The air in the vault felt like liquid lead. My lungs burned with every shallow gasp as the poison—a neurotoxin from the Northern Wastes—began to shut down my nervous system.
Zhenkai didn't set me down. He held me against his chest with one arm, his other hand gripping his Jian sword with white-knuckled intensity.
"The antidote, Fang," Zhenkai commanded. His voice was no longer the voice of a boy. It was the roar of a dragon. "Give it to me, and I might let you die with your head still on your shoulders."
General Fang laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "You've chosen your side, then. A shame. You were a magnificent puppet." He raised his hand. "Kill them both. Burn the archive. Let the truth turn to ash."
The elite guards surged forward.
Zhenkai moved. It was a blur of black silk and silver steel. Even with the weight of my body in his arm, he fought with a terrifying, jagged grace. He parried a spear, stepped inside the guard's reach, and drove his blade through the man's throat.
"Meilin," he whispered, his breath hot against my cold ear. "Stay with me. Focus on the sandalwood. Focus on me."
I tried to reach for the dagger in my boot, but my fingers were numb blocks of ice. "Let... let me go," I wheezed. "You can't... fight them all... holding me."
"I am never letting you go again," he snarled.
He kicked a heavy bookshelf, sending a mountain of ancient scrolls cascading onto the attackers. In the chaos, he ducked behind a stone pillar. He reached into his belt and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid.
"It's not the full antidote, but it's a stabilizer," he said, uncorking it with his teeth. He pressed it to my lips. "Drink."
It tasted like bitter salt and lightning. For a second, the grey veil over my eyes lifted. My fingers twitched. Life—painful and hot—began to spark back into my limbs.
"Better?" he asked, his eyes searching mine.
"Enough to kill," I rasped.
I slipped from his arms, my feet finding the stone floor. I drew my twin short-blades, the familiar weight giving me a surge of predatory clarity. We stood back-to-back in the center of the burning archive.
Zhenkai's sword was level. My daggers were crossed.
"On my signal," Zhenkai whispered. "We take Fang."
The General stepped over the bodies of his fallen men, his heavy broadsword glowing orange in the light of the growing fire. "You think two children can stop the tide of the North? I have five thousand men outside these doors."
"Then I will kill five thousand and one," Zhenkai said.
I didn't wait. I lunged low, a shadow beneath the smoke, while Zhenkai struck high. Our blades moved in a perfect, lethal harmony—the dance of the Red Lotus and the Black Sun.