Page 111 of Reign of the Talon
The flames encircle the Prophecy. There is no way out, not unless she’d like to be burned alive. And without her Imugi, the storm does not come as quickly as it did on the battlefields, where Rui tried this same trick. Overhead, thunder rumbles, but it is still in the distance.
“Let me out!” she roars. When Rui does not react, does not even so much as flinch, the Prophecy holds a scaleblade to her own throat and digs the blade in just enough to spill a droplet of blood. Through the flames, her face is twisted, contorted with hatred and pain.
Rui freezes as a drop of golden blood spills down his own neck, but no sooner than a moment later, his eyes narrow. Oh, he knows a bluff well. Her threats on the rocky beach rang true, but now… Now, when Fulfillment is so terrifyingly close, he cannot imagine the Prophecy sliding that blade across her throat.
“Come now,” he sneers. “You really are a terrible liar.”
The Prophecy snarls at him, spitting through the flames, her scaleblade falling away from her throat.
“That’s what I thought,” murmurs Rui smugly as, behind him, Emperor Jeon slowly drags himself to his feet. Blood trickles from his face, and one of his eyes is beginning to swell shut.
Rui does not see as the Prophecy’s hand drifts to the pocket of her stealthsuit, where the Jeon daughter’s throwing knife rests, all too thirsty for blood.
“Lina,” he whispers, staring into the Prophecy’s eyes, “wherever you are…I beg you, hurry.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The Prisoner
She is not who I thought she would be, this piece of myself, this girl. Pain washes over me as I stare at her, and I know that outside this mindscape, the Prophecy is in terrible agony. Yet it fades to nothing as I stare at this little shard of my soul, wondering who she is.
She stands just before the staircase, blocking its path. The hall of mirrors is at my back—somehow, I have found the end. Somehow, I have foundher.
Golden eyes. Long, dark hair.
Yet she is not…the Prophecy. There is no bloodlust on her serene expression, no murderous intent. Her golden-beige skin is covered by a beautiful hanbok of lavender silk, embroidered with small cherry blossoms. No, she is…something else. Someoneelse. I did not see the mirror from which she came, cannot find the plaque explaining which part of my soul this woman is, from what part of me she was carved.
“Lina,” she says coolly, voice clipped as she eyes me. Her voice is…regal, somehow, and my eyes trace the—thecrownatop her head. It seems to be crafted from a wood unfamiliar to me, a deep, dark purple. Jagged thorns rise from the circlet, and they look like outstretched hands, reaching up in desperation with gnarled wooden fingers.
A power seems to thrum from her—something deep and dark, yet…almost peaceful. Like a depthless slumber. I think that perhaps I canseethe power around her, flickers of a rich purple, the same color of her crown.
I…I don’t know you, I manage to sign, heart thundering at the sight of her.
“No,” she murmurs. “You wouldn’t, not yet.”
You’re not the Prophecy.
“The Prophecy is not a part of you,” my strange, other self replies, eyes softening. “That is notyou, Shin Lina. It’s only a parasite that has wormed its way into your skin, a disease from the outside that has found its way in. Would you say that a fever, or a plague, was a fundamental, intrinsic part of you? A slice of yourself? No,” she says, before I can summon a response, “you wouldn’t. And I know that until now, you haven’t truly understood that.”
I swallow hard. No, I wouldn’t say that a fever or a plague were one of my other selves. And I hadn’t—I hadn’t thought about it in this way until now. A rush of relief overcomes me, the extent of my terror lessening, just a bit.
It is not a part of me.
It isnota part of me.
But…
If you’re not the Prophecy, I say,who are you?
The other Lina’s lips tilt upward. “I’m what you can be,” she answers gently. “What youwillbe. I’m your hope, and I’m your future.” She takes a step toward me, so that we are nearly nose to nose. When I blink, she blinks. When I shift uncomfortably, so does she. It is like looking into a mirror. “Much awaits you,” she murmurs. “For I am you, at the end of this.”
My lips part in shock—shock and hope and relief.We…win?I ask tentatively.The Prophecy, it’s defeated? It’s never fulfilled?
A long, long moment of silence follows. One that is thick with hope and words unsaid. One where my other self hesitates, meeting my eye, as if gauging whether I am able to hear the truth. Palms sweating, I meet her stare and watch as her lips slowly part to speak…
Her smile is bittersweet. “What have we ever been but a puppet? A puppet of the Prophecy, a puppet of the gods? Our strings were ever jerked by powers higher than ourselves.”
Ice, thick and cracking, creeps over my heart. My bones. I shake my head, where a dull buzzing has filled it.
