Page 1 of Immortal

Part One

1

The God of War was famed for three things:

His unrivaled might. His devotion to the immortal queen.

And his heart of ice, devoid of all mercy.

* * *

Fire raged through my home, devouring the mahogany pillars and moss-green roof, the scroll paintings and silk carpets. In the gardens, magnolia trees, bamboo, and jasmine went up in flames, smoke lashing the air.

The God of War’s heart might be formed of ice, but fire was his weapon of choice. The immortals had turned against us, and I did not know why.

My grandfather was the Lord of Tianxia, and until now a trusted and loyal subject of the Queen of the Golden Desert in the skies. Long ago, our kingdom was pledged to serve the immortals who protected us from a fearsome enemy, and they’d built a wall around Tianxia with their magic. Beyond these borders, the rest of our world was said to live in ignorance of the immortals—while we were the custodians of their secrets. Some might imagine we were favored to serve them. But though we lived in the shade of the gods, we felt no closer to them.

Tonight was meant to be one of triumph. After all these years, Grandfather had finally secured the precious treasure the immortal queen sought. And though many were eager for a glimpse of it, he had refused, keeping it safely locked away.

“Such a treasure is more trouble than it’s worth. Greed turns too many honest men into thieves,” he’d confided in me, adding darkly, “The immortals are not known for their mercy.”

These last words echoed through me as cries of terror rang out from behind, accompanied by clattering footsteps and the frantic neighing of horses. As the thick scent of smoke clouded the air, I coughed loudly. My sweat-slicked hand was tucked in my grandfather’s grip as he pulled me through the hallways of our palace. We ran, my chest squeezing tighter until I thought it would burst, but I dared not falter.

I was not strong—possessed of a weak constitution, or so the physicians had claimed. When they thought I couldn’t hear, they speculated at my condition in puzzled tones, unable to pinpoint it to any known illness. Grandfather hired private tutors so I could study at my own pace, though my best friend Chengyin often accompanied me. I wasn’t ill, yet I never felt well either—constantly tired, a step behind the others. Nothing seemed to dispel the chill in my flesh, how it always felt like winter. After my parents had died, many urged my grandfather to marry again, or to adopt another heir—one stronger—but he’d refused.

“My granddaughter is not replaceable,” he’d told them.

The court whispered behind my back, those crueler placing bets on the number of years left to me, while some wiser but no less malicious bided their time in silence, eager for a rare chance at the throne. And maybe . . . one of them had tried to hasten my departure.

I remembered when the poison sank its claws into my body, just weeks ago. It struck like lightning, sapping what little strength I had, my joy, my will to live. I became a shadow of myself, slipping in and out of consciousness. A lock of my hair turned white overnight—not the purity of snow, but the glitter of starlight. It didn’t matter what tonics I drank, the medicines the physicians fed me, increasingly bitter and foul. Nothing helped, a relentless fatigue bearing down on my body until it felt like I was wrapped in a shroud. On the worst days, pain burrowed through my flesh like a vicious fever.

It was a soothsayer, an old crone, who claimed my condition was caused by drinking the waters of the Wangchuan River in the Netherworld. She’d pointed to my hair, nodding sagely as she said, “The waters of death are not meant for the living. There is no known cure.”

Most scoffed at her; impossible that such a thing could be found in our kingdom, if it existed at all. Grandfather was the only one who believed her . . . perhaps because no one else had an answer. Despite the grim prognosis, he kept searching for an antidote, offering a vast reward, though nothing had worked.

As we hurried along, I shivered, unable to recall the last time I’d felt warm. Grandfather’s eyes darted around frantically, so different from his usual calm self. I wanted to ask what had sparked the immortals’ anger but was afraid of distressing him further. His heart was weak; the physicians had warned him against straining it. As my anxiety spiked, I struggled to rein it in. Fear was a contagion that if left unchecked, would taint every spirit.

“Liyen, are you all right? Can you keep up?” Grandfather’s voice was hoarse with urgency.

I nodded, though we both knew it was a lie. My breathing was ragged, pain puncturing my chest as I pushed myself onward. When we rounded a corner, I stumbled into an unknown courtyard. A wall ringed the garden, blades of grass grazing my knees, the branches of withered trees splayed wide. Neglect clung to the place like a fog. Grandfather fumbled along the wall, tearing away a curtain of vines to reveal a small door, latched with a rusted iron bar. A key gleamed in his hand that he slid into the lock. As it sprang apart, he tossed away the bar, pulling the door open to reveal the forest beyond.

“We need to run,” he said.

“Yes, Grandfather.” My voice was steady though my legs shook, light speckling my vision. “I . . . I just need a moment.” I willed myself to move, even as I sagged against the wall.

Grandfather seemed to wilt as he reached into his sleeve and drew out a small flower. A shining lotus, its iridescent petals glittering like sunlit ice. “I was going to wait, Liyen—but I must give this to you now. Take it.”

Something in his tone made me hesitate when I should have obeyed unflinchingly. “What is this?”

Grandfather clasped my shoulder, looking into my face. He did this whenever he had something important to say, when he wanted to be sure I was listening. “Liyen, you are dying. The waters of the Wangchuan are fatal to us mortals.”

I recoiled from his words, shaking my head instinctively. While I’d heard this warning from the healers before, for Grandfather to say it extinguished any last flicker of doubt . . . and of hope. Death stalked us from birth, stealing even the strongest through its reaping—and though this was our fate, few went willingly.

As he blinked, his eyes suspiciously bright, my own grief spilled over. “I did as the physicians asked. I tried everything. I don’t want to die, Grandfather. I don’t want to leave you.”

“This was not your fault, Liyen. Life is not fair. We cannot help how the dice fall, but it’s our choice whether to keep playing.” Grandfather looked old and gray in this moment, worn out. “The lotus is the antidote to what you suffer—the only one of its kind. Only this can counter the waters of the Wangchuan, as long as you want to live.”

“Who wouldn’t?” An ache swelled in my chest until it hurt, of wanting something so much yet fearing it was out of reach. Hope was an indulgence I rarely allowed myself. When your days are dark, you forget the existence of dawn.