Chapter 7: Chapter 7

The road to the eastern province was a wound across the face of the mortal realm—raw, ragged, and unforgiving. Long Jie had traveled it once before, decades ago, when he'd been sent to quell a rebellion among the sea spirits who'd grown restless under the Dragon Emperor's neglect. He remembered the salt-heavy air, the screaming gulls, the way the coastline seemed to shift and breathe like a living thing.

He did not remember it being this damned long.

"You're slowing down," Long Sheng called from ahead, his voice annoyingly bright for someone who'd been walking for six hours straight. The boy had refused to stop for rest, claiming that his cousins' lives depended on speed. Jie suspected the mortal just wanted to prove he could keep up with a dragon.

"I'm not slowing down," Jie said, stepping over a exposed root with deliberate grace. "I'm savoring the scenery."

Long Sheng laughed—that same disarming, boyish laugh that seemed utterly at odds with the cold fury Jie had seen in his eyes back in the village. "There's nothing to savor. Just trees and more trees and—wait." He stopped mid-stride, his head tilting like a hunting dog catching a scent.

Jie was at his side in an instant, his senses flaring outward. Shadow-hunters? Wild beasts? Some remnant of his brothers' schemes? But he felt nothing—no qi signatures, no killing intent, no—

"Listen," Long Sheng whispered.

Jie listened. And then he heard it: a sound so faint, so fragile, that he might have dismissed it as the wind. But it wasn't the wind. It was a voice. A child's voice, thin and reedy, singing a song that Jie recognized with a jolt of ancient memory.

*"Nine sons of the Dragon, nine scales of the throne, one will rise to claim the sky, eight will stand alone..."*

It was a nursery rhyme. A very old nursery rhyme. One that predated the Dragon Emperor's death, one that had been whispered in the palaces of the immortal realm for centuries. But here, in the mortal wilderness, sung by a child's voice?

Jie moved before he could think, crashing through the underbrush toward the sound. Long Sheng followed, his mortal footsteps loud and clumsy, but Jie didn't have time to be annoyed. The singing was growing fainter, more distant, as if the child was moving away.

He burst into a clearing and stopped dead.

The child was not a child.

It was a fox. A small, silver-furred fox with eyes that glowed like molten gold. It sat on a moss-covered stone, its head cocked, its mouth moving in perfect synchronization with the fading song. When it saw Jie, it stopped singing and tilted its head the other way.

"Well," the fox said, its voice ancient and amused. "A dragon prince. In my woods. How unexpected."

Jie's hand went to his blade. "What are you?"

The fox yawned, showing teeth that were far too sharp. "I'm a messenger. And you're late." It flicked its tail toward the eastern horizon. "The Crane Mother has been expecting you for three days. She said you'd come, though I told her you'd take longer. Princes are always so slow."

Behind Jie, Long Sheng stumbled into the clearing, gasping for air. "What—what is that?"

"A problem," Jie said.

"A solution," the fox countered. It stood, stretching its slender body, and began to walk—no, *glide*—toward the treeline. "Come. She's waiting. And she doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Jie didn't move. His instincts screamed at him to be wary. This was too convenient, too deliberate. They'd barely been on the road for a day before encountering a supernatural messenger who claimed to know exactly where they were going. It could be a trap. One of his brothers' plots. A shadow-hunter ambush dressed in silver fur and riddles.

But the fox had called him a prince. And it had known he was coming.

"Who sent you?" Jie demanded.

The fox paused, looking back over its shoulder. Its golden eyes gleamed with something that might have been pity. "The woman who saved your father's life. The woman who held him as he died." It blinked slowly. "The woman you should have visited years ago, if you'd had any sense."

Jie's blood turned cold.

Long Sheng looked between them, confusion plain on his face. "Jie? What's it talking about?"

Jie didn't answer. Because he knew. He knew with a certainty that settled into his bones like frost.

The Crane Mother wasn't just a contact in the half-blood network. She wasn't just an old woman with a teahouse and a long memory.

She was the woman who had been at his father's side when the Dragon Emperor fell.

And she had been waiting for him.

---

The fox led them through the forest for another hour, weaving between ancient trees and across streams that seemed to flow in directions that defied logic. Long Sheng struggled to keep up, his mortal legs burning with exertion, but he didn't complain. Jie noticed the way the boy's eyes kept darting to the fox, watching its every movement with an intensity that spoke of deep suspicion.

Smart kid.

Finally, they emerged onto a coastal road that wound along the edge of a cliff, the sea crashing far below. In the distance, Jie could see a small town huddled against the shore, its buildings weathered by salt and wind. And at the edge of that town, perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the water, stood a teahouse.

It was a humble structure—two stories of dark wood and paper screens, with a faded sign above the door that read *Crane Rest*. But Jie could feel it before he even reached the threshold: a pulse of old, old power, buried deep beneath the mortal surface of the building. This was not just a teahouse. It was a fortress. A sanctuary.

The fox stopped at the door and sat down, wrapping its silver tail around its paws. "Go on," it said. "She's in the back room. The one with the garden."

Jie hesitated. Then he pushed open the door.

The interior was exactly what he'd expected from a mortal teahouse—wooden tables, the smell of tea and incense, a few patrons scattered about who looked up briefly before returning to their conversations. An old woman behind the counter nodded at him, her eyes sharp and knowing.

"Back room," she said, not waiting for him to ask. "Through the courtyard. Mind the koi pond."

Jie followed her directions, passing through a narrow corridor and into a small courtyard filled with carefully tended bonsai trees and a circular pond teeming with fat orange koi. The fish seemed to watch him as he passed, their eyes unnervingly intelligent.

And then he saw her.

She sat on a wooden bench beside the pond, a cup of tea cradled in her weathered hands. She was old—far older than any mortal should be—her face a map of wrinkles, her hair white as sea foam. But her eyes were sharp and clear, the same dark brown as the earth, and they fixed on Jie with an intensity that made him feel like a child again.

"So," she said, her voice like gravel and honey. "You finally came."

Jie bowed, deeper than he'd intended. "Crane Mother. I apologize for the intrusion."

She laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "Intrusion? Boy, I've been expecting you for thirty years. The only intrusion is that you took so long." She gestured to the bench across from her. "Sit. Drink. And tell me why you've really come."

Jie sat. His hand found the jade pendant in his sleeve, the coiled dragon warm against his palm. "You knew my father," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I did." Her eyes grew distant. "I knew him before he was emperor. I knew him when he was just a dragon with a dream and a temper. I knew him when he fell."

"Then you know who killed him."

The Crane Mother didn't flinch. She took a long sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving Jie's face. "I know a great many things, boy. But that knowledge comes with a price. And I'm not sure you're ready to pay it."

Jie's jaw tightened. "I'm not here to play games. My brothers are hunting half-bloods. They're killing innocents to secure their claim to the throne. And I need to know—"

"What you need to know," the Crane Mother interrupted, "is not what you think." She set down her cup and leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Your father didn't die because he was weak. He died because he trusted the wrong person. And that person is still alive. Still plotting. Still waiting for the right moment to strike."

Jie felt the pendant pulse against his palm. "Who?"

The Crane Mother opened her mouth to answer—

And then the explosion came.

The wall behind her erupted inward, sending shards of wood and stone flying. Jie moved on instinct, throwing himself in front of the Crane Mother, his qi flaring into a protective barrier. Through the smoke and debris, he saw figures emerging.

Shadow-hunters. Dozens of them. Their eyes glowed with that sickly green light, their weapons drawn.

And at their head stood a figure Jie knew all too well.

His brother. Long Chen. The third son. The one who had always been too eager to prove himself.

"Little brother," Long Chen said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "Fancy meeting you here. I thought you'd be off playing hero somewhere. Instead, you're consorting with half-bloods and traitors." He shook his head. "Father would be so disappointed."

Jie rose to his feet, his hand going to his blade. "What do you want, Chen?"

Long Chen smiled—a predator's smile, all teeth and no warmth. "The same thing I always want. Power." He nodded toward the Crane Mother. "And the woman who knows where Father's true will is hidden. The will that would name an heir. The will that would make everything complicated."

Jie's blood ran cold. "Father left a will?"

"Of course he did." Long Chen's smile widened. "You didn't think he'd leave the throne to chance, did you? No, our dear father planned everything. He just didn't plan on dying before he could reveal it." He took a step forward. "Now step aside, little brother. This doesn't have to end with you getting hurt."

Behind Jie, the Crane Mother let out a soft laugh. "You're too late, boy. The will is already gone. I gave it to someone safe, someone you'll never find."

Long Chen's eyes narrowed. "Liar."

"Am I?" The Crane Mother's voice was calm, almost bored. "You'd be surprised how many enemies underestimate an old woman with nothing left to lose."

Long Chen snarled and raised his hand. The shadow-hunters surged forward.

Jie drew his blade.

And then Long Sheng's voice rang out from somewhere behind them, high and clear:

"Jie! The pond! It's not a pond!"

Jie didn't have time to process the words. The shadow-hunters were on him, a wave of dark steel and poisoned blades. He fought with everything he had, his dragon qi flaring, his blade singing through the air. He cut down three, four, five of them, but more kept coming, endless and relentless.

And then he heard Long Chen's voice, cold and triumphant:

"I've got her."

Jie spun. Long Chen had the Crane Mother by the throat, his qi crackling around his hand like lightning. The old woman's face was calm, her eyes fixed on Jie with an odd, knowing expression.

"Remember what I said, boy," she rasped. "The pond."

Then Long Chen squeezed, and the Crane Mother's body went limp.

Jie screamed.

The sound tore from his throat, raw and