A month had passed since that cruel night beneath the lanterns, a night that broke more than bones. The boy had not spoken since. The bruises healed, but something deeper remained wounded and raw.
The day of the Churning had arrived.
Word spread through the kingdom like fire in dry grass. From every province and noble estate, carriages rolled toward the capital. The nobles came dressed in silk, with secrets in their sleeves and poison in their smiles. Even Master Qianzhen and High Priest Rengui of the Eternal Shrine, who had long treated Qigai like an invisible shadow, arrived in person to witness the final judgment. They sat among the honored guests as if the boy they scorned had always mattered.
The common people flooded the streets, their excitement rising like smoke from a thousand mouths. Most had never seen the Churning. Fewer still had witnessed a cursed child offered to the fire.
The Central Temple stirred like an awakened beast. Monks rushed about the halls with brushes and ladders. Gold paint glistened on red pillars. Banners were hung from the rafters. Candles lit the incense chambers. Outside, nobles waited to be seated in the stone amphitheater that surrounded the Sacred Flame.
Down the corridor came a procession of monks, robes rustling like leaves in wind. They carried trays on golden platters. Each was draped in crimson silk, bearing robes for the cursed child. On one, a over robe with blackened cloud patterns threaded into red satin. On another, wide-sleeved robes with flame-shaped cuffs and a jade pendant shaped like a lion's tooth. Another bore a headdress carved of sandalwood, crowned with phoenix feathers, and another yet carried soft silk shoes sewn with golden lotuses. But it was the final tray that drew every gaze.
A golden mask.
It shimmered with sharp beauty, carved into the expression of a smiling boy. The surface gleamed like sunlight on fire. A crown of bronze flames curled from the brow, etched with fire script no one dared to read aloud.
They approached the chamber at the end of the hall.
The doors opened.
The room within was vast and bathed in light. Wooden screens with gold-trimmed flames and prayers lined the walls, and a mural of the fire god adorned the ceiling above. The floor was polished stone, painted with a sunburst pattern. Lanterns swayed above like little stars, and the scent of frankincense hung heavy in the air.
Qigai sat before a wide golden mirror looking into it remaining still.
He wore only thin white undergarments, simple but finely made, tied at the waist with red silk. His feet were clad in linen socks. His face was still veiled with white cloth wrapped tightly from forehead to chin. Two maids stood behind him, brushing through his long, black hair. It was soft now, shining like ink, a far cry from the tangled knots it had once been. They had spent hours washing and combing, their arms aching by the time it flowed like water behind his back.
Daoming stood nearby, watching as the monks placed the garments on a lacquered table. He examined each item with care. When he saw the mask, he picked it up.
He walked to Qigai's side and knelt beside him.
"Look at this," Daoming said, trying to sound cheerful. "Is it not beautiful? It is far finer than the one you used to wear."
Qigai said nothing. He had not spoken in thirty days. Not since the guards threw him from the steps like rotted fruit. Not since the capital's citizens had beaten him bloody.
Daoming gave a tired smile, the kind that trembles at the corners.
"You can all leave us," he said to the maids and monks.
They bowed and backed out. The doors closed behind them with a whisper.
Daoming sat beside Qigai and reached for his hand. The boy's skin was cool. He tried to meet his gaze behind the veil.
"It has been a month," he said gently. "Please, say something."
There was silence. For a long time, it seemed the room had turned to stone.
Then came a voice, hoarse and brittle.
"You lied," Qigai said.
Daoming froze.
"You said they cared for me."
The weight of those words crushed the air between them. Daoming's mouth opened, then shut again.
"I lived in that tower," Qigai said. "Year after year. Alone. What kept me alive was not you. Not your visits. Not your prayers. It was hope. Hope that one day my family would open the doors and welcome me. That I would walk among them, not as a stranger, but as a son. A brother."
A tear slipped beneath the veil and hit his bare knee.
"But that life was a dream born of your lies."
Daoming looked down. His hands trembled. He wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his sleeve.
"I know," he said. "I should never have filled your heart with stories. But I thought… I thought if I gave you something to hold, you would not fall apart."
"You were wrong."
"I know," Daoming whispered. "But listen to me now. Today, everything will change. When the god gives you the flame, no one can deny your place. Not your father. Not even the queen. The emperor decree states you will be recognized as a prince. You will stand before the kingdom as a chosen son of fire like your siblings."
Qigai laughed.
It was not a happy sound.
"Chosen?" he said. "By god?"
He turned his head slowly.
"Your god abandoned me the moment I was born."
"No," Daoming said quickly. "Do not say that. Do not lose faith. The god sees your heart."
Qigai laughed again. He reached up and pulled the veil from his face.
Daoming recoiled without meaning to.
Qigai's face was raw and scarred, twisted like melted wax. He looked like a scaled beast, a monster infact.
"Look," Qigai said. "Is this the face of one loved by a god?"
"Please," Daoming said, ashamed of his reaction.
"Look!" Qigai shouted. "Is this the child you believe will be chosen?"
Qigai looked to himself in the mirror. His hands trembled with rage and sorrow. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I know what I am. I have always known."
Daoming turned back to him slowly, his own eyes wet now.
"I will help you run," he said. "Use the tunnels beneath the temple. You can disappear. I will say you took your own life. No one will chase you."
Qigai stared at him.
"You would help me run?"
"Yes," Daoming said, and he meant it.
He was not a good man. He had never been. He left Qigai in that tower, visited only when forced to, never cared if he ate or slept or bled. He volunteered to care for him only to rise in the priesthood, only to sit higher than the others. But now, seeing what remained of that boy, some piece of guilt had awakened.
Qigai reached for the golden mask in Daoming hands.
He held it up to his face, tilting it this way and that. The smile on the mask was wide and bright.
"Why would I run?" he said. "Why would I deny them the show they have waited for?"
"Qigai, please—"
"I will be the prey," he said. "They will be the hunters. Is that not what they want?"
He placed the mask on his face and smoothed his fingers across the gold and looked at his reflection.
"Everyone wants to see me burn," he said softly. "They have prayed for it. They have whispered for it in every corner of the temple. It would be cruel of me to keep them from their answered prayers."
He turned to Daoming.
"Do not rob them of their joy."
In that moment Daoming felt something amiss with Qigai, he had never been like this, but then again how would he know how Qigai had been, when he was never there.