CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
W hen we return, Lady Ruilin is still fast asleep, curled on the ground.
“Should you give her the antidote too?” I ask.
Dian shakes her head. “Let Ruilin sleep. Night-root is harmless beyond inducing slumber.”
“We should also rest now. We need to ride out early tomorrow, back to the Iron Mountains.” Jin’s gaze is fixed on my hand, his brow furrowing.
“Not to Mist Island?” I ask, with both relief and a trace of disappointment.
“If we go there first, the Elders might refuse to let us leave again.” Dian hesitates then adds, “You don’t have a lot of time, Sister.”
My insides clench. As she sits down beside me, I flinch unthinkingly before I catch myself. Her expression clouds. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Everyone is afraid of you, Dian,” Jin replies with a sigh.
She glares at him. “In your case, Lord Jin-Yong, you’d be wise to hold on to your fear.”
As Jin scowls, stalking away to the trees on the far side, I try to explain to her. “You are my sister.” The word jars, tempering the flash of joy. “But we don’t really know each other yet. Just hours ago, you wanted to kill me, you loathed me… You’re terrifying.”
“That was before. Now we’re family.” She speaks without hesitation. “I’ll never hurt you, and I’ll kill anyone who does.”
Before I can reply, the pain in my head twists deeper. As I fumble through my herbs, Dian holds out a small, blue porcelain bottle. “This will give you some relief until we regain your ring. Take three drops for now—more, should your symptoms worsen.”
“Thank you.” I accept it gratefully, shaking out the dose and swallowing it. A sobering realization that I’m not doubting her anymore. As the pain subsides, I breathe easier.
“I’m sorry it took us so long to find you,” Dian says. “I couldn’t search for you until I was allowed to leave home. Since Mother and you were taken, more rules were enacted to keep our island safe—a heavy price imposed on all who leave.”
“What price?” I ask.
“I had to surrender the root of my ring—the key to our island. This way, if I’m caught, they can’t use me to find our home.
” She brushes the ring on her hand. “Mother would have cut it from hers once she was taken, else the Iron Mountains would have already invaded us. She was able to hide yours because the root hadn’t fully formed yet, to bond with your ring. ”
“Did it hurt?” I ask tentatively.
“Like a finger cut away.”
I shudder. “Is there any other risk to you for losing the root?”
“I must rely on another to bring me home,” she replies. “Fortunately, it doesn’t affect my magic. But if the root is cut before you’ve claimed your magic, the link to it will be irrevocably broken. It will be lost to you.”
It is a heavy price… and she did this for me.
“Tell me about your life here.” Though Dian still speaks like it’s a command, her tone is softer now.
“My aunt and uncle cared for me like family. We didn’t have much but were happy in our home. After they died, life became harder.”
“They aren’t your family; that wasn’t your home,” Dian says harshly, a glimpse of the fearsome witch.
I restrain the urge to snap at her. She’s not being spiteful; she’s hurt. “My aunt and uncle will always be my family—just as you are.”
Her throat convulses as she nods. “‘Yining’ is your childhood name; you must have remembered that, at least. Father will give you another, when we return. We are given our formal ones at our naming ceremonies once we turn sixteen.”
Her voice trails off. Maybe she realizes that my sixteenth has come and gone—that we spent it very differently. Dian probably had a grand celebration, while I spent mine with Mistress Henglan, not even realizing it was my birthday until it had passed.
“I’ll keep my name; it suits me.” There is a tug of resentment at everything I missed, the past too knotted to untangle in a day.
“If you like it, then it’s a good name,” she concedes.
Some of the tightness inside me loosens. “Tell me more about you, our family—anything.”
“I would share what I can, if you’d allow me.” When I nod, Dian rummages in her pouch to pull out a small leaf that’s more gray than green, purplish veins streaking its surface. “It’s a bond-leaf. It allows one to see into another’s mind briefly, if both are willing.”
Dian tears the leaf into two and chews one half, handing me the other.
As I bite it, an excruciating bitterness floods my mouth.
I gag, forcing it down despite wanting to spit it out.
She leans forward to touch my forehead, and this time I don’t recoil.
A tingling rush courses through me; it feels like falling as I sway on the ground.
Fragments of images rise like bubbles. I snatch at them, some slipping through my reach—each holding a shard of a memory.
Dian’s face fills my mind, her hair in braids.
Another girl appears beside her, smaller, with dark eyes.
Is that me? The younger girl snatches a book from Dian, ripping a page.
I wince as the Dian with braids—justifiably—yells at the younger me, then hurls the book at my head.
A woman hurries into the room, pulling Dian away and scolding her.
Resentment crowds me, maybe her own emotions—the simmering anger underscored by a stream of affection.
The image blurs, another appearing… of Dian crying in bed, her cheeks wet with tears.
Back then, I’d crawled beneath her covers and held her until her sobs eased as she wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
More glimpses spill into my mind, of us through time: playing together, fighting, laughing—until everything stills, falling away, leaving just an image of Dian standing by the door.
Alone. Waiting. No one returns, such emptiness in her chest, her eyes stinging like she’s wept herself dry.
Night falls, then flees, the day rising once more.
The anguish in her expression stabs me, a hollow gouged, the sense of never being whole again.
I’m crying as the bitterness of the leaf fades from my tongue, the memories vanishing like mist, the rawness of her emotions still sweeping through me like a torrent.
“You were Mother’s favorite,” she says hoarsely.
“I was younger; I just needed more attention.” My voice trails off. “The day you were waiting… was it when we were taken?”
Dian nods slowly. “We’d been playing. It was your turn to hide. But you ran too far, leaving the shores of our island, crossing into the wilderness of Thorn Valley. It was then the Iron Mountains soldiers seized you. I chased after, but Mother was faster. She ordered me to find help.”
As she speaks, my head is whirling, filling with patches of memories like a picture ripped apart and cobbled together. Something catches at my mind like a loose thread pulled, beginning to unravel… like my sister’s words or the herb I’ve eaten has unknotted something tangled tight.
“It was cold, the skies gray,” I begin haltingly. “I was hiding when I saw the kite in the sky. Beautiful, shaped like a bird, with a tail of red and gold.” My voice is frail, it shakes—for a moment I feel like the girl I was with my family, sheltered and loved.
“What else do you recall?” Dian asks softly.
“The air was fragrant—the scent like mandarins, but sweeter.”
Dian frowns. “The fruit of the Radiant Sky Trees. But it was winter then, none of the trees bearing fruit. It must have been a trap the Iron Mountains soldiers laid to lure the Sun Dragon.”
“The dragon was flying toward the kite.” Awe creeps into my voice at the recollection of the shining creature.
“He went too far—across the water, where Mother warned us never to play. I chased him, calling out, but he didn’t hear.
I ran down the shore, and then… I was in the water. I wasn’t on our island anymore.”
My throat closes as the shadows of terror descend.
“The soldiers in iron armor caught me—then Mother. We were crying but she was holding me; I was afraid, but with her, I felt safe. Once we were in the palace, they separated us.” My words break, tears sliding down my cheeks.
“I remember her calling my name. I never saw her again.”
There is a kind of grief that swells like an endless gulf upon hearing a tragedy unwind, that one is helpless to stop. Its weight presses so hard on my chest, I cannot speak, I can barely move or breathe.
“I remember,” I say at last, pushing through the hurt. “Though I almost wish I didn’t.”
Dian hesitates, then hugs me. I don’t recoil this time, leaning against her as she strokes the back of my head with such tenderness, more tears crowd my eyes. I hate crying, I hate others seeing me this way… yet with her, I don’t mind.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers again and again, like somehow it will ease the loss. It doesn’t; nothing ever will. But I’m glad she’s here… that we’ve found each other.
“We tried to find you, to bring you and Mother back. But they knew we were coming, they prepared for our attack.”
Rage crystallizes in me alongside a shattering remorse. “Mother was caught because of me.”
“You were trying to help the dragon. You were so young, you didn’t realize what was happening.”
She tries to comfort me, but if I hadn’t chased after the dragon, we’d all be in our home now—together. “How did Mother die?” I force myself to ask.
“They told us she died from exhaustion. The Iron Mountains used her well, extracting what they could from her,” she says bitterly. “Back then, they were careful not to allow any outsiders to enter the palace, even delaying the alliance negotiations with Thorn Valley. She was alone.”
Anguish punctures my heart. A thin line, between knowing and imagining, yet each reality is a world apart. Until now, there had always been a flicker of hope, a spark of possibility—now, forever extinguished.
I close my eyes, cursing at fate for ripping me from my family, for my mother’s suffering, her death.
But what use is regret? It wouldn’t bring back all we lost. I’m angry—at myself, at Jin, at his people, at the world and how cruel it is, how a moment can tear our lives apart.
But I won’t ever forget who the real enemy is, the one who broke my family apart like a fist smashed against porcelain.
“The Iron Mountains—they will pay.”
Dian’s eyes blaze. “We will make them, Sister.”
She doesn’t take my hand, nor do I reach for hers. There is no tenderness in this moment: just the wrench of grief, the stab of vengeance, a wretched gnawing fury that is a breath from hate.
“All the time we’ve lost,” my sister sighs. “All the memories.”
“We’ll make new ones,” I promise.
I don’t think, I don’t question, hugging her now.
Her breath catches, and then we’re crying again, not in the delicate way but raw, ugly, racking sobs.
Nothing else exists right now, just my sister and me, wishing our mother were still here.
But I’m not alone anymore, I have my sister—and while life might be cruel, here, it’s been kind.
We hold each other for a long time, until it feels like the space between us folds away, our years apart shed like autumn leaves, making way for new ones to sprout.
As I draw back, she brushes my cheek just like my aunt used to when she was alive.
It makes me think that though the Iron Mountains is a world away from Mist Island, its language of love might be the same.