The Northern Wastes did not forgive, and the House of Ravens did not forget.
I stood barefoot in the snow, the ice biting into the soles of my feet until the pain turned into a dull, throbbing hum. Across from me stood three senior disciples, their faces erased by expressionless porcelain masks.
"A Shadow has no heart. A Shadow has no name," the Grandmaster's voice drifted from the frosted balcony above. "Forty-Seven—prove you are empty."
The disciples moved like a single, three-headed beast.
I didn't breathe. If I breathed, I felt the cold. If I felt the cold, I remembered the river. I moved with a jagged, desperate speed that defied the heavy snow. I parried the first strike, the vibration of steel-on-steel ringing through my teeth. I didn't retreat; I lunged. I spun, my elbow catching the second disciple's mask.
The porcelain shattered into white shards.
I dropped low, swept the third man's legs, and rose with my short-blade pressed against the pulse point of his throat. Steam rose from my skin, a ghostly aura in the twilight.
"Five years," the Grandmaster said, his footsteps crunching as he descended. "And still, you fight as if you are trying to kill the world itself. You are not empty, Forty-Seven. You are full of rage."
"The world killed me first," I replied. My voice was raspy—the sound of someone who had forgotten how to speak in sentences. "I am merely returning the favor."
The Grandmaster held out a scroll. It was wrapped in the forbidden black-and-gold silk of the Southern Imperial Palace. The color was a physical blow to my stomach.
"The Southern Throne is a nest of vipers," he continued. "Emperor Zhenkai has purged his court. He trusts no one. He has requested a Personal Shadow—one who can move through the palace like a breeze and kill like a plague."
Zhenkai. The name was a phantom limb; I still felt the ache where it used to be.
"He wants the best," the Grandmaster said. "Go to the Autumn Equinox ball. Protect him. But remember: if he recognizes the Princess beneath the mask, he will kill you to secure his throne. Do not look him in the eye."
I took the scroll. My fingers brushed the gold silk. It felt like a trap. I looked at my reflection in the polished steel of my blade. The girl who cried was buried under miles of ice.
"The Princess is dead," I whispered. "I am only the blade he bought."
— Zhenkai —
The throne was colder than the battlefield.
I sat in the Great Hall, the weight of the Black Sun crown pressing against my temples. Five years. Five years of cleaning blood off these floors. Five years of staring at the Xuán Hé river from the balcony, wondering if the water had finally washed the scent of sandalwood from my soul.
"Your Majesty," General Fang whispered at my side. He had aged; I had only hardened. "The House of Ravens has sent a new Shadow. She is waiting in the wings."
"Is she capable?" I asked, my voice flat. I didn't care about her name. I didn't care about her face. I only cared that she could stop the daggers my own ministers aimed at my back.
"She is the one they call Forty-Seven. They say she has no mercy."
"Good." I stood, my black silk robes trailing behind me like a wake of ink. "I have enough mercy for both of us. It's the only thing that hasn't finished killing me yet."
I walked toward the ballroom, the music of the Autumn Equinox beginning to swell. It was a song of celebration, but to me, it sounded like a dirge. I adjusted the hilt of my sword, my fingers ghosting over the place where a girl had once pressed a jagged dagger into her palm.
I stepped into the light, ready to meet my shadow.