Chapter 5: The Wound That Would Not Close

The blood dripped through Chen Yuan's fingers and splattered against the wooden floor in small, dark blossoms.

Mei stood in the doorway of his study, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes fixed on the crimson trail that led from the entrance to where he knelt. The fox fur she usually wore as a stole was gone. In its place, a simple white robe that made her look almost human.

Almost.

"You're hurt," she said.

It wasn't a question.

Chen Yuan pressed his palm harder against his ribs. The bandages he'd wrapped around himself an hour ago were already soaked through. The wound had stopped bleeding three times now. Three times, it had started again, as if some memory in his flesh refused to let the injury heal.

"A disagreement in the village," he said. "Some men from the north. They didn't appreciate a scholar telling them their philosophy was flawed."

Mei stepped closer. Her bare feet made no sound. "You argued philosophy with northern mercenaries?"

"I argued that burning a farmer's house because he couldn't pay protection money was philosophically unsound. They disagreed. Vehemently."

She knelt beside him, her movements fluid as water. Her hand reached for his, and he let her pull it away from the wound. The bandages were dark red now, the fabric clinging to his skin.

"This needs proper cleaning," she said. "I'll fetch water."

"Don't."

The word came out sharper than he intended. She paused, her fingers still touching his wrist.

"The wound," he said, and stopped. How to explain? How to tell her that every time he'd tried to clean it, the edges of the cut had smoked and sizzled as if the water itself was poison? How to explain that the blood on his hands smelled wrong—copper and something else, something that reminded him of incense burned in temples he'd never visited?

"I'll help you," Mei said softly. "But you must trust me."

Chen Yuan laughed. It came out broken. "Trust a fox spirit? The stories say you eat men's souls."

"The stories say a lot of things." She rose and walked to the small table where his brush and ink sat. She dipped his finest brush into the inkstone, then returned to him. "The stories say scholars are virtuous and poor. You have three robes, all silk, and your calligraphy set costs more than a farmer's year. The stories lie."

She drew a character on his forehead. The ink burned cold, and the throbbing in his side eased slightly.

"What was that?"

"A warding mark. To keep the wound from worsening." She sat back on her heels. "Now. Let me see what's inside."

Chen Yuan hesitated. But the blood kept coming, and the cold burn of her mark had given him a sliver of relief. He nodded.

She unwound the bandages slowly. Each layer peeled away with the sound of wet paper tearing. When the last strip fell free, she went still.

The wound was a gash across his ribs, three fingers wide and deep enough to show glimpses of white bone beneath. But that wasn't what made her breath catch.

The edges of the cut shimmered. Faint golden light pulsed from the torn flesh, growing brighter with each heartbeat.

"That's not possible," she whispered.

"Is that your professional opinion as a spirit of the wild?"

She didn't laugh at his joke. She was staring at the wound with an expression he'd never seen on her face before. Fear. Not the playful fear she sometimes feigned when he caught her stealing his wine. Real fear.

"Mei. What is it?"

"This isn't an ordinary wound." Her fingers hovered over the cut, not quite touching. "The golden light. That's celestial essence. Only heavenly beings have it. Only—" She stopped. Her eyes snapped to his. "Your blood smells like temple incense. Your shadow doesn't move the way it should in candlelight. I thought it was just odd mortal things, but—"

"But what?"

"Chen Yuan. What are you?"

The question hung between them. He should have an answer. He was Chen Yuan, twenty-three years old, son of a minor scholar-official from the eastern provinces. He'd passed the county exams at sixteen, the prefectural at nineteen. He'd come to this mountain temple to study for the imperial examinations. He was mortal. He was ordinary. He was—

He was lying to himself.

"I don't know," he said, and the truth of it made his chest ache.

Something moved in the shadows beyond the temple door. Mei's head snapped up. Her ears—when had her ears become pointed?—twitched.

"Someone's coming."

"More mercenaries?"

"No. Worse." She grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. The movement sent fresh pain through his side, and he bit back a cry. "They're here. The celestial exorcists. They followed my trail."

"The exorcists? But I thought you said the warding marks would—"

"I said they would hide me from ordinary hunters." She was already moving, gathering her few possessions, stuffing them into a cloth bundle. "These are not ordinary. They're from the Heavenly Court. They've been hunting my kind for centuries."

"Then run. I'll delay them."

She stopped. Turned. Looked at him with those amber eyes that seemed to see straight through his skin.

"You're bleeding golden light. You have celestial essence in your veins. And you want to face the Heavenly Court's exorcists alone?"

"I'm a scholar. What can they do to a scholar?"

"They can kill you." She crossed to him and pressed her palm flat against his chest. "They can kill you and not even know what they've destroyed."

Her hand was warm. He could feel the pulse of her spirit through his skin, a rhythm that matched his own heartbeat. When had that happened? When had their hearts begun to beat together?

"The bargain," he said. "One year of companionship for one wish. I haven't made my wish yet."

"And you think now is the time to discuss this?"

"If I die tonight, I want you to know." He covered her hand with his. "I wasn't going to wish for wealth. Or power. Or success in the exams."

"Then what?"

The temple door splintered. Wood fragments exploded inward as a blade of pure white light sliced through the wood. A figure stepped through the wreckage—a man in white robes, his face hidden behind a porcelain mask painted with the face of a smiling bodhisattva.

"Fox spirit," the figure said. His voice was calm. Pleasant. The voice of a man discussing tea. "You've led us on a merry chase. But all chases end."

Mei pushed Chen Yuan behind her. Her form flickered—human, then fox, then something between the two. Nine tails of silver light erupted from her spine, filling the room with their glow.

"Run," she said, not looking at him. "Run and don't look back."

"Mei—"

"I said run!"

The exorcist raised his hand. White light gathered in his palm, condensing into a spear of pure divine energy. The air screamed as it flew.

Chen Yuan moved before he knew what he was doing. He stepped in front of Mei. The spear struck him in the chest.

White hot. Cold. Nothing. Everything.

He looked down at the spear of light embedded in his heart. It should have killed him. It should have turned him to ash.

Instead, the spear dissolved. The light flowed into him, into his blood, into his bones. And he remembered.

He remembered falling. Remembered the taste of stars. Remembered a crime so ancient that even the heavens had forgotten it. Remembered being cast out, stripped of wings, stripped of name, made mortal as punishment.

Chen Yuan.

Not a scholar.

A fallen god.

The golden light exploded from his body, and the temple roof tore away.