When it happens, it’s a surprise.
First, her maids whirl around the hall, disposing of the despicable Wen encroaching on her home, then the sniveling woman screams for Wen Zhuliu, and Yu Ziyuan dances back as the black-clad Core-Melting Hand bursts through the window behind the Lotus Throne.
Or.
She would’ve danced back if she hadn’t stumbled on a corpse—a ridiculous, unforgivable blunder her mother would’ve whipped her for. She feels the power radiating from beneath the black leather glove and spares a moment of bitter regret at everything she’ll never accomplish because—
And then.
That boy.
Wei Wuxian screams as Wen Zhuliu’s hand slams on his chest, a pitiful, heartbreaking sound like his soul is torn out. Perhaps it is—Ziyuan doesn’t stop to think as she beheads Wen Zhuliu with one powerful slash from Zidian, catching the boy in her arms as his knees give out. From the corner of her eye, she spies the Wen wench crawling toward the doors and snaps, ”Stop her!” and a split moment later, Wang Lingjiao dies in a pool of her own blood as A-Cheng stands over her.
Wei Wuxian lets out a wheezing sound. He’s sickly pale and his eyes are wide and vacant but he’s breathing. For now. Ziyuan kneels next to him and grabs his shoulders.
”You stupid, foolish boy!” she hisses. ”What did you do?”
He blinks slowly once, then again, finally focusing his eyes on her. ”You’re their mother,” he whispers. ”And it was my fault.” A thin trail of blood runs from the corner of his mouth, mixing in with sweat and tears. He looks like a corpse.
She lets out an impatient noise. As much as she’d like to claim that to be true, Wang Lingjiao’s previous comment about a supervisory told the truth: the Wen were always going to invade, Wei Wuxian was just a convenient excuse—an excuse they played on her with great success.
She hates them a bit more for it.
”Madam,” Yinzhu says. ”The perimeter is secure.”
”We have activated the barrier wards,” Jinzhu says.
”Mother—” A-Cheng starts and then falls silent.
She shoots a look at him, then glances at Wei Wuxian again. ”Stay here,” she snaps as she stands up. ”I need to send a message to Fengmian.”
An oppressive, awful silence hovers over Lotus Pier as she exits the main hall and draws a complicated emergency talisman, whispers her message, and sends it away. It’s one of her own, a Yu talisman, and it will speed to Fengmian faster than any other messaging talisman currently in use. That done, she turns to take a critical look around.
Disciples, servants, and children mill around, nervous and scared, waiting for her orders.
”The Wen are coming,” she says in a cold, flat voice. ”They’ve already burned down Cloud Recesses, and they mean to do the same for us. You know what to do.”
Lotus Pier was built on top of the river. Over the decades, the sect leaders have been pouring spiritual energy into the water, weaving protective spells and arrays that aid their people to disappear in a flash if needed. Each Yunmeng native has some affinity with the river but the disciples and direct descendants even more so, to the point that they can slip in and just…vanish.
Ziyuan doesn’t stay to listen to the murmured, ”Yes, Madam,” or to see the nodding heads, knowing they will do as instructed. Instead, she walks back in and stops when she nearly collides with Wei Wuxian.
”What part of ’stay here’ you didn’t understand?” she bites out.
”I want to—” Wei Wuxian starts, then coughs up blood.
She hisses through her teeth and grabs the boy’s chin in an iron grip, forces him to look her in the eye. ”If you want to stay alive, you’ll do exactly as I say,” she says. ”Stay. Here.”
”But—”
She pinches him hard enough for a nail to draw blood. ”Out there, you are a distraction,” she says, trying not to scream. ”And I don’t want distractions when I’m trying to save Lotus Pier.”
His eyes are wide and she holds his chin until he blinks and nods, the movement a small jerk in her hold. He slumps when she lets go and she turns away—she can’t look at him, not now when there’s so much at stake.
”A-Cheng,” she says. Her son draws himself to his full height, face pale and pinched but determined. A splatter of blood stains the hem of his robes and she has an irrational urge to rip out the offending piece of fabric. ”Stay alive,” she says. ”Both of you.”
She sees his jaw clench but all he says is, ”Yes, Mother.”
She whirls around and walks to the yard, stopping in the middle of the great lotus pattern on the ground. She squares her shoulders, lets Zidian unfurl into a wickedly purring rope of seething electricity, and says, ”Open the gates.”
It’s not pretty. Of course it’s not. It’s war. It’s brutal slaughter contained in the central yard with the Jiang senior disciples lining the wall, Jinzhu and Yinzhu darting around in barely visible blurs of blades and blood, and Yu Ziyuan commanding the eye of the storm. The barrier wards prevent the Wen from sneaking up over the walls and the river takes care of those foolish enough to try braving the water.
Ziyuan is distantly aware of the main hall but she trusts the wards on the door and A-Cheng’s skills if the wards fail. She whirls, dances, slashes; lets all her rage and frustration out in vicious arcs of purple lightning that cleave through flesh and bone, coating the walls and the yard in blood and gore. The Wen keep on pouring in through the gate but she welcomes them, welcomes all of them, and Zidian rejoices with her.
It takes an age and no time at all for the Wen’s mood to change from confident to hesitant and then alarmed, and soon after Fengmian bursts through the gates.
”My Lady,” he says tightly, and she says, ”Husband,” and then they are back to back, fighting with renewed vigor. Her heart sings and not only because she’s fighting but because of whom she’s fighting with. She and her husband might not see eye to eye but they both know their duty to their sect.
Everything is well until an archer gets in a lucky shot and Jinzhu goes down, Yinzhu gets a sword to her side dragging her to safety, and just like that, the doors to the main hall stand unguarded. Wen Chao charges forward flanked by a wall of soldiers
Ziyuan is about to lunge—A-Cheng is there, her son is there and she’s too far away, how didn’t she realize she and Fengmian have been lured away—when suddenly, black miasma surges from the hall. It tears through the doors and down to the yard, latching on the Wen soldiers and doing something—they’re screaming and tearing at their robes and faces and skin and it’s beyond disturbing but also beneficial, so Ziyuan pushes her revulsion back and holds her hand up.
”Stop!” she cries. ”Don’t move! Don’t touch it!”
Every Jiang disciple freezes where they stand and watch as black tendrils snake around the yard and out from the gate, accompanied by terrified cries and the screams of the dying. It feels like forever before the miasma starts to slowly dissipate, sinking to the ground and breaking up like smoke, and then there’s just silence.
”Wei Wuxian!” Ziyuan hears A-Cheng yell. ”What the fuck was that? Wei Wuxian?! Wake up! Don’t you fucking dare—if you die now I’ll break your legs!”
Something lurches in her chest as she hurries to the main hall. She doesn’t owe anything to that boy—she never asked him to jump in front of her—and yet—
Wei Wuxian is on his knees, hanging on to a crude, ugly sword with both hands. The sword is embedded deep into the floor and dark lines run from it like black ink. Or blood.
”Wei Wuxian!” Ziyuan snaps. ”What did you do this time?”
He shudders and lifts his head like a drunk man. His face is white and blood runs from his nose and mouth—and also from his hands, clutching the sword. ”Did—did it work?” he rasps.
”If you meant to kill every Wen in Lotus Pier, then yes. It worked,” she says. ”Wei Wuxian,” she adds carefully. ”Let go of the sword.”
”What?” he says, frowning, and yet he cradles the sword closer.
Ziyuan pinches her lips together and with an impatient flick of her wrist lets Zidian fly, yanking the sword from Wei Wuxian’s grasp. It burns her through the connection and makes Zidian writhe wildly in her grasp and she flings the cursed thing away. It bounces off the wall and lands on the floor, dormant once more.
The moment his connection to the sword breaks, Wei Wuxian’s eyes roll over and he keels over. Luckily, it’s straight into A-Cheng who cries his name as he lowers him on the floor.
”Heal his hands,” Ziyuan snaps and then adds through gritted teeth, ”And his back.”
A-Cheng looks up, startled, then nods.
”My Lady,” Fengmian says, sounding faintly reproachful. ”A-Xian’s core is strong. He’ll heal in no time—”
”No,” Ziyuan says flatly. ”Wen Zhuliu burned out his core.” She steels herself and turns to face Fengmian. ”He jumped in front of me and took the hit meant to crush my core.”
Fengmian blinks, looks at Wei Wuxian, then looks back at her. ”That—that’s unfortunate. He had so much promise.” He shakes his head and adds, ”But I’m glad you are safe, My Lady.”
She lets out a huff. ”Thank you.” Then she sweeps out of the hall.
There’s a lot to do: caring for the wounded, gathering up the dead, repairing the damage, and reapplying wards and arrays. The river flows and returns the refugees unharmed, and the common people take up the facsimile of ordinary life, keeping an eye out and an ear cocked for further instructions from the leaders of the Jiang sect. Jinzhu and Yinzhu organize everything with their usual grim effectiveness, and neither is slowed by their injuries.
Fengmian flies out in disguise, heading out to gather intelligence and contact possible allies. There is still a chance to avoid total devastation but it requires both diplomacy and patience, and Ziyuan is glad Fengmian is alive for the job.
Wei Wuxian sleeps in his room, dead to the world, barely breathing. A-Cheng stays by his side, feeding him a slow trickle of spiritual energy to help him heal. Ziyuan checks in on them every morning, not quite sure why, but doing it anyway.
In the main hall, the cursed sword lies under heavy locking talismans that only Ziyuan can deactivate.
A week after the failed invasion, Wei Wuxian wakes up. He’s pale and wan and trembles like a newborn fawn on his new legs, but there’s a familiar stubborn glint in his eyes when he meets her gaze.
”A-Cheng, leave us,” Ziyuan says without averting her eyes. When he doesn’t move, she lets out an impatient huff. ”I’m not going to hurt him.”
”No,” A-Cheng says.
”Jiang Cheng, it’s okay,” Wei Wuxian says.
”No,” A-Cheng says again. Ziyuan gives him a flat look but he meets her with his head held high. ”Wei Wuxian is to be my right-hand man. If this has to do with whatever he did to save Lotus Pier, I’m going to be here.”
Ziyuan raises a brow. ”Fine,” she says and turns back to face Wei Wuxian. ”Wei Wuxian, that was demonic cultivation. I want to know exactly where you picked up that sword and how and what you plan to do with it.” She leans forward. ”You and I are going to figure out how to win this war.”