I write with the passion of my whole body, standing on tiptoe for the delicate lines, and crouching low for bold, thick characters. My energy in each line is as important as the brushstrokes. I paint respect into the dots, lust into the slants, and pure, arduous devotion into the curling flourishes. The dance takes nearly twenty minutes, and when I am done, I step off of the paper and lift my brush, panting. The black characters glisten in the morning light, gleaming with holy energy. The court applauds, fluttering fans in approval, but I barely notice.

I have written my way across the courtyard to the feet of my princess.

I kneel before her, unable to watch as she reads the brushstrokes. She gasps, then sighs with both awe and confusion. I have written one of the riskiest blessings in a dalpil-mu’s arsenal: soul-sacrifice-life-eternity, with characters written backward and forward. The words are a binding prophecy: a promise of protection. As long as my words lay unaltered, my princess will be safe . . . though at what cost, none could tell.

Little did I know how soon my blessing would be put to the test.

One courtier applauds louder than the rest: Prince Sungho, Min Ja’s oldest brother.

“A toast,” he proposes. “To my resplendent sister, our future queen.”

He presents Min Ja with a bowl of rice wine, and my heart flips in my chest. Something isn’t right. Sungho is charismatic as always, but I see through those long lashes, distrust that pearl-studded smile.

Min Ja lifts the small bowl to her lips.

“No,” I shriek, leaping up the dais to yank the bowl from Min Ja’s hands. The acrid liquid splashes from the cup onto my face and hands . . . and for the next minute, all I know is pain.

The world drops to white.

When at last I wake, Min Ja’s beautiful, tear-streaked face hovers above me. I reach to touch her cheek . . . but nothing happens. I swallow hard in confusion at the bandaged numb weight below my elbows.

“The acid damage was too great,” Min Ja whispers. “The healers say they’ll need to remove them to avoid infection.”

I stumble to her bedroom mirror, off balance because of my newly lifeless hands. Burns disfigure the bottom half of my face, and when I try to move it, my head explodes with pain.

“They will pay,” Min Ja sobs, hugging me from behind. “Every last one of them. I will make them pay.”

Her features are resolute. I believe what my princess says, and feel safe. Night will come soon for her brothers. But one thing too is grimly certain:

I will never dance with my brush again.

“It was all my fault,” Min Ja whispered, once I returned from Da Seo’s memory. “So I stopped being a docile sister, and transformed into a future queen. I threw another party. Discovered that all my brothers—except Woo In, of course—were in league with Sungho. So I gave them places of honor at my table.” Her face took on a dreamy look, and she brushed a loose strand of hair from Da Seo’s brow. “I brought concubines from Father’s old court; his most talented dancers. They teased Sungho and the others, swaying with their fans, winding like butterflies. In finale, a dancer leaned over each of my brothers for a kiss . . .” Min Ja’s voice shook, but her gaze was coldly peaceful. “. . . and slit his throat. They stole Da Seo’s words, and so I took their voices as payment. They bled and died before my entire court—and no one ever threatened Da Seo or my throne again.”