Chapter 162: Death

The throne room had become a winter storm.

Ruì Xuě stood in the center of it, his small chest heaving, his hands still raised. Ice crystals spiraled from his palms, spreading across the stone floor, climbing the walls, creeping up the legs of the jaguar guards who had been too slow to run.

He didn’t look like a cub anymore.

He looked like domething that had been sleeping in his blood for nine years and had finally woken up.

“Mama,” he said. His voice was steady, though his whole body was shaking. “Get up.”

Bai Yue didn’t need to be told twice.

She scrambled to her feet, dragging Tao Zi with her. Her wrists were raw from the ropes, but the ropes had frozen and snapped when Ruì Xuě’s ice swept through the room. Her lip was still bleeding. Her cheek throbbed where Li Hua had hit her.

She didn’t care.

“Ruì Xuě,” she breathed. “Your father—he’s—”

“I know.” The cub’s purple eyes didn’t leave Li Hua’s face. “I can feel him. The cold. He’s close.”

Li Hua stood behind her cracked throne, her iron crown askew, her face pale with something that might have been fear. Her guards were scattered, frozen, or fleeing. The great Usurper King of the Jade Jaguar Clan was suddenly very alone.

“Impossible,” she hissed. “You’re just a child. You can’t—”

“I can,” Ruì Xuě said.

He took a step forward.

The ice followed.

It spread beneath his feet like a living thing, crawling toward Li Hua, reaching for her boots. She stumbled back, her heel catching on a cracked tile, and she fell hard against the wall.

“Stay away from me!”

“Shouldn’t have taken my family,” Ruì Xuě said. His voice was still calm. That was what made it terrifying. “Shouldn’t have hurt my papa. Shouldn’t have made my mama bleed.”

His hands rose higher.

The air temperature dropped.

Li Hua’s breath fogged in front of her face. Her fingers, wrapped around a dagger she had drawn from her belt, were turning blue.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice cracking. “She took everything from me. EVERYTHING. Your mother—”

“My mother,” Ruì Xuě interrupted, “is worth a hundred of you.”

He closed his fists.

Ice exploded from the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It wrapped around Li Hua’s legs, her waist, her arms. She screamed, thrashing, but the ice held. It climbed higher, covering her chest, her shoulders, her neck.

“You’re making a mistake,” she gasped. “The Blood Moon is rising. The seal is breaking. If you kill me—”

“I’m not killing you.”

Ruì Xuě’s voice was soft.

“I’m just making sure you can’t hurt anyone else.”

The ice covered her face.

For a moment, Li Hua’s eyes were visible through the crystal, wide, furious, terrified. Then the ice sealed over them, and she was gone. A statue of frozen rage, trapped in the center of her stolen throne room.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ruì Xuě stood there, his hands still raised, his chest heaving. The ice around him was thick enough to bury the torches, the throne, the bodies of the guards who hadn’t escaped.

Then his legs gave out.

“Ruì Xuě!” Bai Yue caught him before he hit the ground, pulling him against her chest. He was cold. So cold. “Baby, talk to me. Are you okay? Are you—”

“’M tired,” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering. “Mama… ’m so tired…”

“Stay awake. Stay awake, Ruì Xuě, please—”

But his eyes were already closing.

~

Somewhere in the darkness, Han Shān felt it.

The cold.

Not the cold of death. Not the cold of the poison spreading through his veins.

This was different. This was familiar.

Ruì Xuě, he thought. My son.

He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t move anymore. The poison had reached his face, his throat, his lungs. Every breath was a war.

“Han Shān.” Yàn Shū’s voice, desperate. “Han Shān, stay with me. Please.”

The scholar was pressing fresh bandages against the wound, but the blood wasn’t slowing. The black veins had spread across Han Shān’s chest, up his neck, into his jaw.

“Líng,” Yàn Shū called, his voice cracking. “Where is that antidote? We don’t have much time.”

The pangolin girl was already running, her bare feet silent on the stone, her scales rippling across her skin. “The chambers are this way. I’ll be fast. I’ll—”

“GO!”

She vanished into the darkness.

Yàn Shū pressed harder against the wound. His hands were covered in blood. His glasses were fogged with tears he didn’t have time to cry.

“Han Shān, you can’t die. Do you hear me? You CAN’T. Bai Yue will kill me. She’ll kill me and then she’ll bring me back and kill me again. She’s very creative when she’s angry. You know this.”

Han Shān’s eyes were closed.

“Han Shān. HAN SHĀN.”

A flicker. His eyelids moved, but didn’t open.

“That’s it. That’s it, stay with me. Just a little longer. Líng is getting the antidote. She’s fast. She’s—”

A crash.

Yàn Shū’s head snapped up.

Líng stood in the entrance to the chamber, her scales dull, her gold eyes wide. In her hands, she held a small crystal vial filled with dark liquid.

But behind her, the corridor was filled with smoke.

“Líng? What happened? What—”

“The temple,” she said, her voice flat. “It’s collapsing faster than I thought. The tunnels are caving in. We have to move. NOW.”

Yàn Shū looked down at Han Shān.

The Snow Leopard’s chest was barely moving.

“We can’t move him. He’ll—”

“We can’t stay here. The ceiling—”

CRACK.

A chunk of stone fell from above, crashing onto the floor beside them.

Yàn Shū made a decision.

He grabbed the vial from Líng’s hands, pulled the cork with his teeth, and poured the dark liquid between Han Shān’s lips.

“Swallow,” he commanded. “SWALLOW, Han Shān.”

For a terrible moment, nothing happened.

The liquid pooled in Han Shān’s mouth, unmoving. His chest didn’t rise. His eyes didn’t open.

Then—

A gasp.

Han Shān’s body arched off the stone floor, his back bowing, his hands clawing at the ground. The black veins in his neck pulsed once, twice, and then began to recede.

“He’s breathing,” Yàn Shū sobbed. “He’s breathing, he’s—”

The ceiling cracked again.

A massive beam, ancient and rotten, crashed down directly above them.

~

Bai Yue heard the collapse.

She was running through the corridors, Ruì Xuě’s limp body in her arms, Tao Zi gripping her sleeve. She had reunited with her family and they were running for their lives.

Zhēn pressed against her side. Behind her, Mo Xiao carried Glimmer, the young dragon’s green scales dull, her wing dragging. Zhāo Yàn brought up the rear, his nine tails fanned out, watching for threats.

“What was that?” Zhēn whispered.

“The temple,” Zhāo Yàn said grimly. “It’s coming down.”

“Papa is in there,” Zhēn said. Her voice was small. “Papa Yàn Shū and Papa Han Shān and—”

“I know.”

They rounded a corner.

The corridor ahead was blocked. Stone and debris, floor to ceiling. No way through.

“No,” Bai Yue whispered. “No, no, no—”

“There’s another way,” Líng said, appearing at her elbow. The pangolin girl was covered in dust, her scales cracked, but her gold eyes were still sharp. “The eastern passage. It’s longer, but it’s stable. Follow me.”

They followed.

The eastern passage was narrow, barely wide enough for Mo Xiao’s shoulders. The walls were damp, sweating water that dripped onto their heads. The air was thick with the smell of rot and old stone.

“Where are they?” Bai Yue demanded. “Where are my husbands?”

Líng didn’t answer.

“LÍNG.”

“The Snow Leopard was in the lower chambers when the collapse started. The scholar was with him. I gave them the antidote. I—”

“You gave them the antidote? You mean you LEFT them?”

“The ceiling was falling. I had to choose. I chose to find you. To lead you out.”

Bai Yue wanted to scream. Wanted to hit something. Wanted to go back, to dig through the stone with her bare hands, to find Han Shān and Yàn Shū and drag them out herself.

But she had Ruì Xuě in her arms.

She had Zhēn clinging to her side, her small face pale with terror.

She had Tao Zi, who had already lost one family, watching her with those deep-water eyes, waiting to see if he would lose another.

She kept walking.

They emerged from the tunnel into the jungle.

The sun was rising. Pale gold light filtered through the canopy, catching on the dew on the leaves, the moss on the trees. Birds were singing. Somewhere, a river was rushing.

It was beautiful.

Bai Yue hated it.

She laid Ruì Xuě down on a patch of soft moss. His fur was still cold, but his chest was rising and falling. Steady. Alive.

“Ruì Xuě,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “You did so well, baby. You were so brave. Now you need to wake up. Please. Please wake up.”

His eyes didn’t open.

“Mama.” Zhēn’s voice. Small. Scared.

Bai Yue looked up.

Zhēn was pointing toward the tree line.

Figures were emerging from the shadows.

Hóng Yè, his arm still cradled against his chest, his face pale with exhaustion and pain.

And behind him—

Yàn Shū.

The scholar was stumbling, his glasses cracked, his robes torn, his hands covered in blood. He was carrying someone.

Han Shān.

The Snow Leopard’s white fur was dark with blood. His face was grey. His eyes were closed.

Yàn Shū collapsed to his knees in the grass, lowering Han Shān to the ground.

“I got him out,” he said. His voice was wrecked. “I got him out. I—”

Bai Yue was already there, her hands on Han Shān’s face, his chest, his wrists.

Cold.

Too cold.

“Han Shān,” she said. “Han Shān, open your eyes. Please. Please open your eyes.”

Nothing.

“Han Shān.”

His chest didn’t move.

“Han Shān!”

She pressed her ear to his chest.

No heartbeat.

The jungle went silent.

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