EARLIER THAT DAY…

  ZE ZHI WEI (萴智危)

  Day 22, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Shuishang Province, Shanhu Sect

  Tick.

  My mother had finally fallen asleep.

  Tick.

  My brother hadn’t spoken to me since our last argument.

  Tick.

  The Crown Prince probably suspected me. Yet—for reasons unknown—he’d done nothing about it.

  Tick.

  My room was outdated. Even the ceiling looked bare. I stared at it, willing sleep to take me. But it didn’t. The more I begged, the further it slipped away. Now, I was somehow more alert than I’d been in days. My thoughts raced, and my skin was slick with sweat.

  I turned my head to the right. A cloaked object sat on the table, waiting.

  Tick.

  It mocked me.

  I hadn’t touched it in days. The ‘present’ from my benefactor. I’d kept my curiosity at bay, kept busy enough with chores to pretend it didn’t exist.

  But tonight—tonight was different. My body refused rest, and my thoughts wouldn’t stop circling. That thing was calling to me.

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  Tick.

  I didn’t need to know what it was. I shouldn’t want to know.

  Tick.

  But I did. Curse my curiosity.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  I threw off the covers and crossed the room. Sitting at the bench, I lit the candelabra. The soft orange glow spilled across the table. A dark cloth lay draped over a box-like object. I reached out, hesitating only once before pinching the fabric between my fingers.

  Shanhu Prefecture’s fireproof weave.

  I lifted it carefully, like a child sneaking a glance at something forbidden.

  Underneath, an ornate copper clock shimmered in the light. From its crowned top to its claw-like legs, every detail glinted with craftsmanship and menace.

  Tick.

  I already knew who had left it. Maybe that was intuition. Or just bad luck. My benefactor was growing impatient. Meanwhile, I hesitated like a coward.

  Would this really help my mother? Would we finally have our revenge? And if so...then what? It wouldn’t bring the past back. It wouldn’t undo the things we lost.

  I turned the clock over in my hands, careful not to drop it. The copper carvings bit into my palms, sharp and deliberate. I kept turning, searching, until I found the hidden message tucked near the hands of the clock: a tea-stained slip of parchment.

  The words were written in that same precise, elegant script:

  Time is ticking.

  Time. I seemed to have less and less of it every day.

  I set the clock down. Then, on instinct, picked it back up.

  It felt heavier now, as if the object itself were aware I had begun to suspect it. My thumb brushed against the polished brass, and I tilted the thing toward me, squinting at the face.

  At first glance, it was ordinary. Just another antique clock, elegant in its delicacy, the kind of trinket one might find on a scholar’s desk. If I hadn’t been trained in being detailed—I might have missed it.

  The clock’s hands weren’t hands at all.

  They were arrowheads.

  Thin, needle-pointed, honed to a vicious sharpness, gleaming faintly in the pale light. I realized with a sinking calm that each tick of the second hand wasn’t merely time passing, but death measuring itself out, beat by steady beat.

  Blades.

  They ticked in perfect rhythm, coated in a slick sheen of something...black.

  A poisoned arrow.

  What did I just sign up for?