Turning Point 18
The first blow landed across Shen Weiyu’s back, and he felt it twice.
Once in his own flesh, where the leather-wrapped rod split the silk of his robe and bit into his spine. Once in his chest, where the golden thread connecting him to Yuning pulled taut and vibrated like a plucked zither string. Weiyu bit the inside of his cheek and tasted copper.
The First Prince’s dungeon was a wet stone throat beneath the Eastern Palace. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, a slow, maddening percussion. The air smelled of mold and old blood and the sharp salt of fear. They had stripped Weiyu of his outer robe, his jade hairpin, his shoes. The cold of the floor seeped through his thin underrobe and into his knees.
He had been kneeling for two hours.
The First Prince—Zhao Yuming—sat on a wooden chair three paces away, his robes immaculate, his hands folded in his lap. He was not a large man, but he had the stillness of a snake before it struck. His eyes were the same dark brown as Yuning’s, but where Yuning’s held warmth and mischief, Yuming’s were flat, like stones at the bottom of a dry well.
“You are remarkably quiet,” Yuming said. He gestured to the guard holding the rod. “Again.”
The rod came down across Weiyu’s shoulders. The impact drove him forward, his palms slapping against the wet stone floor. The golden thread in his chest flared white-hot. He felt Yuning’s pain echo through the bond—a sharp, startled gasp from somewhere far away, on the battlefield where Yuning was supposed to be winning.
*Don’t feel it*, Weiyu thought desperately. *Don’t let him feel it.*
But the bond did not care for his wishes. It was a river, and pain flowed both ways.
Yuming stood and walked around Weiyu in a slow circle. His boots clicked against the stone. “Do you know what I find most fascinating about you, Scribe? It is not your prophecies. It is your loyalty. To my useless, reckless brother, of all people. A man who steals ink and writes love letters to generals’ daughters. A man who cannot sit still for a single council meeting. A man who—”
“A man who will never be you,” Weiyu said.
The words came out before he could stop them. The curse of prophecy was not the only thing that made him speak truths he should not. Yuning’s recklessness had infected him through the bond. He could feel it now, a hot, reckless pulse in his blood that was not his own.
Yuming’s hand closed around Weiyu’s hair and yanked his head back. “What did you say?”
Weiyu looked up at him. His vision swam. A cut on his forehead had bled into his left eye, turning the world red. But he could still see Yuming’s face, twisted with a rage he usually kept hidden behind silk smiles and courtly pleasantries.
“I said,” Weiyu repeated, his voice hoarse but steady, “that you will never be him. You have spent your entire life trying to earn the throne. Yuning has spent his entire life trying to avoid it. And yet, when the moment came, he was the one the soldiers followed. Not you.”
Yuming’s grip tightened. His nails dug into Weiyu’s scalp. “You think your little rebellion will succeed? I have ten thousand men surrounding the capital. I have the grain stores. I have the treasury. Yuning has a few hundred farmers with rusty swords and a scribe who cannot stop bleeding long enough to write a prophecy.”
“He has me,” Weiyu said. “That is enough.”
It was not a prophecy. It was not even a lie. It was simply the truth, spoken with a certainty that surprised even himself.
Yuming released his hair and stepped back. He smoothed his robes. “You are in love with him.”
Weiyu said nothing.
“It is written all over your face.” Yuming’s voice was soft now, almost gentle. “The great Jade Scribe, the cold, emotionless prophet who has never smiled in his life, in love with a disgraced prince. How poetic. How tragic.” He tilted his head. “Do you think he loves you back?”
The question landed like a blade between Weiyu’s ribs. He had asked himself the same thing a hundred times, in the dark hours of the night when the bond was quiet and he could pretend he was alone. Yuning was affectionate, yes. Yuning had kissed him in the library, desperate and hungry. Yuning had held him after the false prophecy nearly killed him. But Yuning was also reckless with his heart, giving pieces of it to anyone who asked—a general’s daughter, a princess, a tavern girl. What was a cursed scribe compared to all of that?
“It does not matter,” Weiyu said.
“It matters to me.” Yuming crouched in front of him, bringing his face level with Weiyu’s. “Because I am going to kill you. Slowly. And every time I strike, my brother will feel it. Every cut, every bruise, every broken bone. He will feel it all, and he will know that it is his fault. That his love for you is what killed you.”
Weiyu’s chest tightened. The golden thread pulsed, and through it, he felt a surge of emotion that was not his own—rage, hot and blinding, mixed with fear so sharp it tasted like metal.
Yuning was coming.
*No*, Weiyu thought. *No, stay on the battlefield. Stay with the plan. Do not come for me.*
But he knew Yuning would not listen. Yuning had never listened to a single thing Weiyu had said. He had stolen the ink. He had used the bond to drag Weiyu to taverns. He had kissed him in a library when they should have been planning. He had abandoned the rebellion the moment Weiyu was taken.
The plan had been simple: Yuning would lead the false rebellion, draw out the First Prince’s allies, and trap them. Weiyu would write the prophecy of victory, a self-fulfilling lie that would break the First Prince’s hold on the court. It was clean. It was strategic. It was the kind of plan Weiyu had been crafting for years.
And then the First Prince’s men had found him in the scribe’s quarters, and the plan had shattered.
Yuming stood and gestured to the guard. “Again. The ribs this time.”
The rod came down. Weiyu heard something crack. The pain was a white explosion behind his eyes. He felt Yuning’s answering cry through the bond, distant but unmistakable.
*I am sorry*, Weiyu thought. *I am sorry I am so weak.*
The guard struck again. Weiyu’s vision went gray at the edges. He slumped forward, his forehead pressing against the cold stone. The taste of iron filled his mouth.
“He is coming,” Yuming said, almost idly. “I can see it in your face. The bond tells you, does it not? He is abandoning his army. He is riding here alone, like the fool he is.” Yuming laughed. “And when he arrives, I will kill him in front of you. Then I will kill you. And the throne will be mine.”
Weiyu closed his eyes. He reached for the bond, not to feel Yuning’s pain, but to send something back. A message. A warning.
*Turn around. It is a trap. Do not come.*
But the bond did not carry words. It carried only emotions, raw and unfiltered. And what Weiyu felt from Yuning was not caution or hesitation. It was a single, burning certainty.
*I am coming. Hold on.*
The golden thread blazed. Weiyu felt Yuning’s horse galloping beneath him, felt the wind in Yuning’s hair, felt the sword in Yuning’s hand. He felt Yuning’s love, fierce and desperate and absolute.
And for the first time, Weiyu believed it.
The dungeon door exploded inward.
Not with a crash, but with a splintering roar that shook the walls. Wood shards flew across the room. The guard with the rod stumbled back, his hand going to his sword. Yuming turned, his face shifting from smug satisfaction to cold fury.
Yuning stood in the doorway.
He was covered in blood. Not his own, Weiyu realized—the blood of the guards he had cut through to reach the dungeon. His sword was red to the hilt. His hair had come loose from its ribbon, and his eyes were wild, the eyes of a man who had stopped thinking and started acting.
“Yuning,” Weiyu whispered. “No.”
Yuning’s gaze found him. Something in his face broke and reformed at the same time. “I told you,” he said, his voice rough. “I told you I would not let them take you.”
“The plan—”
“The plan is dead.” Yuning stepped into the room. The guard lunged at him. Yuning sidestepped, caught the man’s wrist, and twisted. The sword clattered to the floor. Yuning drove his blade through the guard’s chest without looking. “I do not care about the plan. I care about you.”
Yuming drew his own sword. “How touching. The fool prince rides to save his lover. Do you think this changes anything? I have a hundred men in this palace. You will be dead before you reach the gate.”
“Then I will die here.” Yuning’s voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm. “With him.”
He crossed the room in three strides. Yuming swung his sword. Yuning blocked it, the clash of steel ringing through the dungeon. They circled each other, two brothers who had been fighting since childhood, now fighting for the throne and for a scribe who could barely kneel.
Weiyu watched through a haze of pain. The golden thread between them was singing, a high, bright note that drowned out the sound of the battle. He could feel Yuning’s heartbeat, fast and strong. He could feel Yuning’s focus, sharp as a blade.
Yuming was a skilled swordsman. But Yuning was desperate.
The fight lasted less than a minute. Yuning feinted left, then drove his sword through Yuming’s shoulder. The First Prince screamed and dropped his weapon. Yuning kicked him to the ground and stood over him, the tip of his blade at his brother’s throat.
“Yield,” Yuning said.
Yuming laughed, blood bubbling from his lips. “Kill me. It changes nothing. The court will never accept you. The Princess of Yan will never—”
Yuning pressed the blade deeper. “I said yield.”
“Yuning.” Weiyu’s voice was barely a whisper. “Do not.”
Yuning looked at him. His eyes were still wild, but something softened when they met Weiyu’s. “He hurt you.”
“I know.” Weiyu forced himself to straighten, ignoring the fire in his ribs. “But killing him here, like this, makes you a murderer. Not a prince. Not an emperor. A murderer.”
Yuning’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he did not move. Then he pulled his sword back and stepped away from his brother.
“Get out,” he said to Yuming. “Leave the capital. Leave the empire. If I see your face again, I will not hesitate.”
Yuming scrambled to his feet, clutching his shoulder. He stumbled past them, out the broken door, into the darkness of the corridor.
And then it was just the two of them.
Yuning dropped his sword. The clang echoed off the stone walls. He crossed to Weiyu and fell to his knees, his hands cupping Weiyu’s face, his thumbs brushing away the blood.
“I felt everything,” Yuning said, his voice breaking. “Every blow. Every crack. I felt it all, and I could not reach you fast enough.”
“You are here now,” Weiyu said.
“I love you.”
The words hung in the damp air. Weiyu stared at Yuning, at the blood on his face, the tears in his eyes, the raw, unguarded truth in his voice.
“I love you,” Yuning repeated. “I have loved you since the night you visited me in my manor, when I was humiliated and broken. I have loved you since you wrote that false prophecy and nearly died for me. I have loved you since the library, since the tavern, since the moment I stole your ink and bound us together. I love you, Shen Weiyu. And I will burn this empire to the ground before I let anyone hurt you again.”
Weiyu’s chest ached. Not from the curse, not from the wounds, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of Yuning’s love pouring through the bond. It was warm. It was bright. It was everything he had never allowed himself to want.
“I love you too,” Weiyu said.
The words were clumsy. They were not poetic. They were not worthy of the Jade Scribe. But they were true.
Yuning kissed him. It was desperate and bloody and perfect. Weiyu tasted copper and salt and Yuning’s tears. The golden thread between them blazed, and for a moment, the curse was silent.
When they broke apart, Yuning pressed his forehead against Weiyu’s.
“We are going to survive this,” Yuning said. “I do not know how. But we are going to survive this together.”
Weiyu closed his eyes. He could feel the future pressing against his mind, a thousand possible paths, most of them ending in blood and fire. But for the first time, he did not look.
He chose not to know.
“Together,” he agreed.
Yuning lifted him, one arm under his knees, one arm around his back. Weiyu’s ribs screamed in protest, but he did not care. He buried his face in Yuning’s neck and let himself be carried out of the dungeon, into the cold night air, toward whatever came next.
Behind them, the dungeon door lay in splinters. The golden thread between them pulsed, steady and bright, a lifeline in the dark.
Once in his own flesh, where the leather-wrapped rod split the silk of his robe and bit into his spine. Once in his chest, where the golden thread connecting him to Yuning pulled taut and vibrated like a plucked zither string. Weiyu bit the inside of his cheek and tasted copper.
The First Prince’s dungeon was a wet stone throat beneath the Eastern Palace. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, a slow, maddening percussion. The air smelled of mold and old blood and the sharp salt of fear. They had stripped Weiyu of his outer robe, his jade hairpin, his shoes. The cold of the floor seeped through his thin underrobe and into his knees.
He had been kneeling for two hours.
The First Prince—Zhao Yuming—sat on a wooden chair three paces away, his robes immaculate, his hands folded in his lap. He was not a large man, but he had the stillness of a snake before it struck. His eyes were the same dark brown as Yuning’s, but where Yuning’s held warmth and mischief, Yuming’s were flat, like stones at the bottom of a dry well.
“You are remarkably quiet,” Yuming said. He gestured to the guard holding the rod. “Again.”
The rod came down across Weiyu’s shoulders. The impact drove him forward, his palms slapping against the wet stone floor. The golden thread in his chest flared white-hot. He felt Yuning’s pain echo through the bond—a sharp, startled gasp from somewhere far away, on the battlefield where Yuning was supposed to be winning.
*Don’t feel it*, Weiyu thought desperately. *Don’t let him feel it.*
But the bond did not care for his wishes. It was a river, and pain flowed both ways.
Yuming stood and walked around Weiyu in a slow circle. His boots clicked against the stone. “Do you know what I find most fascinating about you, Scribe? It is not your prophecies. It is your loyalty. To my useless, reckless brother, of all people. A man who steals ink and writes love letters to generals’ daughters. A man who cannot sit still for a single council meeting. A man who—”
“A man who will never be you,” Weiyu said.
The words came out before he could stop them. The curse of prophecy was not the only thing that made him speak truths he should not. Yuning’s recklessness had infected him through the bond. He could feel it now, a hot, reckless pulse in his blood that was not his own.
Yuming’s hand closed around Weiyu’s hair and yanked his head back. “What did you say?”
Weiyu looked up at him. His vision swam. A cut on his forehead had bled into his left eye, turning the world red. But he could still see Yuming’s face, twisted with a rage he usually kept hidden behind silk smiles and courtly pleasantries.
“I said,” Weiyu repeated, his voice hoarse but steady, “that you will never be him. You have spent your entire life trying to earn the throne. Yuning has spent his entire life trying to avoid it. And yet, when the moment came, he was the one the soldiers followed. Not you.”
Yuming’s grip tightened. His nails dug into Weiyu’s scalp. “You think your little rebellion will succeed? I have ten thousand men surrounding the capital. I have the grain stores. I have the treasury. Yuning has a few hundred farmers with rusty swords and a scribe who cannot stop bleeding long enough to write a prophecy.”
“He has me,” Weiyu said. “That is enough.”
It was not a prophecy. It was not even a lie. It was simply the truth, spoken with a certainty that surprised even himself.
Yuming released his hair and stepped back. He smoothed his robes. “You are in love with him.”
Weiyu said nothing.
“It is written all over your face.” Yuming’s voice was soft now, almost gentle. “The great Jade Scribe, the cold, emotionless prophet who has never smiled in his life, in love with a disgraced prince. How poetic. How tragic.” He tilted his head. “Do you think he loves you back?”
The question landed like a blade between Weiyu’s ribs. He had asked himself the same thing a hundred times, in the dark hours of the night when the bond was quiet and he could pretend he was alone. Yuning was affectionate, yes. Yuning had kissed him in the library, desperate and hungry. Yuning had held him after the false prophecy nearly killed him. But Yuning was also reckless with his heart, giving pieces of it to anyone who asked—a general’s daughter, a princess, a tavern girl. What was a cursed scribe compared to all of that?
“It does not matter,” Weiyu said.
“It matters to me.” Yuming crouched in front of him, bringing his face level with Weiyu’s. “Because I am going to kill you. Slowly. And every time I strike, my brother will feel it. Every cut, every bruise, every broken bone. He will feel it all, and he will know that it is his fault. That his love for you is what killed you.”
Weiyu’s chest tightened. The golden thread pulsed, and through it, he felt a surge of emotion that was not his own—rage, hot and blinding, mixed with fear so sharp it tasted like metal.
Yuning was coming.
*No*, Weiyu thought. *No, stay on the battlefield. Stay with the plan. Do not come for me.*
But he knew Yuning would not listen. Yuning had never listened to a single thing Weiyu had said. He had stolen the ink. He had used the bond to drag Weiyu to taverns. He had kissed him in a library when they should have been planning. He had abandoned the rebellion the moment Weiyu was taken.
The plan had been simple: Yuning would lead the false rebellion, draw out the First Prince’s allies, and trap them. Weiyu would write the prophecy of victory, a self-fulfilling lie that would break the First Prince’s hold on the court. It was clean. It was strategic. It was the kind of plan Weiyu had been crafting for years.
And then the First Prince’s men had found him in the scribe’s quarters, and the plan had shattered.
Yuming stood and gestured to the guard. “Again. The ribs this time.”
The rod came down. Weiyu heard something crack. The pain was a white explosion behind his eyes. He felt Yuning’s answering cry through the bond, distant but unmistakable.
*I am sorry*, Weiyu thought. *I am sorry I am so weak.*
The guard struck again. Weiyu’s vision went gray at the edges. He slumped forward, his forehead pressing against the cold stone. The taste of iron filled his mouth.
“He is coming,” Yuming said, almost idly. “I can see it in your face. The bond tells you, does it not? He is abandoning his army. He is riding here alone, like the fool he is.” Yuming laughed. “And when he arrives, I will kill him in front of you. Then I will kill you. And the throne will be mine.”
Weiyu closed his eyes. He reached for the bond, not to feel Yuning’s pain, but to send something back. A message. A warning.
*Turn around. It is a trap. Do not come.*
But the bond did not carry words. It carried only emotions, raw and unfiltered. And what Weiyu felt from Yuning was not caution or hesitation. It was a single, burning certainty.
*I am coming. Hold on.*
The golden thread blazed. Weiyu felt Yuning’s horse galloping beneath him, felt the wind in Yuning’s hair, felt the sword in Yuning’s hand. He felt Yuning’s love, fierce and desperate and absolute.
And for the first time, Weiyu believed it.
The dungeon door exploded inward.
Not with a crash, but with a splintering roar that shook the walls. Wood shards flew across the room. The guard with the rod stumbled back, his hand going to his sword. Yuming turned, his face shifting from smug satisfaction to cold fury.
Yuning stood in the doorway.
He was covered in blood. Not his own, Weiyu realized—the blood of the guards he had cut through to reach the dungeon. His sword was red to the hilt. His hair had come loose from its ribbon, and his eyes were wild, the eyes of a man who had stopped thinking and started acting.
“Yuning,” Weiyu whispered. “No.”
Yuning’s gaze found him. Something in his face broke and reformed at the same time. “I told you,” he said, his voice rough. “I told you I would not let them take you.”
“The plan—”
“The plan is dead.” Yuning stepped into the room. The guard lunged at him. Yuning sidestepped, caught the man’s wrist, and twisted. The sword clattered to the floor. Yuning drove his blade through the guard’s chest without looking. “I do not care about the plan. I care about you.”
Yuming drew his own sword. “How touching. The fool prince rides to save his lover. Do you think this changes anything? I have a hundred men in this palace. You will be dead before you reach the gate.”
“Then I will die here.” Yuning’s voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm. “With him.”
He crossed the room in three strides. Yuming swung his sword. Yuning blocked it, the clash of steel ringing through the dungeon. They circled each other, two brothers who had been fighting since childhood, now fighting for the throne and for a scribe who could barely kneel.
Weiyu watched through a haze of pain. The golden thread between them was singing, a high, bright note that drowned out the sound of the battle. He could feel Yuning’s heartbeat, fast and strong. He could feel Yuning’s focus, sharp as a blade.
Yuming was a skilled swordsman. But Yuning was desperate.
The fight lasted less than a minute. Yuning feinted left, then drove his sword through Yuming’s shoulder. The First Prince screamed and dropped his weapon. Yuning kicked him to the ground and stood over him, the tip of his blade at his brother’s throat.
“Yield,” Yuning said.
Yuming laughed, blood bubbling from his lips. “Kill me. It changes nothing. The court will never accept you. The Princess of Yan will never—”
Yuning pressed the blade deeper. “I said yield.”
“Yuning.” Weiyu’s voice was barely a whisper. “Do not.”
Yuning looked at him. His eyes were still wild, but something softened when they met Weiyu’s. “He hurt you.”
“I know.” Weiyu forced himself to straighten, ignoring the fire in his ribs. “But killing him here, like this, makes you a murderer. Not a prince. Not an emperor. A murderer.”
Yuning’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he did not move. Then he pulled his sword back and stepped away from his brother.
“Get out,” he said to Yuming. “Leave the capital. Leave the empire. If I see your face again, I will not hesitate.”
Yuming scrambled to his feet, clutching his shoulder. He stumbled past them, out the broken door, into the darkness of the corridor.
And then it was just the two of them.
Yuning dropped his sword. The clang echoed off the stone walls. He crossed to Weiyu and fell to his knees, his hands cupping Weiyu’s face, his thumbs brushing away the blood.
“I felt everything,” Yuning said, his voice breaking. “Every blow. Every crack. I felt it all, and I could not reach you fast enough.”
“You are here now,” Weiyu said.
“I love you.”
The words hung in the damp air. Weiyu stared at Yuning, at the blood on his face, the tears in his eyes, the raw, unguarded truth in his voice.
“I love you,” Yuning repeated. “I have loved you since the night you visited me in my manor, when I was humiliated and broken. I have loved you since you wrote that false prophecy and nearly died for me. I have loved you since the library, since the tavern, since the moment I stole your ink and bound us together. I love you, Shen Weiyu. And I will burn this empire to the ground before I let anyone hurt you again.”
Weiyu’s chest ached. Not from the curse, not from the wounds, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of Yuning’s love pouring through the bond. It was warm. It was bright. It was everything he had never allowed himself to want.
“I love you too,” Weiyu said.
The words were clumsy. They were not poetic. They were not worthy of the Jade Scribe. But they were true.
Yuning kissed him. It was desperate and bloody and perfect. Weiyu tasted copper and salt and Yuning’s tears. The golden thread between them blazed, and for a moment, the curse was silent.
When they broke apart, Yuning pressed his forehead against Weiyu’s.
“We are going to survive this,” Yuning said. “I do not know how. But we are going to survive this together.”
Weiyu closed his eyes. He could feel the future pressing against his mind, a thousand possible paths, most of them ending in blood and fire. But for the first time, he did not look.
He chose not to know.
“Together,” he agreed.
Yuning lifted him, one arm under his knees, one arm around his back. Weiyu’s ribs screamed in protest, but he did not care. He buried his face in Yuning’s neck and let himself be carried out of the dungeon, into the cold night air, toward whatever came next.
Behind them, the dungeon door lay in splinters. The golden thread between them pulsed, steady and bright, a lifeline in the dark.