PROLOGUE
The palace was under attack.
One second the entire royal family was in the throne room for the emperor’s war speech against the rebel forces, and the next, people were screaming and steel clashed with steel. Princess Biyu turned to run, but soldiers poured out of every entrance. Her siblings ran in all different directions; she didn’t even know what to do, so she remained still, watching as madness erupted.
A red dragon stamped the black armor of the invading men—the symbol of the rebels. Of Drakkon Muyang.
One of the servants shrieked when a soldier dressed in dark leathers approached her, his sword gleaming silver. It was enough to snap Biyu out of her reverie. She turned to run, but she didn’t even know where to go. Palace guards rushed all over, but the rebels outnumbered them. A rebel soldier entered her line of sight and her mind blanked.
Run.
Every instinct flared to life and she turned to sprint.
She bumped into another soldier, but she couldn’t tell if he was enemy or foe. She continued to sprint, until she stumbled over a corpse.
Blood bathed the floors. The walls. Everywhere.
Women screamed. Men gurgled on their blood. And metal clanged.
It was inevitable—she would die. There was no way she could survive this.
Biyu covered her face with her bloodied hands, trembling and waiting for her eventual death. Terror gripped her tightly and she waited, and waited, but the shouts continued and no blade fell upon her. When she dared to peel her eyes open, she saw a man dressed in black armor approach her father. A bloodied sword dragged on the floor, shadows rippling over his impressively tall frame. Scars etched the side of his face and he gave her father a look of such loathing that it made her flinch.
“No! You—You—No!” her father shouted, falling against the throne as the man pointed the sword at his chest. She had never seen her father wear an expression other than that perpetual sneer of his. But now, he looked petrified.
A sound to her left caught her attention and she swiveled her gaze to where a young red-haired warrior fought against a palace guard. He was about her age, and yet his steely eyes told of a life of murder and mayhem. Her half-brother, Crown Prince Haoran, rushed at him with a short knife—a blade he had never really used before, other than to taunt people or throw at the maidservants who bothered him.
The red-haired warrior whirled and struck her brother’s blade. It flew out of Haoran’s hand and clattered to the floor. In the next second, her brother’s throat was slashed. He covered the gaping wound with his hands, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it continued to rush over his silk robes. Biyu watched with wide, terror-filled eyes as he collapsed on the floor, his body twitching.
Her hands went to her mouth. He was dead.
She screamed, backing away. The red-haired warrior’s gaze landed on her and he stilled, canting his head as he studiedher. His eyes were demonic—a shade of blue she hadn’t thought possible.
Chaos continued to unfold around them, but it was increasingly clear that her father’s forces were losing. This was a coup.
Biyu held the warrior’s gaze, unable to look away. Fear coiled in her belly and wrapped around her heart like a vice.
She, too, would die.
The warrior drew closer. She inched back, a scream caught in her throat. It was like the shadow of death was looming above her, with eyes shrouded in sapphire, and hair the color of blood.
He was a few feet away from her, his sword dripping with blood. Her lips parted to shout, to say something, to cry for help—but nothing came. He knelt in front of her, leaned closer, and murmured with a slight accent, “Do you, too, wish to resist His Majesty’s claim to that wretched throne?”
Sheer panic sliced through her and a piercing scream erupted from deep within her.
A sea of violet overtook everything—then, complete darkness.
1
FIVE YEARS LATER
Biyu knewevery flower in the northern garden by name, shape and smell. The statues, too. She knew if any of the crane statues had been moved even an inch, if someone had scratched the prowling dragons, or bumped into the roaring tiger. She knew the patterns of the moss climbing up every bump and crevice of the older ones.
She had memorized each step leading to and from the northern gate. She knew the winding paths. The creeping vines climbing the palace walls. The trees laden with fruits and flowers. Every day this was the view she saw from her window, and every Tuesday she was allowed to walk these paths.
It was the only part of her week she looked forward to, because otherwise she would only be allowed to stare out of her window.
Her favorite were the purple flowers. The lavenders. The violets. The wisterias.
