In stringing him up and making him watch as a punishment for nothing more than going on a hunt? It made no sense, and Qian Meng was at a total loss for what to say. Rational thought was gone, from everyone in this castle, it seemed.

"What was that laugh for?" Zihao snapped.

"Nothing."

A slap jerked his face to the left, but the sting didn't even register. "What was it for?"

Qian Meng sighed, letting his body weight fall forward, the chains clinking with the movement. "I don't have the energy to argue with you. Go away, Zihao. Just go away."

His mind was as numb as his body and just as tired. If he could pass the hours, he knew his father would leave him to hang here by sleeping, it'd be for the best. Perhaps then he could wake and find this entire experience was nothing more than a nightmare. Yet he could hear his twin pacing in front of him, refusing to leave for the sake of it, most likely.

"What? Do you think I'm lying? Do you think father has spent a single hour, minute, or second thinking about anyone other than you and mother? He might hate the sight of you, but he truly cannot look at me," his brother said, voice softer than he'd heard it be in a great, long while. Qian Meng opened his eyes, staring into the blood dripping at his feet, listening. "I look like her, and you look like him. It's a fact, and one he could never reconcile. I may be the favored son, but, but—"

Zihao cut himself off, voice strangled as if he were on the verge of tears. The prince didn't look up, didn't even acknowledge the dull pain threaded through his brother's words. They went in one ear and out the other, completely meaningless. Because if he was looking for compassion, for comfort, Qian Zihao would not find it here with him. That bridge had been burned long ago. He continued speaking, though. Words pouring out like water shattering a dam.

"He stands apart from me," Zihao sobbed. "Her memory is hanging over this place like a death sentence. This is no life, no family. And I was swept up in it, in the rage he created by refusing to move on."

With each bruising sentence, his brother struck out. Slapping him across the face. Kicking the back of his knee so his body would buckle, wrenching against the chains. Ripping at his hair, tearing his skin with long nails. None of it registered.

"And if he could love you, he would have. He would have kept you close and trained you to become the crown prince. You were everything he ever wanted in a son, and yet, mother was gone because of you."

Qian Meng flinched, arms jerking. "I did not kill mother, childbirth did."

Zihao didn't hear him or didn't care. "You're perfect without even trying," he spat. "It's irritating. Oh, look at Qian Meng, the fallen prince, so gorgeous and brooding and talented."

The crown prince closed his fist, punching Qian Meng across the jaw and knocking out a few teeth. He coughed them to the floor, spitting blood. Still, he made no sound of pain, and that lack of reaction enraged his twin. Zihao screamed through his teeth, kicking his steel-toed boot into Qian Meng's knee and shattering it. The prince's vision tunneled, going dark on the edges. His body was near its limit, and soon, blessed darkness would follow.

"Fuck you," Zihao seethed, gathering Qian Meng's hair at the back of his head and yanking it back. The prince could barely keep his heavy eyelids open as he stared back at his twin's venomous expression. "If it were just me, we would be happy. You were a mistake. A blight on this family and empire."

He wound up for another punch, and Qian Meng could only watch it come with dull eyes when someone stepped up beside the crown prince. Speaking to him in a low tone.

"Your highness, we should refrain from excessive beatings. The king has forbidden it."

His brother whirled, face feral like a predator backed into a corner. "You have no authority here."

The captain of the guard held up his hands, glancing between the bleeding mess of a man in chains and the crown prince. It was true, and yet, what person could resist speaking up?

"I understand that, my prince. I am only relaying his highness' wishes to you. My apologies."

Qian Zihao was breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides. "Fine."

The captain dipped his chin, turning away and gesturing to the doors. "Good, very good, my prince. Let us clean up and visit the outdoor pavilion for tea—"

His words were cut off when the man felt a wrenching movement at his waist. The captain turned, eyes wide and mouth opening to shout, when the sound of a discipline whip cracked through the air. It lashed across Qian Meng's face with brutal force, tearing the skin across his nose and cheeks.

The prince could barely keep it from destroying his eyesight, jerking back just in time. And he couldn't help it, he whimpered, fresh blood running into his mouth. Another blow came, this time across his chest. Then another, and another until the front of his tunic was torn and hanging off his body. For the first time in over an hour, he felt pain again.

It was a shock to his senses, searing and never-ending. Burning a path through his veins as if sizzling up every single morsel he had left. Every last shred of hope that had built up over weeks, months spent with—

He cried out, rearing forward with the force of several quick blows to his spine. Qian Meng's vision went stark white, blinding him. Usually, his tormentors worked up to it, allowing his body time to adjust. This was nothing more than rage egging on a soiled man's soul.

"You are nothing," his brother hissed, an echo of their father, before slamming his boot into the torn flesh and twisting.

Qian Meng screamed himself hoarse. He might've even called for Lei Hua, might've begged for his mother. He wasn't aware of what left his lips, couldn't even put two words together in his head beyond. . .

It hurts!

The whip came down again, hot crimson spraying on the floor. The ceiling. The walls. It touched everything, even the throne twenty paces away. Soon, Zihao was coated in it from head to toe, and Qian Meng slumped forward the final time, falling unconscious. The crown prince's hand slackened, the discipline whip falling to clatter at his feet. He stared and stared at his brother's broken body, lips parted and teeth tinted with blood that was not his own.

No one in the room spoke, no one could.

It was like a spell had been cast, freezing every living soul in place to stare at the broken man before them as if they were not the ones responsible for it. Qian Zihao swallowed hard, tasting gore on his tongue and resisting the urge to gag. He stumbled toward his brother, fingers spasming as he fell to his knees in front of him, legs buckling. Qian Meng was unrecognizable, his face split wide open, and the black ribbon holding his hair dark back had come loose, leaving it to pool around his cheeks.

Zihao wished it concealed what he'd done.

Another sob left his throat, this time grating and terrible to the ear. He felt for his brother's pulse point, trying and failing to pick up on it. Was he breathing? He leaned in, head swimming from the rusty smell, and listened. But there was nothing more than his own pounding heart, his own demons roaring their anger to the sky. Wishing to destroy everyone and everything and then himself.

"I—" he sobbed, slamming his clenched fists into his thighs. "I don't—I didn't want to."

The words held so much of the truth he couldn't bring himself to say. Qian Zihao was a coward. A bastard. A wretched liar. He knew all of that to be true, but it didn't make this life any easier to bear. He wanted it to end. He didn't want to suffer anymore, and, perhaps he'd given Qian Meng a form of blessed relief. Perhaps he should follow him. . .

"My prince," the captain said softly, unsure of what to do.

Zihao ignored him, sobbing and falling over his knees. It folded his body as small as it could go, and the men behind him almost wanted to turn away. The sight was too raw, too awful to witness. The wailing grew to a crescendo, filling the hall as the crown prince let every terrible feeling he'd ever harbored pour out. It was almost like black smoke as if he'd set fire to the room through grief alone and didn't mind burning down with it.

"Fuck," the crown prince sobbed.

Slowly, light pooled around Qian Meng's ruined skin. It was quiet, pulsing in time with a stuttering heart as if doing its best to keep it going. Zihao was too busy scraping his fingers along the marble floor to notice, dragging them through the rivers of blood running down the stairs. The captain stood just behind him, marveling at the strange whips of ivory that rose from Qian Meng's spine. They were larger than the discipline whip that had just struck him, rising ten feet into the air and pulsing out waves of spiritual energy that forced the man a step back, and then another no matter how much he fought it.

"Your highness!"

Qian Zihao did not move as the tendrils surrounded him. Wrapping around his wrists, his neck—even his ankles before lifting him into the air. The captain stared, wide-eyed, but unable to move, for the atmosphere of the room was too heavy. Bearing down on his shoulders like boulders, pressing into his mind like a gavel.

The light was heavenly.

It was demonic.

He could not decide.

The crown prince was limp in its grasp. His head tilted to the ceiling, bright hair a curtain falling down his back and matted with blood. And the look on his face. . . It was tranquil. At peace.

The captain reached out again, lips parting, when the tendril around the crown prince's neck tightened, tearing his head from his shoulders in a shower of gore.

⚔

Lei Hua couldn't even imagine a party more boring than this one. While the Zephyr temple rarely threw banquets, when they did, it was a spectacle. Great bouquets of anemos flowers, golden tulle strung between the beams, enough food and drink to last hours, and a live band stringing one song into the next until dawn.

This celebration felt like a funeral in comparison.

There was no music, no flowers, or dancing women, hell, Hua didn't even have the luxury of pleasant conversation. An awkward silence stretched between his family and the king, going on for what he knew was mere minutes but felt like hours. Qian Wei sat at the head of the low table, legs folded beneath him with effortless grace as he picked at his bowls. Lei Hua studied him, zeroing in on the shaking of his fingers and the tiny splotch of blood on his wrist. For a moment, dread pooled low in his stomach as he stared at it.

Where was it from?

"Have you seen your sons today, your highness?"

The question was tumbling from his lips before he could think otherwise, shattering the tense silence into pieces. His father sent him a scathing glare from his right, but the cultivator couldn't bring himself to acknowledge it, all of his focus on the king. Qian Wei looked up, gaze frigid as he tilted his head to the right. Such was a move a predator would adopt, and Lei Hua wasn't surprised, as he knew the heinous man before him was one.

"Yes, just before arriving at the banquet. Why ask?"

Lei Hua's gut twisted further. "I am only curious. Your second son has caught our attention. He's quite gifted with the art of the sword."

The king didn't sneer or scoff as the cultivator expected him to. He only waved a languid ring clad hand, nodding. "Of course he is. There is no one better in the palace."

Even Lei Changming's brows shot up at such a comment. It wasn't a secret this man hated his second born for the tragedy that occurred eighteen years ago. The hand Lei Hua kept in his lap twitched, fingers curling into a fist. What was he getting at? It seemed Changming wanted to know as well, for he was the one to speak up next.

"Yes, he was quite helpful on our hunt. I am surprised he is not here to celebrate with us."

"He is in the company of his brother."

Lei Hua—knowing almost everything there was to know about Qian Meng's family life—nearly rose to his feet in protest. Yet, his father, a man who preferred to remain in the background rather than rock the boat, stiffened where he sat between the siblings. It was a warning to stop. To think before he acted. The cultivator closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap, clenching them.

Qian Wei watched all three with hawk-like attention, eyes following the path the Grandmaster's tea cup took to his lips. Lei Changpu took a slow sip, closing his eyes and letting out a breath. The quiet was paper thin, any of the men around him ready to explode rather than talk around the point as politics so often required. The Grandmaster set his cup down, and only then did he speak.

"With his brother, you say? The last time I saw them together, it did not seem to be an auspicious occasion."

This time, the king scowled. "They are competitive."

Lei Changpu huffed a laugh, his crimson gaze sharp as a cultivation blade. "That is an understatement."

Qian Wei reared back, eyes widening at the direct comment about his family affairs. Normally, etiquette dictated it inappropriate for outsiders to comment on such things, but it seemed the Lei family did not care. Either that, or they somehow grew much closer to Qian Meng in the time they'd been here than the king first thought. He opened his mouth, ready to spout another nonsense lie to redirect their attention, when—

"AHHHHHHH!"

The blood-curdling scream tore through the palace. Wove its way down gilded corridors and slunk around corners. There was no crevice untouched by it, no servant who did not hear it. All three cultivators snapped to attention, their hands coming to rest on the hilts of their blades. The king began to stand, brows furrowed, when the entire table they were eating at was flipped over. Lei Hua rose with one powerful thrust of his legs, face a mask of panic as he tore his way out from under it. Grandmaster Lei called out to his son, but it was drowned by another howl of agony.

"Hua!"

The cultivator's entire body responded to that pained call. He sprinted forward, blowing the hall doors off the hinges with his wild, panicked power without a thought. They crashed into the hallway, and he leaped over them, eyes darting this way and that in search of his zhiyin. He didn't know where the screaming came from. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Burrowing into his mind until he could think nothing, do nothing but run from hall to hall. Breaking down doors and kicking in locks.

"Ahhha-ha!"

The screaming rose into a terrible, whining screech. Similar to an animal being skinned alive. His skin crawled at the noise, and his legs propelled him faster. Further. Covering more ground as the noise grew louder.

"Hua! Please, please, please. . ."

Hua almost fell to his knees and sobbed right then and there, his legs buckling. Hearing his zhiyin's desperation, his fear and pain was driving him crazy. He couldn't feel anything past the adrenaline rushing through his limbs, couldn't think beyond the terror.

"Meng'er!" He shouted back, slamming his heel into yet another doorway.

It burst open, revealing a group of concubines that screeched in alarm, rearing away from his vicious expression and hiding behind their sleeves. Hua's crimson eyes flashed across the room before he whirled away, stomping toward a deeper part of the palace. One he had heard Qian Meng speak of many times while meditating beneath the willow tree. A dark room with a throne and a set of chains crusted with blood.

But the screaming had stopped, a crushing silence drowning him in its wake. He tripped over his own feet in his haste, fear licking a path down his spine. If there were no screams. . . No, do not think of it. Do not even entertain the idea, he told himself.

"Meng'er!"

He careened around the corner, racing toward sealed double doors standing ominously at the end of the corridor. Before he even reached them, Hua sent a blast of magic forward with a swipe of his palm. It struck the wood and shattered it to pieces that showered his head and shoulders as he ran through the doorway. . . Only for his feet to slip on the marble, forcing his body into a wild skid, arms wheeling. Lei Hua gasped, inhaling a quick, full breath of the soiled air. It was sharp with the tang of iron, his nostrils flaring as the room came into stark focus.

Only for horror to roil through him.

There was blood everywhere. Pooling beneath his boots, running down the grand stairs leading to the throne, covering the walls, dripping from the ceiling. It was as if the entire room were bleeding, and the cultivator looked around wildly for his zhiyin, gaze narrowing on the slumped, barely recognizable body wrapped in chains at the foot of the dais. He scrambled toward it, this time taking care not to slip and fall into the gore.

There were a multitude of headless bodies lying around him, all of them dripping in so much shed blood he couldn't tell who they were. With panic, the cultivator kicked the closest of them aside, slamming to his knees before the broken man. His fingers trembled so hard it was difficult to lift Qian Meng's head. They slipped against the blood, smearing it and forcing a flinch when Hua felt the sliced skin across the prince's nose and cheeks.

What had been done to him?

Icy rage dug its claws into the cultivator, icing over the anemos flowers flourishing in his core. The petals withered, dying on the spot as he bore witness to his lover's injuries. A broken knee, torn skin on his chest, his back, his legs. Missing teeth and terrible scratches along his arms. A tortuous, screaming sob slipped through his teeth as he pulled Qian Meng's body up onto his lap, feeling for a pulse.

There wasn't one.

"Nooo," he moaned, clutching the body closer. "Please, come back to me. Hm? Please?"

The words burst out of him—high, grating, and useless. Lei Hua felt himself unravel. Felt sense and anger and terror take a backseat to loss. The world narrowed to this. There had been and would be nothing else after, a hole punched through his chest where his heart should be now that the man who had claimed it so easily was. . . Gone. His entire body shivered as he leaned over Qian Meng, holding him as tightly as he could. Knuckles white and fingers leaving bruises.

"Please, we're supposed to be together," he breathed into the silence, stroking bloodied hair from Qian Meng's face with a gentle touch. "You're my zhiyin."

The Lei family skidded to a halt in the doorway, finally having caught up to him, their swords drawn and magic at the ready. Grandmaster Lei glowed with the fiery fury of a thousand suns, eyes skirting across the space with distaste, lip pulling back, only to fall flat when he saw his son kneeling in the blood. His golden robes covered in it, a limp body rocking in his lap. Changming inhaled sharply beside him, hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. But there was no one left to fight.

No one left to save.

"Oh," Lei Changming murmured, voice quiet. "Oh, no. Hua-di, Hua—"

He went to take a step forward, but his father stopped him with a gentle hand to his chest. Lei Changming followed that arm up to his father's face, face crumbling when he found it wet with tears. They were slow, silent. One would not notice them unless they truly studied the Grandmaster's face.

"Wha—what do we do?" He asked his father, voice small like he was a young child.

Lei Changpu shook his head, gaze riveted to his youngest son. "There is nothing to be done."

It was true, but Lei Changming didn't want to hear it. He pushed his father's hand away to stumble toward his younger brother. Gasping as he felt the terrible well of unshed magic and agony shimmering around Hua-di. It was clear that with one wrong move or word, it would explode. Taking everything in the vicinity with it whether they were friend or foe. But Lei Changming was willing to be devoured by it, willing to kneel beside his brother as his world fell apart. Because that's what this was—the end of his brother's life. When one lost their other half, their soulmate, it broke them.

Not once had there been an exception.

He got within five feet of Lei Hua when a clamor came from the hall, catching Changming's attention. It was the king and a cavalry of guardsmen, rushing in with wide eyes and weapons drawn. Qian Wei paused, eyes wide and reeling as he took in the carnage. The man stumbled forward, eyelids rising and falling rapidly as if he were about to pass out or scream or both.

"What is this?" He asked, voice wavering. When no one answered, it rose an octave. "WHAT IS THIS?"

Again, no one answered him, but the king wasn't truly listening. He clamored forward, slipping and falling with a splash. The man's immaculate ivory robes turned a bright scarlet, and Lei Changming flinched at the sight as he sheathed his sword, lips pursed. This was no battlefield, it was a graveyard.

The adrenaline in his veins ebbed as he watched the king of Pondlightian flounder in the center of his own mess. It was both satisfying and grim beyond reason. He didn't know where to look. At his brother wailing over his lover's corpse, the new vambraces Lei Hua commissioned as a courting gift covered in sticky crimson, the body wearing them growing cold. Or the man who was so broken he used his pain as a weapon against others scrambling across the floor on his hands and knees, turning over headless bodies.

Qian Wei checked four before he found the one he was looking for, a strangled sound leaving his throat. The room looked on, some with glossy eyes and others shedding tears. By the robes it wore, Lei Changming knew who it was. Or, who it had been.

The crown prince.

The king sat back, eyes darting between the head several paces away and Lei Hua's shaking shoulders. One couldn't decipher the emotion on his face. It was a mixture between rage and loss and confusion. As if he had no inkling of how the situation had come to this. How every decision, every scar he left on his second son's body, was a roadmap to this very moment. Lei Changming swallowed several times, readying himself to comfort his brother, only for the king to move faster.

Rising so swiftly the blood dripping from the bottom of his robes flicked in all directions. Battering his guards and hitting Lei Changming in the eyes. He grimaced, immediately lifting his hands to wipe it away. In that split second, Qian Wei flew forward, a look of contorted agony on his features. He unsheathed his sword, swinging it in a blurring arc toward Lei Hua's neck.

The cultivator didn't acknowledge the threat; didn't move beyond a flick of his fingers. But with it, a slice of the enormous cloud of power roiling around him peeled away. Lifting Hua's cultivation sword from its sheath to dance along a phantom wind, striking the king through the heart from one breath and the next. It was quick, unceremonious. Qian Wei's bloodless sword fell with a clatter, followed by his body. The blade ripped free from his chest with a wet squelch as Lei Hua murmured sweet nothings to the corpse in his lap, laying it across the floor with care.

No one made a sound as he stood, calling the blade back into his bloodied palm. His back was to the room, rising and falling with harsh movements. Lei Changming cursed, finally getting the blood out of his eyes as he pushed forward, kicking the useless king aside. No one protested the violent treatment of the corpse, no one dared.

He placed a gentle palm on his brother's shivering forearm, over one of the silver vambraces he wore to match his lover rested. Another blow, for Hua had planned to reveal them to Qian Meng after dinner as a surprise. Now, it'd been reduced to nothing more than another broken promise.

"Hua-di," he murmured, voice hoarse.

Lei Hua flinched. "Brother, please tell me. Is this real?"

He closed his eyes against the scratchy tone of Didi's voice. "Yes."

"He is gone, then?"

"Yes."

Lei Hua sobbed once, body curling forward on reflex only to snap back up, wobbling lower lip snagged between his teeth. Changming didn't even try to understand the pain he was feeling. Or, perhaps his brother felt nothing at all. Was nothing but a void left behind after his soulmate was sucked beyond the veil.

"This wasn't enough," Lei Hua said, turning to the room, turning away from the body on the floor. "It wasn't enough."

Lei Changming knew what he meant, but didn't comment on it. Instead, watching as his brother slowly shook off the grip he had on his arm, walked the ten steps between them and the guardsmen by the door, and struck out in a whirl of silver. More blood flowed, followed by the screams of the dying. They were cut off quickly, for the cultivator was no sadist. When he killed, it was clean. No more painful than a single sting to the neck.

Lei Changming didn't stop him.

Nor did their father.

Not even when he left the throne room, flying up the stairs on a wild, magical wind to kill again and again and again. It sent the palace into a state of pandemonium. Servants running for their lives, others setting fire to the ruins, concubines stealing precious jewels before making a quick getaway. The Lei family walked through it all, the world tilting on its axis as they took in the sheer slaughter of a cultivator set loose on conventionals. There was a reason they took an oath of fealty to peace—to protect the world from demonic energy while remaining removed from human conflict.

Because it so often ended like this.

The last of the living fled as they stepped outside, rushing in droves down the hill toward the city below. Not once looking back or daring to stop. Silence descended like a heavy blanket, resolute and damning.

"This. . ." Lei Changming gasped, stopping in the center of the courtyard just before the palace gates that stood open, every wall licked by flames. Smoke was burning his eyes. His nose. His throat. "What do we do?"

The Grandmaster shook his head, eyes flicking toward the man now kneeling just outside the grounds, sword winking with firelight where it'd been stuck two feet into the dirt at his side.

Lei Hua's face was tilted toward the dark sky. There were no stars out, no light beyond the orange glow of the burning, fallen empire behind him. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting paths through the dirt and carnage on his skin. There were so many layers he didn't think he'd ever scrub them off.

He'd never shed so much human blood before.

He could not bring himself to regret it.

His father stepped up to stand beside him, one hand clenched behind his back with the other on his sword. And it was such a normal pose for him, so unerring, that Lei Hua laughed and laughed and laughed. It spilled from his lips like jagged glass, tearing at his throat and rubbing it raw.

"Hua," he said, cutting through the laughter.

His name was stern coming from his father's mouth in a way only a parent could achieve. It stopped his mania immediately, forcing his mouth closed with a snap. Changming came to kneel at his other side, pressing a comforting hand to Lei Hua's knee. The only sound was the crackling fire behind them eating up the wooden beams with aggressive hunger. And he had the brief, fleeting thought that his zhiyin's body was inside. That Qian Meng would burn up with the wretched palace he never once called home. It was both fitting and unsuitable, but Hua couldn't bring himself to get up. To move with any sort of purpose.

"I messed up."

It was such a gross understatement, but his father only nodded curtly. "I will take care of it."

Lei Hua laughed again, but only once. "How does one take care of the decimation of the Pondlightian royal family?"

Changming's hand tightened around his knee. "Hua-di."

The tone was clear. Do not bite the hand that feeds you. His reaction to it was knee-jerking.

"I apologize, shufu."

His father shook his head. "There is no need. I knew from the moment we arrived that there was no warmth within these halls. The energy circling here was not demonic but on the verge. Qian Meng—" He paused when Lei Hua made a strangled sound, his voice turning gentle. "He was not the only one who suffered here."

Changming blinked at his father, trying to read between the lines of his words. Did he truly agree with what Lei Hua had done? With the river of blood rushing past their legs and down the mountain? They came here, tore this family apart no matter how dysfunctional it was, and now they planned to just, what, leave?

He couldn't reconcile such a decision with Zephyr Temple's principles. His father was the upholder of justice. Of peace. Of rigid rules. There were supposed to be trials to these things, consequences given as an example for others. This was not that no matter what caused his brother to step off the deep end.

"Father, what will we do?" He asked.

The Grandmaster tore his eyes from his youngest son's desolate face to look up toward where the Achak Temple stood on a much higher mountain than this one. "We will call on Achak to rebuild and face the consequences. That is all we can do."