The weight of his twin blades comfortable on his shoulders, Xiang Liao’s boots crunched onto the first of the gravel that paved the streets of his home village, Meijiang.

Meijiang was a quiet little place — small, it seemed, for a man such as Xiang Hu, the mighty warrior, the Emperor’s proudest soldier, to settle with his wife and son. He’d chosen the place, Hu said, because it reminded him of his childhood home.

Liao had never seen Kimotoro, his father’s hometown. Xiang Hu hadn’t exactly publicized his childhood — Liao’s father almost never spoke about any part of his life before he’d joined the emperor’s troops, the Heavenly Army, at age sixteen. Xiang Liao had always felt like there was something hiding there, something that his father refused to tell anyone about. When he was younger, his innocent imagination had dreamed up innocuous solutions to his questions about Xiang Hu’s origins, but now that he was older Xiang Liao was sure that the secret behind the early years of his father’s life was something devastating. Something that could end . . . everything — Xiang Hu’s family, his career, and his reputation.

Or maybe Xiang Liao was just making too many assumptions. This was his father, after all. How could he doubt the man he’d grown up with, who’d raised him for the past nineteen years? It could be something else, something along a completely different path than the one he was thinking of. That had to be it.

Meijiang was a small place, it was true, but it was also nice in a way. As Xiang Liao trudged somewhat wearily along the town’s main street, multiple people waved to him from their porches. Some of them he knew, some of them he didn’t. A child smiled widely down at him from a third-story window. The group of girls that usually started their running circuit here was right on time. Chu, a bolder one with shining midnight hair, sent a flirtatious smile his way. He dipped his head and winked back at her in gentlemanly fashion.

He made his way through the village until he reached the other end, where the houses slowly grew less numerous, giving way to more expansive properties with fields of rice and grazing animals. The road changed from gravel back to packed dirt, leading him on a winding path between farms to the base of the tall hill that loomed behind Meijiang. His father’s estate crouched atop the peak of the hill, surrounded by a sea of aspens and firs that spread down the slope, faltering where the ground grew flat.

Xiang Liao made the ascent. The path leading up to his father’s estate was paved with stone, its borders engraved with carvings of the ancient legends of the gods. When he was a young child, Xiang Liao had taken great pleasure in reading them one by one, spending multiple days walking up and down the hill.

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At last he reached the doors of Xiang Hu’s residence. They were wrought with ornate patterns, depicting the rise and fall of the Old Empire. Xiang Liao had always been intrigued by these particular carvings — the Old Empire was seldom talked about now that the continent was under Zhula rule, and in some places it was considered treason to speak of it. Which made it even more curious that one of the emperor’s finest warriors had depictions of the Old Empire on the doors of his personal estate.

A servant opened one of the twin doors for Xiang Liao before he had even come to a full stop. His father had been expecting him, then. He slipped through the opening, breaking into a smile when he saw who had let him in.

“Morea!” he said, delighted. “You’ve returned, then? How was your trip?”

The woman, who was only a few years older than him, in her mid-twenties, smiled. “Xiang Liao, it is pleasant to see you again.”

“Did you see your parents?” he asked.

Morea’s face turned downcast. “No. They . . . left town, it seems, along with my brother.”

Xiang Liao frowned. “Left town? Why would they leave?” He scratched his neck and closed the door behind him, leaving them in the semi-darkness of the torchlit entry hall. “Don’t they know you come at about this time every year?”

“They did . . . do,” Morea said slowly. “I don’t know, Xiang Liao. Something is wrong about this. It does not seem right. They wouldn’t just leave, with my brother in tow. I feel that something is going on, and I cannot figure out what it is.”

They started walking, moving toward the grand doors that led into the dining hall. “I’ll ask my father to look into it,” Xiang Liao said finally after they’d been moving in silence for several moments. “He should be able to get one of his people in Fen Hai to find out if something is amiss with your family.”

Morea’s eyes widened, and she stopped. “N-no, Master Xiang Liao!” she stammered. “Please. We cannot do that.”

Xiang Liao stopped too, frowning at her. “Why? What’s wrong?”

She seemed to be almost shaking, her eyes suddenly wide, her skin paler than usual. “We can’t . . . I—” Morea stiffened, her eyes flashing for a moment — a sign that the kitchen master was communicating to the servants using the xianchu hive mind. “I’m sorry, Master Xiang Liao. It’s almost dinnertime, and I am required in the kitchens.” She forced a weak smile. “Perhaps we may speak about this later.”

Xiang Liao watched her go, confusion roiling in his mind. Something very odd was going on.