CHAPTER ONE
T he morning following the full moon is always the best for business. I hate it—dread coiling in my gut with every night the moon swells wider. Market day in Twin Cypress Village attracts vendors from across the Iron Mountains selling rare delicacies, fragrant tea, silk that shimmers like water…
While I sell lies.
“Hurry, else the best places will be gone,” Mistress Henglan urges as she weaves between the stalls. My uncle married her after my aunt died, and when he passed away, she became my sole guardian.
I quicken my pace to follow my step-aunt, her thin blue coat flapping over her long pants.
My clothes are the same except a little more threadbare, my pants three inches too short.
As the wind blows, I shiver, glancing at the jagged silver-white mountains encircling us like a cursed crown.
Beautiful, yet when I look at them too long, something clenches inside me like I’m trapped in their jaws.
Travelers often complain our autumn feels like winter elsewhere, a stark difference from the warmth of the Amber Forest or the shores of the Pearl Ocean. One day, I’ll find out if what they say is true—though it feels like an impossible dream tucked away in my mind.
I glance at Mistress Henglan, the sunlight glinting off the thin iron hoops in her ears, the small dagger by her waist. Our people covet the iron of our mountains, just as those in other kingdoms desire gold and jade.
I possess neither, just a rusted knife of some ordinary metal, unable to afford better.
While I earn our money, Mistress Henglan hoards every coin.
I don’t complain; it’s safer this way, just as it’s safer for me to steer clear of the soldiers and the threat of the mines.
The iron of our mountains is the lifeblood of our kingdom. Our elders tell stories of how it is blessed by the gods, believed to ward off evil spirits and the magic-wielders of Mist Island—maybe why the late king built a wall of iron around his palace.
After all, magic is no laughing matter in the Iron Mountains.
Not a trace of it exists in our kingdom, any whispered embers swiftly stamped out.
Once, I heard an old storyteller speak of the mystical starfire buried deeper in the mines—claiming they were the shards of a celestial jewel that fell from the heavens, casting their unearthly sheen over our mountains.
Those listening had scoffed, denouncing him as a liar.
Soon after, the guards came, taking the storyteller away.
I ran away then, afraid to even be caught listening.
All that matters is keeping free of the mines.
While the mountains glitter from the outside, towering until they seem to graze the skies, the mines tunnel into their depths, where the days are blacker than night, the air clogged with dust and ringing with the incessant thud of chisels. My uncle died there.
As Mistress Henglan points at an empty space between a merchant selling fruit and another with jars of wine, I squeeze into the gap and set down the two small stools I’ve been carrying.
A wooden crate from a nearby vendor serves as our table.
I drape a piece of cloth over it, setting up a sign that reads FORTUNE TELLER.
I’m not a good fortune teller, not even a trained one, though after a couple of years the lies flow more smoothly.
I don’t expect my customers to return. Mistress Henglan and I work across the surrounding villages, never returning to the same market within six months.
Each time, I change my disguise, my step-aunt careful to keep her face covered beneath her hood.
Today, my skin is painted a sallow hue that lends the illusion of lines I don’t possess, a constellation of auspicious moles dotted across my brow, my hair tucked into a piece of cloth.
“Do we need all this?” I asked Mistress Henglan once.
“Nobody wants their fortune told by a young girl,” she replied scornfully. “You need to look like you’ve seen more of life.”
If only my step-aunt could read the fortunes, but she is the better thief. While I can lift one’s purse with ease, Mistress Henglan can slip a bracelet or a chain from an unsuspecting victim without them stirring.
My insides churn as I sit by the table. What we do is dangerous, but it’s safer than roaming the streets with the other pickpockets.
This way, we choose our targets, we keep them distracted.
Whenever possible, I try to secure those who look like they can afford it—catching their eyes, nodding like I understand the worries sunken over their faces.
No matter their age or appearance, they usually look the same: Tired.
Sad. Unwell. They come clinging to a wisp of a dream, seeking answers to impossible questions.
They believe me because I tell them what they want to hear, what no honest person would—and when they leave, they usually look a little more hopeful.
Or maybe I just tell myself this to ease my own conscience.
It’s still early, the market quiet, the scent of steamed meat buns, bread, and fried dough fritters wafting through the air.
By afternoon it will be tainted with the stench of sweat, spoiled food, and waste.
As several of the fruit vendor’s customers gather, they begin talking about “the invitation,” and I lean closer to listen.
Mistress Henglan slaps my arm. At once, I straighten, turning to her. She doesn’t beat or starve me anymore, maybe because I do what she wants. Principles tend to fall into the shadow when your stomach is hollowed with hunger.
“We must pay the king’s guards what we owe next week,” she reminds me.
“The crown prince’s guards,” I correct her without thinking. “The king is dead.”
“The whole kingdom knows that,” she snaps.
“With a special tax levied for us to show our grief. The only sorrow we feel is in our purses.” My expression must irk her as she pushes her face closer, her eyes gleaming like chestnuts.
“Don’t forget, I’m helping you. If we don’t earn enough, the guards will take you to the mines.
You don’t want to know what they do to young women there. ”
The words hang between us, a familiar threat.
One day soon, I’ll leave this place and her.
I’m already nineteen; I just need money.
I’ve never dared to steal from her before, but if I’m lucky today, if Mistress Henglan wanders off to the dice tables, maybe I’ll get to carve away a little of my earnings before she claims every coin.
I think of leaving all the time now. When my aunt and uncle were alive, things were different.
They’d adopted me as a young child and treated me like their own.
Some days I wonder about my real parents, but I don’t remember anything of my life before.
All I have left of it is a worn handkerchief and a wooden ring—the one Mistress Henglan declared was worthless when she went through my possessions to sell anything of value.
I’m tempting fate by still wearing the ring, but it feels wrong whenever I take it off, like something is missing.
Fortunately, Mistress Henglan has never remarked on it again, as though she’s forgotten it.
As I rub the ring now, it comforts me; it makes me feel safe.
Mistress Henglan was the one who recruited my uncle to join a group of bandits, even before they’d married.
She knew these bandits well, perhaps she’d been trained by them too.
The treacherous paths between the mountains are a boon to those who know their way around.
When the crops perished after a harsh storm, there were few choices left to my uncle to avert starvation: the mines or banditry.
Uncle joined them to rob the rich travelers, but he never hurt anyone.
Maybe it made him a bad thief, but it makes my heart a little less heavy to think about it.
When my uncle was alive, his broad presence filled the awkward gaps between my step-aunt and me.
Mistress Henglan had never warmed to me, but there was peace between us, the brittle kind.
After Uncle was caught during a night raid by soldiers, he was sentenced to toil in the mines for his thievery.
Whenever I think of him, trapped in the lightless bowels of the mountains, dying alone—my chest grows so tight I can’t breathe.
As tears prick my eyes now, I brush them away, but Mistress Henglan’s cold stare slides to me.
“Don’t smudge your face powder,” she warns.
I want to wipe it all off. The yellowish powder itches and makes me look haggard. But then a woman approaches, a brush of white in her hair, her long robe grazing her ankles. A delicate chain of iron glints from her neck, a jade bangle on her wrist.
I incline my head but don’t smile, afraid to chase her away.
The woman sits before me, wordlessly pushing three copper coins across the table.
I don’t charge much; it’s easier to draw customers in.
But at times, through sheer dumb luck, I happen to say something of use.
Then they usually offer more—copper or even silver, which swiftly vanishes into my step-aunt’s pouch.
“How can I help you, madam?” I clasp my hands together. “A palm reading, or are there answers you seek?”
Her gaze fixes on me. “Your moles—are you truly marked by the gods?”
“Who knows for certain? But sometimes I sense things, sometimes I’m right.” A safe answer. Braggarts invite more scrutiny and suspicion.
She rubs her necklace, gnawing her lip. “What if you’re wrong?”
“One’s fate can be changed just by seeking answers,” I say evasively as Mistress Henglan moves behind the customer, her bright eyes riveted on the chain. We don’t usually steal iron; the risk is too great, the items easily missed. I shake my head to dissuade her, but she ignores me.
The woman fidgets impatiently. At once, I take her papery hand. “What would you like to know, madam?”