Deep within the western mountain range that cut across the continent, one could chance upon the small, forgotten town of Xiya. The valley in which it stood was shielded in all directions by lush peaks and towering trees as if nature had consciously formed a cradle for this pitiful little settlement in the middle of nowhere. The temperature was bitterly cold, the sky bruised and cloudless, and the leaves fluttered to the ground with soundless sighs. It was on such an evening that a messenger of the gods descended from heaven.

Qiu Han landed before the town’s red-pillared gates in a flurry of rain and mist. She was dressed in long crimson robes embroidered with autumn tupelo trees, courtesy of her lady’s personal seamstresses. To a careless observer, she was just another traveler, unfortunate enough to have strayed from the main mountain pass. A second glance would give them pause—strapped to her waist was a snow-white sword, longer than her arm and brighter than a mirror. On its hilt shone a silver insignia, the symbol of her master, the goddess of death.

Sure enough, the townspeople began to part as she walked among them. Qiu Han bore their hungry stares and reverent whispers with unaffected grace because only she knew just how similar she was to them. She could have easily been the laundry girl crouching beside the tub of ashy water, or the errand boy carrying his body weight’s worth of wood shavings on his thin shoulders, or any one of the lowly merchants guarding their wares behind their street stalls, had it not been for her lady.

Her Most Divine Highness Chun Ji, the Watcher of Souls and the only daughter of the Emperor of Heaven, took in Qiu Han, a then nameless servant of a declining household, as one would a scraggly welp. She gave her a name, one so clearly modeled after her own it was laughable. Qiu Han and Chun Ji. The chill of autumn and the silence of spring. So close in essence yet so different in character.

Qiu Han only had her lady to thank for the sudden change in her fortune, as the palace maids liked to say, their self-assured remarks eerily similar to that of the brothel mistress, or the farmer’s son, or the dozens of other masters Qiu Han had run from. How she had ended up as Her Most Divine Highness’ trusted subordinate was a cause for discussion among even the greater immortals. Perhaps her lady had taken pity on her, the mortal girl whom no other god would spare a second look for. Perhaps she saw a dispensable underling in Qiu Han, one who would not be missed should something happen—and she would be right. Regardless of the reason, Qiu Han was waiting for the day her lady’s inexplicable favor became something else.

Qiu Han stopped at the door of a shabby residence situated at the edge of the town. She noted the cracked, faded paint and the dust-covered floors and grimly erased all doubts of mistaking her target. She knocked. All was silent within the house for ten heartbeats before the door slowly creaked open to reveal the pale, suspicious face of a young servant boy. Qiu Han furrowed her brows at him in equal suspicion—it was as though he had been waiting at the door for her.

Qiu Han said, “May I ask whether this is the residence of Master Shang Songjin?”

The boy said, “It is. Who are you?”

Qiu Han did remark on his impertinence. “I am called Qiu Han, more commonly known as the Emissary of the Watcher of Souls.” She paused for the information to sink in. “On the behalf of Her Most Divine Highness, I have come to investigate Master Shang Songjin on the charge of possessing forbidden artifacts.”

Immediately, the boy dropped to a kowtow. “F-forgive me, my lady. This lowly one will inform the master of your presence at once.”

Off he went, stumbling across the aging wooden floorboards in a heedless frenzy. Was it her imagination? Though the servant was clearly terrified by her appearance, he did not seem too surprised.

A moment later, Shang Songjin emerged to greet her himself. Qiu Han rested a hand on her sword as Shang Songjin stooped to a low bow. “A heavenly ambassador in the flesh. I dare not look you in the eye. Please, come in, come in. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Let us speak of important matters in a more appropriate setting,” suggested Qiu Han mildly, casting a gaze toward the servant boy, and Shang Songjin graciously agreed.

They settled in the modest courtyard, beneath the light of the moon and a blanket of stars. Qiu Han surveyed the tranquil sky and wondered, almost ironically, whether her lady was watching her somewhere. Was she sitting on the palace terrace, her feet dipped in the achromous goldfish pond as she observed all that transpired below through the silent white ripples? Or was she at yet another imperial banquet, surrounded by the modest maids and divine daughters of her choosing, glancing out the palace window only when the thought crossed her mind? Qiu Han retrieved her gaze and did not look up again.

Having left no servant attending to dispel any eavesdroppers, Shang Songjin personally poured her tea. She accepted the porcelain cup with fingers long acquainted with searing heat. She watched Shang Songjin touch his own before withdrawing his hand. As Qiu Han sipped the tea (a rich jasmine brew) Shang Songjin spoke first.

“So Her Highness Chun Ji has come for me, has she?”

Qiu Han froze at the mention of her lady’s name out of a common mortal’s mouth. She glanced up. Despite his earlier comment about not looking her in the eye, Shang Songjin seemed to have no problem pinning her under his stare now.

“Under the guise of criminal investigation as well,” Shang Songjin continued lightly, as though reminiscing about a fond memory. “I am not one to question the words of the gods, but…Well. Perhaps small oversights can occur to even the most divine.”

At last, Qiu Han understood. Shang Songjin saw an adolescent girl wrapped in finery and thought he could stall for time, perhaps even escape his judgment. Qiu Han had played this game before and she was not unwilling to sit through another round—after all, there was nothing else she could be doing at the moment, and the tea was to her taste.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Qiu Han, idly examining the moth orchids growing by the table. “Are you implying that Her Most Divine Highness made a mistake in sending me here tonight?”

Shang Songjin spread his hands in reply. “As you can see, I am just a common man living in a humble town. My wife passed away many years ago and I have yet to find another. Because of this, my residence is not in its finest shape. My servants are all orphans I picked up from the streets; they have not fine manners nor a sense for household duties. My hands are full enough as it is—what use would I have for legendary swords or cursed brocades?”

“My job here is not to answer that question,” said Qiu Han. Once again, she was amazed at the sheer human ability to spin lies from dust and desperation. “If you so kindly allow me a tour of your home, I will be able to confirm the validity of the accusations against you, and that will save us much more time.”

Qiu Han expected him to dodge her request. She did not expect such a sloppy work of it.

“Say.” As though he had not heard, Shang Songjin’s beady eyes landed on her sword. “You seem to possess a forbidden artifact of your own.”

“This was gifted to me by Her Highness,” Qiu Han answered coldly.

“I’ve heard.” Shang Songjin reached out a hand in a silent May I? Qiu Han did not move. “It harnesses elemental qi, doesn’t it? Flame magic, to be precise. Her Highness must favor you very much.”

The day Her Most Divine Highness received the flame blessing had been a tumultuous one, marked by fire-breathing monkeys and a mountain of imprisoned souls. At the end of it all, Her Highness, dressed in a lilac palace dress and looking more forest nymph than death goddess, had beamed as she gave the flame blessing to her emissary. Qiu Han could not remember how her lady had done it; she could only recall a blinding flash, a warm hand on her own, and a faint, musical whisper. May my most loyal follower not dislike this reward.

So Qiu Han said, “Favor me? Not particularly.”

At Shang Songjin’s knowing look, Qiu Han suddenly lost all interest in continuing the charade. “Master Shang Songjin, two nights ago you were seen at the Underworld’s night market, despite being neither demon nor ghost. You were seen selling forbidden artifacts known to cause harm to mortals upon touch. Now you are here, in your neglected residence the other townsmen seldom visit, and I have reason to believe that it is here where you keep all the prizes you have not yet sold.”

Shang Songjin took his time to respond. She watched him pour his tea with leisurely care and suppressed the urge to knock the cup out of his hand. “Let me tell you a secret, heaven’s little messenger. I am not merely a trader, but a thief as well. The treasures of the immortals are hard to come by, and I have taken great pains to attain them. Everything I have stored in my residence at this moment, I fought for with my own two hands. For every artifact you have laid eyes upon, I own five times as many.”

“Congratulations,” intoned Qiu Han flatly, “and thank you for your confession. I will be sure to give you a lighter punishment.”

“Punishment? Oh, no, no, no.” Shang Songjin clucked his tongue. “I’m afraid I can’t go with you just like that.”

The doors to the main hall burst open. Before she had enough time to react, Qiu Han was surrounded. True to Shang Songjin’s word, his household servants were all young, likely between the ages of eight and sixteen, and bore no familial resemblance to each other. He neglected to mention, however, the fact that they were all armed with real weapons and looked like they knew how to use them. How foolish of her to dismiss them as children when she was only a few years their elder.

“I am sorry it has to end this way,” said Shang Songjin.

“As am I,” said Qiu Han, and she unsheathed her sword.

The edge of her blade erupted in flames. Every thrust set a corner of the courtyard ablaze. Every slash produced heat ripples in the air. Every kick torched the soles of her shoes, so much so that when at last she stood, panting and drenched in sweat, amid a ring of fallen, writhing bodies, her boots had burned to tatters.

And yet Shang Songjin looked completely unharmed. There was not a single singed patch on his pale blue robes, nor a single scratch on his folded hands.

“Magnificent.” He was clapping. The slow, uneven sound was drowned out by the roar of the flames. “It is just as terrifying as what the stories say.”

“How?” Qiu Han coughed out.

“Like I said, little messenger.” Shang Songjin pushed up a sleeve to reveal a forearm covered with bangles and strings. “Five times as many.”

Retrieving a blade from a felled servant, Shang Songjin advanced. They crossed swords in an earth-splitting crash, sending plumes of smoke billowing across the courtyard. Qiu Han looked down at her hands in speechless shock—her fingers that were so tightly wrapped around the sword’s hilt were turning numb and cold.

“You see, that’s the thing with elemental blessings. If you’re unlucky, they might just cancel each other out.”

With an almighty swing, Shang Songjin knocked the sword out of her hands. A jolt with the pommel sent her sprawling onto the dirt. A black cloth boot was planted on her ribs to prevent her from rising, but it was unnecessary—her strength had vanished as soon as she had been disarmed. Through heavy eyelids, she found the sword lying only a few inches from her limp fingers. She watched as Shang Songjin tossed his own blade aside to lift it into the air, his eyes shining with awe as he beheld the flawless metalwork.

“With such a treasure, who would need any others? I really must thank you, girl. You did not let my hopes go in vain.”

Qiu Han did not hear what he said next. She could gaze at the boundless night sky, at the oblivious stars that winked and faded. On one side was a blessed sword, one of many, and a servant of the gods, one of many; on the other was an unrestrained goddess, the only daughter of the Emperor. Qiu Han had always known which way the scale of heaven and fate would tilt, and yet she, despite harboring her doubts, had still decided to come to this town and do her lady’s bidding. This, she decided, was her betrayal.

“How amusing.” Shang Songjin’s voice pierced through her reverie. She tilted her head to peer at him. “How utterly amusing. Tell me, heaven’s little messenger: was this deliberate?”

Shang Songjin held aloft the sword. The steel did not redden, and the flames did not leap forth. Qiu Han watched in a daze, uncomprehending. “Did you think I could not tell the difference? This is merely a common blade, lowlier than my lowliest treasures.” He lowered himself to his haunches and pointed the sword at her throat. “So tell me, Emissary of the Watcher Qiu Han, to what did your goddess’ flame blessing go?”

As shock melted away the last of her fatigue, Qiu Han realized with sudden clarity how remarkably unharmed she was. Her palms of hands and the soles of her feet were bright red from the excessive use of qi, but she did not feel a stinging residue of the heat—rather, it felt as though she had never been affected by heat. Whether her sword was drawn, sheathed, at her waist, or a realm away, her skin always welcomed open flames as though a lover. When had that begun?

With difficulty, Qiu Han raised her hand to grasp the blade end of the sword. Was she not the Emissary of the Watcher of Souls? Was she not Her Most Divine Highness’ sworn servant? Would Her Highness send her to flail at the mercy of common mortals? Was she not the daughter of the emperor, the most farseeing goddess of them all? Qiu Han’s hand tightened; blood began to seep between her fingers. And if her lady was not at fault, if she had sincerely meant every word, then wouldn’t the one who cannot see the truth be Qiu Han herself?

Qiu Han pushed the blade down, away from her throat. Her other hand hovered hesitantly in the air for two heartbeats before, in an act of impulse and impotent rage, she pushed her palm flat before Shang Songjin’s face and recalled her lady’s words.

May my most loyal follower not dislike this reward.

A scream tore itself from Shang Songjin’s throat. Flames poured from her palms, her soles, her entire body, swirling through the courtyard. They surrounded the frozen orphans in fiery rings, not tight enough to burn but hot enough to hurt. She stood with ease and surveyed the damage. Her flames were less destructive than before, more controlled—the house was still standing.

Shang Songjin was not. He lay spread-eagle before her, the rise and fall of his chest agonizing and slow. Qiu Han reached down for the object at his side. In her hands lay her lady’s sword, four feet of what she now knew was mundane steel. The edge was still wet with her blood; Qiu Han wiped it clean with the corner of her sleeve. With a groan, Shang Songjin began to sit up. He regarded Qiu Han warily and eyed the discarded swords scattered across the ground.

“Shang Songjin,” said Qiu Han, calmly planting her foot upon his chest. He fell back to the earth with a heavy thud. “I charge you with the offenses of illegal entry to the demon realm, the trade and theft of forbidden artifacts, and the assault of a heavenly ambassador. By the decree of the Emperor and heaven above, the sentence for your crimes is execution.

“Let me tell you one last thing, mortal thief.” Qiu Han sheathed her sword. “You see, contrary to her name, my lady does not like dealing with the matters of death. So tonight, I will not be forcing her hand.”

Her flames spilled inward, enveloping her in a warm embrace.

It was nearly dawn by the time Qiu Han made her way to the main roads of Xiya. The trees swayed pleasantly in the east wind, and the earliest partridges burst into tentative song every few heartbeats. The streets were empty; the riverside booths had yet to be put up, and the errand boys and laundry girls were still fast asleep. The early morning peace would inevitably be disrupted by the discovery of the scorched residence at the edge of town and the dozen trembling orphans that had once called it home. But that was no longer the concern of the emissary of heaven. With one last look at her tranquil surroundings, she ascended to the sky where her goddess waited.