As though the heavens had changed their tenant overnight, the sky now housed a different god. The sun that rose over the city did not burn gold—it shimmered pale and foreign, a white flame bleeding through faint bands of blue. Vivianna had once told me that the second sun was not born, but rebuilt—a result of an ancient war between heavens. Its fire, she said, was a wound in the sky that never healed, stitched shut only by the prayers of the living.
And so, every morning, when it rose beside the true sun, people bowed their heads—not in reverence, but in caution.
We had celebrated the festival under the silver watch of the moon, a familiar heavenly body that didn't need explanation. The moon was old, patient, and understood the foolishness of mortals. But this second sun—it glared like something still remembering pain.
Despite Dōngzhi's cool and distant demeanor, it became clear she was someone deeply respected. Shopkeepers bowed to her; children whispered blessings as she passed. There was reverence in their tone—not fear, not worship, but something quieter. Gratitude, perhaps.
I had put off thinking about it before, but it was impossible to ignore now—magic existed here, and openly. Not the kind whispered about in candlelit corners, but a living, breathing part of the world. Just earlier that morning, Dōngzhi had healed a small child's scraped knee with a murmured prayer, pale light threading through her fingers like spun frost. Later, I saw a dog beastkin chasing a thief through the market, hurling small fireballs that exploded like angry suns.
The veil of normalcy—thin as bridal silk—was beginning to lift.
"Dōngzhi," I asked as we passed a street lined with hanging charms and steaming food stalls, "what's your elemental affinity?"
She looked at me briefly, her winter eyes thoughtful. For a moment, I thought she might ignore the question entirely—her silence was that practiced. Then, without answering, she said, "Let's get you some clothing."
And off she went.
I followed, half-stumbling through the crowd until she turned into a shop with soft paper lanterns and silk draped across the walls like rivers of color. Inside, the air smelled faintly of persimmon and dye.
Bolts of cloth hung from the ceiling—floral prints, moonlit patterns, embroidered cranes, swirling dragons, cherry blossoms that caught the light just right. It was dizzying.
She guided me wordlessly from rack to rack. Kimonos, yukata, hanfu, hanbok, things I didn't have names for—all beautiful, all delicate, all whispering the same message: You are being dressed for something you don't yet understand.
As I fumbled through the choices, she finally spoke.
"People gain their affinity either naturally," she said, handing me a folded garment, "or they are blessed with it by the gods."
Her tone made it sound like the weather—commonplace, inevitable, beyond question.
"Gods?" I repeated, startled. "You mean—actual gods?"
She paused, her gaze flicking to the shopkeeper, who was pretending very hard not to listen. Then she picked up a rose-colored hanbok, its silk glinting like dawn caught in fabric, and handed it to me.
"Yako-no-Hoshimi-sama is the god of this land," she said simply. Her voice softened as she spoke the name, but her eyes stayed fixed on me, analyzing, measuring—as if fitting not just my body, but my place in this world.
"Oh! Stupid—of course," I muttered, cheeks warming to the color of the hanbok itself. I slipped into the garment, feeling the silk kiss my skin, and tried to act like someone who wasn't completely overwhelmed by divine politics and embroidery at the same time.
We spent the next hour buying necessities—spices, perfume, rice, soap wrapped in pale paper printed with lotus motifs. Dōngzhi haggled with the same serene precision she seemed to apply to everything else. The market vendors greeted her by name; she answered them with nods that could have been blessings or dismissals.
By the time we left, the air outside had shifted. The festival's remnants were still everywhere—streamers tangled in trees, sake cups left on doorsteps as offerings—but the world felt slower now. The "second dawn market," as Dōngzhi called it, was different from the one before sunrise.
"This is when the devout trade," she explained as we walked. "Those who stayed up all night praying. Those who have something to hide from the first sun."
Her words carried that quiet poetry the divine always have, whether they mean to or not.
I nodded absently, clutching the parcels. I was still wearing the same kimono from the night before, faintly scented with incense and sleep. I was looking forward to a bath, a quiet hour, maybe even writing to the Jade Palace—to Mary or Vivianna, whichever of them received my letter first.
The thought of home—however strange that word had become—made my chest ache.
"Healing," Dōngzhi said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Darkness, as in concealment. And water."
It took me a moment to realize she was answering my earlier question.
"Those are my abilities," she added, her voice as soft as snowfall. "Blessings from Yako-no-Hoshimi-sama."
"Oh," I breathed, smiling despite myself. "That suits you."
She gave me a look—not quite amused, not quite irritated, the kind that said I know what you meant, but I'll let you live.
We turned toward the hill path leading back to the temple. The city stretched below us, sunlight pouring over tiled roofs and smoke curling from the morning kitchens. The second sun hung higher now, its pale light merging with the golden one. The world looked like it was being painted by two hands at once—one divine, one defiant.
I quickened my pace to keep up with Dōngzhi, my steps light, my thoughts heavy.
As we climbed, I couldn't help glancing at her again. The wind played through her frost-white hair; her twin tails swayed in rhythm, each movement controlled, deliberate. Her beauty wasn't the kind that burned—it froze. A stillness that commanded reverence, not desire.
"Dōngzhi," I began, but didn't finish. I didn't even know what I wanted to say.
She looked back briefly. "You'll learn in time," she said, as if reading the unspoken.
When we reached the top of the hill, the city looked like a painting—alive yet distant, breathing yet untouchable. Bells rang faintly from somewhere below.
And as I stood beside her, the wind tugging at my sleeves, I thought about what she'd said—about gods, about blessings, about affinities and suns that weren't suns.
For a fleeting moment, I felt something stir under my skin. The faint pulse of the contract mark—the black reeds, white chrysanthemum, and red lily etched into my wrist—throbbed once, as though it had heard our conversation and wanted to remind me it was listening.
I pressed my palm over it.
A cold breath brushed against my thoughts.
"Every light casts two shadows, Victoria. One that follows—and one that leads."
I didn't know whose voice it was. But Dōngzhi's ears twitched slightly, as if she'd heard it too.
When we resumed walking, neither of us spoke again. The sound of our footsteps was swallowed by the soft murmur of the temple wind chimes.
And somewhere beyond the veil of clouds, the second sun flickered—like an eye that wasn't quite sure whether to stay open or blink.
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