Jasmine sat in the back corner of a cell, having a staring contest with a greasy rat. The poor thing’s ribcage was protruding from its chest. It watched as she raised a piece of dry meat to her lips. When she took a bite of the leathery morsel, the rodent’s nose twitched.

It wasn’t a spirit-beast, so its intelligence was lacking, but did that matter? The creature was starving.

With a sigh, she tore the meat in half, tossing part of it to the rat. It jumped and caught it with yellow teeth, then scurried away.

A breeze filtered through a barred window, adding life to the otherwise stale, uric-scented air. She had no one to blame but herself for the smell. The hole in the corner of the room was backed up—and it had been for the past four days.

She swallowed the last of her dry breakfast, then crossed her legs, placing her hands on her knees. As she took a deep breath, preparing for her morning meditation, she tried not to think of her most recent failure. Her cheeks grew warm as she remembered the shopkeeper’s smirk. He saw her as a child, trying to take something she wasn’t allowed to have!

Nuns aren’t supposed to cultivate, the monastic leader once said. The Heavens forbid it.

I don’t believe that, Jasmine responded.

Oh? he said. Then why does your spirit refuse to cooperate?

Jasmine winced, the memory of those words stinging even now. She took a deep breath, cool air filling her lungs. Supposedly, it was rich with vital aura. Sadly, she couldn’t taste the power. Her attention turned to the energy trickling through her unstable meridians. Unlike her physical veins, these weren’t connected to an organ.

As she exhaled, she forced maqi through the meridians leading to the back of her naval—where her spirit core should have been. No matter how much maqi she cycled to her gut, and no matter how much vital aura she inhaled from the world around, her dantian refused to form. She could feel pieces of it now, spinning just behind her naval.

Vital aura—the life force flowing through all things—tickled her skin. Or was she just imagining it? She tried to reach out to it with her spirit, to call it into her soul, but she had no idea how to do that. The elders of the monastery talked about grasping aura as if were as easy as stretching out your arm and grabbing it with your hand. She always wanted to ask them how they did it, but she wasn’t allowed to attend their cultivation sessions. She usually eavesdropped when no one was looking.

She took another deep breath, holding it in her lungs . . .

When a soul artist absorbed vital aura, their spirit naturally converted it into the vaporous substance known as maqi—the lifeblood of the soul. She could feel that trickling through her channels, so she knew that she was at least taking in some vital aura. She just needed to find out how to soak up more . . .

The soft patter of footfall sounded down the hall. Breakfast? Again? A whispered conversation drew close. Two people were coming.

Which could only mean one thing.

She rose to her feet, smoothing out the folds of her green robe. The headdress wrapping around her scalp was still in place, nice and snug. Always snug. If the elders of the monastery saw the mess of hair hiding beneath, they’d have a fit.

A stooped man with a blue beard shuffled into view. The hem of his navy blue robe dragged across the cobblestones. His hands—folded behind his back—were hidden within vast sleeves.

“And here we are.” His words creaked like the branches of an old tree. “Mon-Jasmine.” His wrinkled face fell as his bloodshot eyes locked with hers. “Our little thief.”

Lesser souls were expected to bow to their betters.

Jasmine didn’t care.

She stood, unyielding, like a statue of granite.

A muscular man strode into view. His kashaya robe was black, and covered one shoulder, leaving the other exposed. A reptilian eye, radiating with dark mist, hovered over his bare shoulder.

“Mon-Jasmine,” the monk said, the words of his deep voice scraping his throat. “Why am I not surprised . . .”

She bit down and steeled herself before looking upon Youxia’s rugged face. A scar traveled from the top of his bald head, through his right eye, and down to the base of his neck. Hundreds of thin cuts nicked the rest of his rough features, making it look like someone had used his face to sharpen a knife. His one working eye bore into hers. His iris was black, making it look like he had one massive pupil.

Jasmine wavered, her confidence crumbling to pieces. She clenched her sweaty fists, fighting to remain upright, unwilling to bow. The senior monk’s oppressive presence seemed to weigh on her.

He folded his beastly arms, as if daring her to disrespect his superiority. Sweat trickled down her back, and from her pits. As much as she wanted to spit in his face by refusing to bow, she knew she couldn’t.

He was here to liberate her. Again.

If she fought against propriety now, Youxia would leave her to rot for another month, or perhaps a year . . . maybe even a lifetime.

She pressed her fists together and bowed at the waist, keeping her eyes on the floor, holding her breath. As the silence persisted, her chest clenched, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Were they waiting for her to rise from her bow?

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Keys rattled, and she sighed with relief.

“You do realize the threat she presents?” The Frozenflame elder asked, speaking as if she didn’t exist. Nothing unusual.

“I do.” Youxia’s scratchy voice sent a cold shiver up her spine.

“And yet, you refuse to detain her! She strides from sect to sect, causing trouble, disrupting the balance.” The barred door squeaked open. She straightened her spine, but kept her head bowed.

“Come,” Youxia ordered. He walked away, the elder sticking by his side.

Jasmine hurried forward, watching Youxia’s feet as he strode across the hall. The Frozenflame elder babbled on, listing all the reasons why they needed to detain Jasmine, and give her a sound beating.

Her cheeks burned.

She wanted nothing more than to vanish.

***

Jasmine was biting her tongue. Youxia had tried to spark a conversation, but she gave him nothing. This didn’t seem to bother him. He strode ahead in silence, shoulders square, posture confident.

They were walking through the forest now, following a dirt path leading to the Kaithist Monastery. They left the Frozenflame sect behind an hour ago. Or was it two hours ago?

She couldn’t remember.

This walk was taking forever.

“You’ve burned through the last of Abbot Channarong’s grace,” Youxia whispered. The eye hovering over his shoulder glared at her. “He was this close to letting you rot in that cell.” He held up his hand, indicating a small amount with his fingers.

Jasmine looked away, folding her arms. She kept her mouth shut, passing a silk floss trees. Spikes protruded along its green bark, light pink flowers blossoming on its winding branches. Motes of vibrant green light danced around the tree.

Life sprites.

They abounded in these parts.

“Jasmine,” Youxia said.

She ignored him, watching the little glowing balls swirl around and—

She slammed into something solid.

Stumbling back, she shook her head, then glared up into Youxia’s ugly face. He matched her gaze with a humorless expression. “Channarong’s grace is gone. Do you understand?”

Instead of shrinking back, Jasmine held her ground. She clenched her fists, to keep them from shaking.

“The next time someone catches you trying to steal from their sect, you’re on your own.” He folded his arms. “They can lock you up, beat you, kill you.” He shrugged. “We’re not going to do anything about it.”

“And I’m sure you’ll sleep soundly,” Jasmine said, “knowing that you left a cripple to die at the hands of your enemies.”

“None of the other sects are our enemies!” His voice rang in Jasmine’s ears. “You’re thievery goes against everything we stand for, Jasmine. We can’t keep bailing you out of trouble. It’s not teaching you anything, and your actions threaten to tear apart everything we’ve spent years building.” He shook his head, his hard expression an unyielding stone. “I know how badly you want to cultivate, but you can’t defy Heaven’s will. And unless you want to spend the rest of your life in prison, I suggest you stop trying.”

Jasmine folded her arms in defiance, but she felt like a little girl trying to intimidate a monster. The longer she glared into that black eye, the harder it was to breathe. Youxia’s face was rugged, but young. And although he looked nothing like her father, she couldn’t help but picture the threatening man. Youxia was in his early twenties, but even if he’d been a boy, she still would have felt like cold chains were wrapping around her chest. With a shaky sigh, she dropped her gaze, wilting like a dead rose.

Without a word, Youxia turned around, marching forward. The reptilian eye hovering near his head looked away, trailing black mist. Jasmine followed along, self-pity threatening to wrap its greasy hands around her neck. But she slapped them aside. That conversation did nothing but stoke the flames of passion in her soul.

The Heavens weren’t keeping her from cultivating. If other women could do it, then why not her?

She had to find a way.

Had to!

And since filching from merchants was no longer a viable option, she needed to change tactics . . .

And she knew just what to do.

Every week, her fellow monks and nuns visited the surrounding communities and provided service. Tomorrow, her group was going to visit the Rising Sun sect. Most communities had a library, but the one located here outshined them all.

And it was exactly where she needed to go.

It was much easier to nab information. Stealing elixirs, spirit stones—or any other physical object for that matter—was proving to be an impossible task. Especially with her blackened name. One more mistake and she was either imprisoned for life, or crushed to powder.

She frowned, her expression darkening.

Sneaking into the library was still a dangerous move, but what else could she do? If she didn’t want to get pushed around all her life, she needed to do something about it. And learning how to form her dantian was her best option! Once she did that, she’d advance to Tin, and cultivate her way to success.

She would prove that Kaithist nuns weren’t doomed by the Heavens, and she’d become someone worth mentioning—a woman who could hold her own, a person who protected the weak and crushed oppressive jerks with an iron fist.

She clenched her fist, holding it in front of her face. Blood pulsed through her veins as maqi skittered through her wispy channels. There wasn’t much, but it seemed to sing, yearning for the day when she crushed every tyrant to dust.

Youxia was wrong about Tianhai. It wasn’t a place of harmony. It was a community of oppression. And a powerful Silver like himself was too blind to see the blatant unfairness surrounding him.

But I see it, she thought. And one day, I’m going to stop it.