The water steamed in silver bowls, fragrant with crushed fire petals and roots of red ginger. Mist curled from their surface and filled the stone room with warmth, though it brought no comfort to Qigai.
He sat on a low wooden stool in the middle of the cleansing chamber, his posture stiff, shoulders hunched. Four priests moved in practiced rhythm around him, their hands soaked with cloth and oil, working silently to scrub the grime from his limbs. Daoming stood nearby with arms folded, watching with solemn eyes. Haiyun stood further back, pretending not to look directly at Qigai's mask.
The mask remained, carved of dark lacquered wood, smoothed from years of wear. No priest dared ask for its removal. Not even Daoming. The face beneath it belonged to no legend and no god. It was a face shaped by shame, twisted from birth into something the world had never desired to see.
Qigai gripped the edge of the stool, wincing slightly when warm water touched the patches of scaled skin along his back and arms. His right leg bent too far to one side, and he had to brace it awkwardly against the floor to keep himself steady. The priest washing his left arm paused only once, glancing at the strange texture, then said nothing and continued. That silence somehow made it worse.
It was the first time in fifteen years anyone other than Daoming had touched him.
The cloth rubbed against his chest, dipped in oil. Another bowl of water was poured gently over his back. His throat tightened. His breath came shallow. He stared forward, unblinking.
When it was over, they dressed him in ceremonial robes. Crimson silk stitched with gold thread, the sleeves wide and flowing, the collar lined with a strip of fur to guard against desert winds. It looked regal on the outside. But inside the cloth scratched against his scales and pressed against the curve of his twisted shoulder.
Daoming stepped forward and placed a hand on his back. "Come. There is one last thing to do."
They passed down the corridor toward the shrine at the heart of the mountain temple. The walls pulsed red with the light of fire lanterns, each one holding a tongue of sacred flame drawn from the altar. The scent of burning cedar filled the air.
The statue of the Fire God towered before them. Carved from volcanic rock and draped in robes of gold leaf, it stood with one hand outstretched, palm open, and the other raised in blessing. Flames danced around the god's shoulders, not from sculpture but from real fire that burned without fuel. The eyes of the god glowed faintly, as if seeing.
Qigai stepped forward. He moved without instruction. No priest told him what to do.
He knelt before the statue and bowed his head low to the floor, pressing his forehead to the polished stone. Then he sat upright on his knees and raised his hands in prayer, as Daoming had taught him.
But no words came at first.
He stared into the eyes of the god.
Then his lips parted.
"Please," he whispered, "I know what they say about me. I know what I look like. I know what I was born with. But I have never asked you for anything before. Not once. I only want to live. I want to be with my family. I want to be useful. Please."
His voice cracked.
"Please do not turn your face away from me."
He closed his eyes. A single tear slipped beneath the edge of his mask. Then another. His hands shook as he pressed them together.
Daoming said nothing. He let the moment linger, let the boy's words float upward like ash rising into a sacred fire.
The prayer ended in silence.
Later that afternoon, a deep horn sounded from the cliffs below. Its call echoed through the temple halls. The guardians stirred. The priests gathered at the entrance stairs.
The envoy had come.
Twelve men, cloaked in crimson armor, arrived on horseback with banners bearing the sigil of House Baishen. A flame spiraling around the sun. At their head was a man with sharp eyes and a sword at his hip, though he never touched its hilt. His armor bore streaks of black paint, marking him as the personal guard of the king.
"We are here for the boy," he announced to the high priest Daoming.
Daoming stepped forward and bowed slightly. "He is ready."
The priest led them back through the temple. The envoy waited at the stairs. Qigai stood between Daoming and Haiyun, clutching a staff carved with fire symbols. His mask reflected the sunlight that filtered in through the gate. He looked like a figure carved from myth, wrapped in silk and silence.
Daoming placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Are you ready?"
Qigai nodded once.
Then they began the journey.
The horses carried the envoy ahead. Qigai and Daoming traveled in a shabby carriage, its wheels creaking as it wound its way down the mountain roads. Behind them the temple disappeared from view. Ahead stretched the long path toward the capital.
For two days they passed through the foothills, where the air was still cool and the trees still green. On the third day they reached the edge of the desert. There the sun hung heavy above them, casting the world in shades of copper and white. The sand began as patches. Then dunes. Then an ocean of heat.
Qigai had never seen the world stretch so wide. He had never known a sky so cruel or a sun so absolute. The heat pierced his robes. Sweat rolled down his back. His staff became a crutch as he stepped out of the cart each time they paused.
Daoming never left his side.
At night, they camped beneath a tent with fire wards drawn around it. Jackals howled in the distance. The guards slept in shifts, spears close at hand.
On the fifth day, the wind picked up. Sand swept across the sky like ash blown from a dying flame. Visibility dropped. The wheels of the cart ground slowly forward, then stopped.
The captain rode back. "We should halt until the storm passes."
Daoming looked to the horizon. The wind screamed. The sun blurred.
Qigai stood beside him. Sand clung to his robes. In terrible health, looking exhausted.
He did not speak. He simply looked ahead, toward the invisible distance.