Chapter 17: The Ink That Does Not Dry
The calligraphy hall held its breath.
Rows of boys in silk robes hunched in reverent silence, brushes gliding across parchment like insects dancing over water. Incense burned slowly, a thin ribbon of smoke threading toward the vaulted ceiling. The floor gleamed, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected fractured shards of sunlight streaming through the latticed windows.
At the far end of the hall sat Lucen. Alone. Not by distance, but by presence. The others—princes of blood, heirs of conquest—ignored him. A foreign child with a strange name and strange eyes, allowed here by decree, not right.
His brush trembled in his hand.
The parchment before him bore his effort: neat, if unsure, characters. He had practiced every night until the ink bled into his dreams. But the paper resisted him. It rejected his hand, his history, his alien rhythm.
"Your stroke is too heavy."
Lucen froze. The voice was soft, almost kind, yet threaded with cold.
Prince Liang—second son of the emperor—rose from his seat across the table. His presence was ghostlike, snow-pale and poised. Silver eyes, unnervingly clear, studied Lucen without blinking.
"Like you fear the paper might bite you," Liang added. Then, without asking, he circled behind Lucen, one hand resting lightly on Lucen's shoulder.
His other hand guided Lucen's, curling his fingers around the brush.
"Ink," he whispered, almost thoughtfully, "is patient. It waits for the right moment to bleed."
Together they moved the brush, painting a new stroke—flawless, fluid.
Then came the flick.
Barely felt. Just a scratch.
A sharp sting blossomed in Lucen's palm. He inhaled, jerking slightly. A fine, crimson line began to bead where the bamboo tip had nicked his skin.
He watched. Waited.
The blood did not vanish.
He waited longer. Still it welled up, slow and human.
In Gor'Sekra, a wound like this would have sealed before breath could catch. Even gashes, even deep gouges—the curse had never failed him. Until now.
His fingers curled inward.
Liang did not move. He studied the bleeding palm with a quiet intensity.
"Ah," he said at last, barely above a breath. "Not so indestructible after all."
Lucen's mouth was dry. He looked at the paper, now stained with a drop of red.
Across the room, the First Prince snorted. "Stop playing, Liang."
Liang ignored him. "In the north," he said, voice calm, "they say a sword's wound fades by morning. But a paper cut lingers for days. Curious, isn't it?"
Lucen said nothing.
The moment passed. The princes resumed their writing. The hall forgot its breath.
But Lucen's wound remained.
That evening, his chamber was silent but for the chirring of night insects. Moonlight filtered through the rice-paper windows, bathing the floor in soft blue.
Lucen sat cross-legged, the cut hand resting in his lap. It had scabbed over. Tender. Ordinary.
He pressed a finger to it.
Pain. Real. Small, but undeniable.
He frowned.
His mind drifted—unbidden—to a memory from Gor'sekra. A jagged bone ripping through his thigh. Blood pouring like rain. And then—nothing. The flesh knitting, the pain dissolving, as if the wound had never existed.
The curse had always saved him.
Until now.
He stood and moved to the window, staring into the moonlit garden below. Stillness. A silence too deep to trust.
Somewhere beneath his feet, the palace breathed.
He felt it.
The walls hummed faintly, like bones remembering pain. The floor pulsed, not with life, but with memory. This place had seen death. Bathed in it. Grown fat on it.
Something moved behind the walls. A scraping sound. Not rats. Not wind.
The palace was watching him.
No—measuring him.
His skin prickled.
Behind him, a shadow shifted. He turned. Nothing. Just his reflection in a brass mirror, pale and thin.
But not alone.
He stepped closer. Stared.
For a heartbeat, the mirror showed not a child—but a throne. Vast. Rooted. Pulsing with veins.
And seated atop it, a figure with eyes of fire.
Lucen staggered back. The image was gone.
A knock at the door.
A servant entered, silent as the moon. She bowed. "His Majesty invites you to a banquet tomorrow."
Lucen nodded. The servant left. No words exchanged.
He stared down at his palm.
The wound had stopped bleeding. But it had not healed.
He was mortal here.
He was prey.
And far away, in the heart of the palace, the emperor's shadow flickered. It peeled itself from the wall. Smiled.
Waiting.
Ink is patient, Liang had said. It waits for the right moment to bleed.
Lucen understood now.
The paper would bleed.
So would he.
Chapter 18: The Silent Banquet
The banquet hall was a world of its own. Lanterns hung from gilded arches like captive suns, casting a golden haze over lacquered tables lined with silver bowls and fragrant dishes. Servants moved in practiced silence, pouring wine and arranging platters with reverent hands. Music played faintly in the background—delicate, hollow notes from a zither, barely audible over the whisper of silk robes.
Lucen stood at the edge of it all.
His robe was freshly pressed, white with accents of deep jade. His hair had been combed and tied by trembling hands. The servant who dressed him had spoken not a word, though she lingered as if to say something before fleeing down the corridor.
He stepped into the hall.
Dozens of eyes glanced up—some curious, others cold. The princes were already seated, their gazes flickering like candle flames. The First Prince sat near the emperor's right, stone-faced and unreadable. Beside him, Liang looked as if carved from ice, his silver eyes reflecting every movement, every twitch of discomfort.
Lucen was guided to the far end of the long table, placed where the emperor could still see him but far from the center of power. A servant filled his cup with warm wine. He didn't drink.
Then the emperor entered.
All rose. The music stopped. A silence stretched—long, bending—as the Son of Heaven crossed the hall.
He was draped in red and black, a golden crown resting lightly atop silver-streaked hair. His presence darkened the very air.
Lucen met his eyes.
Time stopped.
There was no kindness in the emperor's gaze. Only recognition. As if he saw through Lucen's skin to something deeper. Something buried.
The emperor sat.
The banquet began.
Food was served in lavish portions: duck roasted with plum, fish steamed in lotus leaves, sweet rice cakes shaped like flowers. Lucen tried to eat. His stomach resisted. He settled for tea.
Conversation rose like birdsong. Polite laughter, measured voices, veiled threats dressed in compliments. Politics disguised as pleasantries.
Lucen did not speak.
Across the table, Liang was watching him.
Not with hostility. Not with warmth either. Like a scholar inspecting a strange insect.
At one point, a dish was placed before Lucen—a delicate bowl of clear soup, in which floated a single black flower.
He stared at it.
The petals moved.
Just slightly. Like breathing.
He looked up. Servants were still. Princes distracted. Only Liang met his eyes.
"Eat," the second prince said, quietly enough that only Lucen could hear.
Lucen's hand hovered.
He took the spoon. Sipped.
The taste was strange. Sweet, but with an undertone of iron. The warmth spread through him unnaturally fast—violently. Fire bloomed in his chest, then twisted. His veins turned black, spiderwebbing up his neck like ink on water.
His fingers spasmed. He dug them into the tablecloth. A sharp gasp came from somewhere—then another. A ripple of murmurs. The First Prince pushed back his chair, eyes wide. Even Prince Liang's gaze faltered. Further down the table, ministers leaned in to whisper to one another, glancing toward Lucen with barely concealed alarm. Servants froze mid-pour.
Then—
A sound. Like wet thread snapping.
The black lines shriveled in reverse. Flesh flushed pale again, almost too smooth. Untouched. Unscarred.
Lucen swayed, breathing hard.
The emperor's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward slightly, as if studying something under glass.
"Is it too bitter for you?"
Lucen raised his eyes. His lips moved. No sound.
The emperor's expression changed.
Gone was the cold amusement.
His gaze sharpened.
"In the old days," he said, voice silk-thin, "we tested guests from beyond the veil. Some brought gifts. Some brought curses."
He lifted his cup.
"Tell me, boy—"
His gaze pinned Lucen.
"—which are you?"
Soft laughter. Controlled. It came from the princes, the officials, the servants. Everyone but Liang. Yet even behind the laughter, voices whispered low and fast, sharing frightened theories. Some stared at Lucen's neck as if expecting the black to return. Others kept glancing toward the emperor, unsure of what they were truly witnessing.
The pain vanished. The heat evaporated. He could breathe again.
The curse had stirred.
It had tasted danger.
The black flower in the soup had melted away, nothing left but clear broth.
Lucen wiped his mouth. Sat straighter.
The emperor was still watching—but now his expression was unreadable, as if a thought had bloomed behind his eyes he did not care to share.
Lucen bowed his head slightly, then resumed drinking his tea as if nothing had happened.
And from the shadows behind the throne, something unseen took a step closer.
A wet click echoed—like a tongue peeling off bone.
Not all poisons were meant to kill.
Some were meant to call.
And something old had heard.