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They're draining me again.
I can feel it starting in my fingertips—that cold pull, like someone's yanking thread out of my bones. Uncle Lin doesn't even bother with the needles anymore. He just shoves his palm against my chest and takes what he wants.
"Hold still," he says. Like I have a choice. Like the iron cuffs around my wrists give me any option but to sit here and let him bleed my spirit root dry.
I don't scream this time. Learned that lesson three years ago.
The room they keep me in isn't even a real room—it's a storage closet they cleared out, shoved a cot in the corner, and called it my quarters. Servant quarters. Except servants get paid. Servants get days off. I get my cousin Lin Yuan's dirty laundry and a kick if I fold it wrong.
Uncle pulls his hand back and I sag forward, gasping. My chest feels hollow. Empty. He wipes his palm on his robe like I'm something dirty he touched.
"You're getting weaker," he says.
"Sorry to disappoint."
He backhands me. I taste copper.
"Watch your mouth, girl. You're only alive because your root's still pure." He leans down, his breath hot on my face. "Barely. Another year of this and you'll be worthless."
Good, I think. But I don't say it. I learned that lesson too.
He leaves. Locks the door. I curl up on the cot and press my palm to my ribs, feeling for the little knot of energy that's still mine. Still there. Smaller every time, but still there.
Mom used to tell me stories about spirit roots. How they were gifts from the heavens, how cultivators spent lifetimes nurturing them, how a pure Yin root like mine was rarer than phoenix feathers. She said I'd be powerful one day.
She didn't say I'd be a battery for my uncle's alchemy experiments.
She also didn't say she'd die in the dungeon three years ago, screaming for someone to help, while the Sect Leader's precious son walked right past her cell and didn't even slow down.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Don't think about that. Don't think about his face—cold and perfect, like he was carved out of ice. Don't think about how I screamed too, begged him to get someone, anyone, and he just kept walking.
Don't think about how Mom died an hour later.
I breathe. In and out. The hollow feeling in my chest starts to fade. My root's regenerating. Slow, but it's there. Uncle doesn't know I figured out how to hide some of it from him. Just a sliver. Just enough to keep me alive a little longer.
I don't have a plan yet. But I'm working on it.
The door slams open.
I jolt upright, heart hammering. Uncle again? No—he just left. Lin Yuan? He doesn't usually come himself, he sends his lackeys to drag me to the laundry or the kitchens or wherever he needs someone to abuse for the day.
But it's not Lin Yuan.
It's him.
Gu Hanchuan stands in my doorway, and I forget how to breathe.
He looks the same. Exactly the same. Tall, sharp-boned, black robes embroidered with the Qingxiao Sect's cloud pattern. His hair's tied back with a silver cord and his face is still that perfect frozen mask, like he's never felt a human emotion in his life.
I hate him so much I can feel it in my teeth.
"Lin Wei," he says.
I don't answer. I can't. My throat's locked up.
He steps inside. The room's tiny and he fills it, all that cold arrogant energy pressing down on me like a weight. He looks around—at the cot, the cracked washbasin, the single candle stub on the floor—and his mouth tightens.
"You live here."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No, I'm just visiting. My real mansion's being renovated."
His eyes snap to me. They're dark. Unreadable.
"You have a mouth on you," he says.
"You have a lot of nerve walking in here."
Something flickers across his face. Too fast to read. He moves closer and I scramble back on the cot, my shoulders hitting the wall. Nowhere to go.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he says.
I laugh. It comes out sharp and ugly. "Right. Because you're such a good guy."
"I don't have time for this." He's in front of me now, close enough that I can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the weird flush high on his cheekbones. Something's wrong with him. He looks—sick. Feverish.
Good.
"Then leave," I say.
"I can't." His voice drops, rough at the edges. "I need you."
I stare at him. "What?"
"Your spirit root." He's breathing hard now, his hand braced against the wall beside my head. "You're a pure Yin root. I checked the sect records. You're the only one left."
"So?"
"So I'm dying."
I blink. Process that. "And you want me to care because...?"
His jaw clenches. "I have fire poison. It's been killing me for three years. The only way to suppress it is dual cultivation with a pure Yin root."
Oh.
Oh, this is beautiful.
I smile. I can't help it. "You want to use me."
"I want to make a deal."
"Pass."
"Lin Wei—"
"No." I lean forward, getting right in his face. "You left my mother to die. You heard her screaming and you walked away. So whatever you need from me? You can choke on it."
His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His palm's burning hot. I try to yank away but he's too strong, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"You don't understand," he says, and his voice is shaking now. "If I don't stabilize the poison I'll lose control. I'll hurt people. I'll burn down half the sect."
"Sounds like a you problem."
"It'll kill you too." He's so close now I can feel his breath on my face, see the red creeping into the whites of his eyes. "Everyone in this compound. You think your uncle will protect you? You think Lin Yuan will? When I go up in flames they'll all burn with me."
I swallow. My heart's racing. He's serious. He's actually serious.
"Let go of me," I whisper.
He doesn't. His other hand comes up, fingers brushing the side of my neck, and he goes very still.
Then he inhales.
His eyes close. His whole body shudders.
"What are you doing?" I try to shove him back but he doesn't budge. His face is buried in the crook of my neck now and he's breathing deep, like he's drowning and I'm air.
"Your scent," he says, voice muffled. "It's... it's working. The poison's calming down."
"Get off—"
"I need you." His fingers slide up to my jaw, tilting my head back. His eyes are open again, black and desperate and nothing like the ice I remember. "Contract with me. I'll give you anything. Protection. Resources. Freedom."
"I don't want your charity."
"Then what do you want?"
Revenge, I think. I want to watch you suffer. I want the sect to burn.
But I don't say that. I look up at him—at this man who left me and my mother to rot, who's now on his knees begging me to save his life—and I smile.
"I want to think about it," I say.
His grip tightens. "You don't have time. I don't have time."
"Then I guess you're out of luck."
For a second I think he's going to hurt me. His hand's still on my throat and I can feel his pulse hammering against my skin, see the fire poison flaring behind his eyes.
Then he says, "You're the one."
I freeze. "What?"
"Three years ago. In the dungeon." His thumb presses against my windpipe, not hard enough to choke but close. "You were there. You screamed for help."
My blood goes cold.
"You remember," I whisper.
"I remember everything." His voice is flat. Dead. "And you're going to help me anyway."