Page 109 of Reign of the Talon
Ready to confront this last self.
So with a deep breath, I begin to run.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The Prophecy
She’s moving.
Getting closer and closer to breaking free from the mindscape. I can feel it.
Yet I, too, am moving.
My scaleblades puncture flesh, draw sprays of red. With a grim determination, I stalk across the jade floors of Bonseyo’s palace, hunting Emperor Jeon as if he is a mouse and I a hungry cat. They’ve not expected me, yet still the palace seems empty save for the guards who leap at me from behind the many red pillars lining the winding corridors of this palace. These guards are well-trained, expertly so.
Another one of Eunwoo’s lies—the soldiers in the tunnels were just as skilled as these lackeys. I grunt as one—a lithe, nimble figure cloaked in black—takes me by surprise and slams me into the wall. Gritting my teeth, I slash their wrists and kick them away, whirling as another one of Emperor Jeon’s guards launches themselves out from behind a dark door, revealing a glimpse of a young woman with a pale face and thin mouth. One of the Jeons, I realize, from her fine hanbok and elaborate updo of hair. As her guard shoots toward me, I dive down, skidding into the room—a small writing room with a shelf of scrolls, a low table with a jar of ink next to some scattered brushes, and silken floor cushions—before the door can lock. The princess screams, and I smile.
Haneul, seething, is left to deal with the guard in the hallway. He is not enjoying this attack—when we arrived at the palace gate, where its stone arches were decorated with small earthen japsang figurines meant to protect inhabitants from evil, Haneul laughed so hard that I suspected he lost his mind entirely. That laughter had soon turned to a broken sort of breathing, one fractured by the absurd guilt he feels at his hand in this war.
Pathetic.
“Get back!” the princess snarls, and from her updo, she withdraws a small throwing knife. I catch it easily, centimeters away from my forehead. With a thin smile, I slip it into the pocket of my stealth suit. The Jeons are constantly attempting to murder one another—of course this woman would not be unarmed. The other Jeons I have so far encountered—two princes bickering in the throne room, which was the first place I checked—were also armed, although their weapons had certainly been more auspicious, seeing as their swords were pointed at each other when I arrived.
“Where is the emperor?” I demand.
“As if I’ll tellyou,” she spits, unfortunately choosing this particular moment to indulge in familial loyalty, a concept that was most certainly unbeknownst to her until now.
“You will,” I reply coldly, and a few moments later, gasping in pain, she does. Emperor Jeon is preparing to be evacuated and is currently sequestered in his sleeping quarters, across the main pavilion. What comes next is quick and efficient. The princess slumps over, eyes closed.
Satisfied, I exit the writing room to see Haneul glaring at me, the guard’s unconscious body prone on the ground.
“This way,” I snap, not checking to see if he follows as I push open a door that leads to the outdoor, gray-stone pavilion, which the palace wraps around. The royal sleeping quarters will be at the deepest part of the inner court, and it unfortunately takes me some time to arrive there, as guards leap out from behind the palace’s red-painted corners and strike. Only after all four have been dispatched do I stand before the grand, temple-like building built upon an elevated stone terrace, sloping rooftop again hosting those ridiculous talismans to ward off evil.
And to my surprise, before the green latticed doors, stands Emperor Jeon, clad in a sisabok, the everyday scarlet robes worn by mortal kings.
I slowly come to a halt, tilting my head before the steps on which he stands. This is not a sequestered emperor. This is an emperor ready for war. This is not the greedy, lazy man Eunwoo described to me. Another deceit.
Emperor Jeon is tall, perhaps in his mid-forties, with streaks of gray in his otherwise midnight hair. He has a sharp chin and dark eyes, and in his face, I see a hint of Eunwoo’s. But his visage is far colder than his son’s has ever been. A scar runs down his left brow to his chin, the skin shining as white as bone. There is a certain violence in that deep scar, in the way it sharply tapers off to the side of his face, as if the murderous weapon-bearer had been shoved furiously away only in the nick of time. That side of the face droops; whoever cut that scar must have ruined the nerves.
“Shin Lina,” Emperor Jeon greets. Only the right side of his lips moves; his jaw remains hinged on the left. His voice is not the deep boom I expected, but rather a bitter, angry rasp. I watch as the veins on his neck strain with the effort of speaking. Perhaps one of his power-hungry relations also once poured poison down his throat. He holds a jikdo, the straight blade glinting in the moonlight above. His knuckles are white around the hilt. “So it seems the bastard boy failed in his mission.”
“So it does,” I reply coolly.
Emperor Jeon’s lips stretch into a thin smile. There is something wrong about him. His eyes. They are the same as his son’s—cold, flat, hard. Yet there is none of that wretched hunger within them. There’s only a deep, deep hate. It burns like Haneul’s damnable fire. I wonder how such ruinous loathing can be contained to only one weak, mortal body…and I am almost impressed. Almost.
“Were those all your guards?” I ask softly, tilting my head.
Emperor Jeon takes one step down the terrace. “They were,” he hisses.
“And all your children?”
“They were,” he replies with a jerky shrug, clearly not concerned with his bastard son fighting in the Bonseyo Shadowshafts. It seems he is more grieved by the deaths of his guards. Although “grieved” does not seem to be the right word for a man like this one. Annoyed, perhaps. Offended.
“And your empress?” I ask icily, knowing perfectly well that his wife died of “consumption” some time ago. Pity.
If I am hoping to hurt him, I fail. Emperor Jeon laughs. He sounds like a bullfrog: hoarse and croaking. “Dead. Thank the gods. I did it myself.”
“And your siblings?” Another question I already know the answer to.
