Page 14 of Reign of the Talon
Yet these swords, they changeeverything.He may not be the one to kill her. Somebody else may do so with one of these dokkaebibul swords.
Chanmay do so.
Inside of Rui, that familiar panic—the feeling that his world is swaying out of orbit, knocking him to the side, leaving him weightless one moment and crashing down the next—begins to rear its ugly head. His breaths come now in short bursts, and he staggers, hitting the ground hard on one knee. Pain cracks up his kneecap, but he pays it no heed.
Kang reaches for his emperor in clear alarm—only for Rui to gasp out a guttural “no,” unable to stand the thought of Kang’s bloodstained hands on his skin.
He feels like he is dying.
Would that be so bad, to die?
The answer surprises him.Yes. Right now, yes.Yet he cannot shake the feeling that Yeomra’s shadowy fingers are reaching for him.
His people are dependent on Gyeulcheon’s victory. The people that his family, for thousands of years, have kept comfortable and safe. The people he has sacrificed hissoulfor, the people he has disgraced himself so utterly for. This battle, it must be won. For his Dokkaebi.
That damned bargain he made so long ago—exile and a bloody tithe—will meannothingif he does not at least give his people every chance at survival that they have.
As he spat so viciously to Empress Moon, there is no time for greediness and folly in a time of warfare. He loves the girl that the Prophecy’s body used to belong to. He will always love Shin Lina. Loving her is the fickle emperor’s one constant emotion.
He loves her enough tokillher body.
For the girl who loved him in turn is gone. A part of him will never accept that, but hemust. And he must remind himself that the Prophecy’s inhabitance of her flesh is aviolation. So perhaps the greatest mercy Haneul Rui can give his wife’s body is a greater chance of death, no matter how painful.
Taking a shuddering breath, the emperor stands.
And he lights the forge blue.
…
He doesn’t know why he does it.
The swords have been molded by dozens of blacksmiths, smoke swirling from the dark blue metal in the armory as Rui’s soldiers prepare for the relocation to Iseung. Tomorrow, the weapons will be ready to wield, ready to use. He should not do it, for it only tortures him, but Rui has never harbored much self-control. That has always been his fatal flaw.
He sits in the stables, leaning against Duri’s flank. One of her wings rests over him, a white-feathered blanket as he breathes in the warm smell of hay, grass, sweat, and leather. As the emperor closes his eyes and looks for her. His little thief. His wife.
Lina.
Once, he had been able to find her in dreams, even when the Prophecy controlled her every move. Desperately, he clings to the hope that he might be able to do so again—to find her in some hidden place, somehow.
Rui concentrates, brows furrowing, on the red thread stemming from his heart to the Prophecy’s. In the darkness of his mind, he follows it to that splash of color, where the Prophecy is sleeping next to Sonagi in an icy forest. Undoubtedly, she is waiting for him to fall asleep, so she can haunt his nightmares, as she so often does.
His Lina is nowhere to be seen.
Jaw tight, Rui turns around. He doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t…
The emperor’s eyes flare wide as the red thread stemming from his chest and leading back through the gloom splits. Splits, like a fork in a path, or a stream flowing into a river. Never before has it done this—never. One end leads behind him, to the sleeping Prophecy.
And one end…
One end twists and twines deeper into the darkness. Breathing shallow, Rui follows the thread on stumbling feet. He may walk for minutes, or perhaps an hour—he does not know. He cannot tell. Yet eventually, something comes into view.
It is not another splash of color as Rui expected. It is…a door, hovering in the shadows, heavy and at least twice Rui’s height. Upon its dark stone surface, a design stretches as if painted in a glistening gold ink that shines in the darkness.
The red thread of fate passes through that door, although it remains closed. And Rui wishes to do the same.
Rui’s fingers tremble violently as he touches the design, skin smudging the still-wet paint. There are words on this door, too—they are engraved in the stone. The emperor begins to read, his heart slamming against his chest, every fiber of his soul shivering in fear and hope and disbelief.
Here lies the girl who loved the gods.
