The Celestial Empress was staring at the other dragons, her lips pursed into a knot. “Come, Liwei. We must go to the Phoenix Kingdom. These creatures are not to be trusted. They bear a grudge against your father.”

“They are not like you,” I said with feeling. “Even though they have every right to resent their imprisonment, they are neither vengeful nor vindictive. They will not harm you or your kin.”

Her eyes flashed with anger, even as she turned from me like I had not spoken.

“Venerable Dragons,” my father said. “We must stop Wugang’s heinous ambitions. Can you tell us what you know of these creatures and the power of the moon laurel?”

The Long Dragon’s eyes blazed as they swept over the broken bodies strewn along the beach, like some glistening monstrosity the tide had washed up.

We never imagined the moon laurel could be harnessed to such ends. Its power is of regeneration and renewal. This is a vile corruption—using it to enslave immortal spirits, stealing life itself. Wugang must be stopped.

I dragged myself from despair. “Heat weakens these soldiers, yet it’s no easy matter to bring them down. If Wugang’s army is as large as he claims, imagine the destruction they would wreak across the realms.”

“His army is constrained by the laurel seeds in his possession,” Wenzhi remarked. “How many can there be?”

An image of the glittering tree slid into my mind. “As many as there are stars in the sky.”

Remember, too, the seeds plucked will regenerate, the Long Dragon cautioned. There will be no end to this horror.

“Wugang can’t grow his army that quickly.” I tried to assure myself as well. “He had to strike the tree with all his might before it yielded a single seed. It was a fortunate coincidence that he managed to harvest so many the last time—”

Coincidence? The Long Dragon tilted its head contemplatively.

My insides curled like a withered leaf. I had not wanted to remember anything of the night Ping’er died—reluctant to dwell upon it, to relive the horror, regret, and sorrow. But now, I forced the memories into my mind: my mother’s blood splattering the laurel, its seeds raining upon the ground … the light in Wugang’s eyes when he had ordered the soldiers to seize her. And what of his strange words earlier when he had claimed not to be the soldiers’ sole creator? My fingers dug into my temple, more recollections surfacing of Wugang chopping at the laurel, the scars on his palms reopening with each strike. My mother weeping in the forest. The two images converging as their blood and tears spilled upon the luminous tree, seeping into its roots, its bark … its seeds.

Panic rose, cresting high. “Mother, that soldier did not attack you.”

“I was fortunate,” she said slowly. “It stopped, almost like it recognized me.”

“Mother, Wugang meant you.”