Page 17 of Dynasty of the Wicked

Zhi Ruo grasped his hand in hers lightly. “We must hurry. I am well now, thank you.”

Nodding, they both headed toward the corridor. Feng Mian paused to wrench the sword out of one of the bodies while Zhi Ruo wrangled the knife out of the other man’s neck. She tried not to stare too long at his mangled throat, his wounded eye, or the glassy one.

The old prisoner rattled his bars, wide eyes latched onto them. “Release me too! Please!”

“Fuck off,” Feng Mian sneered, stepping over one of the corpses.

Anger surged through Zhi Ruo, but she chose to ignore the old man. Let him rot in his cell, she decided, hurrying down the hallway. She climbed up the steps two at a time, her heart stuck in her throat.

Feng Mian touched the doorknob and froze. “Wait?—”

“What?”

“There are people outside.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can sense people and—well, it doesn’t matter.” He waved his calloused, bloodied hand and jerked his chin at the door. “There are … hundreds of people close by. I think we’re in the lower levels of a building.”

“What now?” Zhi Ruo shifted on her feet and the floorboards of the stairs creaked and groaned, the wood moldering and dipping in the center.

Feng Mian gritted his teeth together. “We sure as hell can’t stay here and rot in this place.”

She tightened her hold on the knife. They didn’t stand much of a chance against hundreds of soldiers. And the more she looked at Feng Mian, the more injuries she noticed—his hands were cut badly, he was holding his sword loosely, likely due to the injuries, and he wasn’t putting weight on one of his legs. Not to mention he was covered in blood. How long could he even last in battle? Despite that, she still said, “You try to fight anyone who draws near. I’ll look for a horse and we can try to run as far as possible. I’m smaller, so they might not notice me slipping by.”

“You want me to be flashy and distract them?”

“Exactly.”

He released a shaking breath, strengthened his hold on his sword and then slowly pushed the door open. He motioned for her toward the thin crack of the opened door, and she almost forgot, once again, that he was blind. She would have to be his eyes.

Zhi Ruo was suddenly all too aware that Feng Mian was close to her, his breath fanning over her bare neck, his broad chest inches away from her back. His warmth radiated against her, warming her down to her toes. It was completely inappropriate for her to be thinking these things, especially considering the timing.

She squinted in the bright light that filled the room. It was a small two-windowed house of sorts. There was a hearth on one side, a table with platters of breads and hard yellow blocks on the other, and two windows overlooking a snowy background. An older soldier with shocking gold and gray-streaked hair sat next to the fire on a single, wooden chair, his head tucked against his chest as he snoozed loudly.

“There’s one soldier,” she murmured, shooting a furtive glance at Feng Mian. He was too close. Blood splatters dotted his chin and neck, and she wasn’t sure if it was his blood or theothers’. The scent of sweat, and iron, and something deep and earthy and musky filled her nostrils. Heat crept up her face at his closeness. She needed to focus, she told herself, staring intently at the sleeping Kadian. How could she be distracted by Feng Mian when her life was literally on the line?

Feng Mian splayed his hand on the center of the door and slowly eased it open, being careful not to make a sound. Despite his efforts, the door screeched open. Both of them tensed, but the soldier’s snores remained consistent and he didn’t move. Carefully, Feng Mian swept into the room and Zhi Ruo trailed behind him. She could hear the old man in the dungeon howling something, so she turned around and softly shut the door. A loud, wet, thud made her whirl around.

The soldier’s head rolled a few feet away from her. She gasped sharply, one hand flying to her mouth and the other holding up the knife as if that could do anything. Feng Mian lifted an eyebrow at her. The soldier’s body remained slumped on the chair, except now there was a flood of blood drenching his entire uniform.

It was ghastly. Even in death, the man appeared asleep.

She scrunched her nose at the strong smell of blood. “You didn’t have to …”

“Kill him?” Feng Mian swung his sword and a spatter of red painted the wall immediately. “He’s the enemy. Never forget that.”

“But …” She opened her mouth to say more—that he hadn’t been doing anything to warrant his death—but it sounded ridiculous even in her mind. She was imprisoned by the Kadians. They were her enemies, after all. She instead nodded, then whispered, “Never mind. You’re right.”

Feng Mian hesitated a moment longer, before motioning to one of the walls. “Which way is the door? Or … is there even a door?”

“There are two windows and a door.” She crouched down, careful not to get more blood on the tattered, blood-stiffened hem of her dress. It sounded silly—she was already soaked in blood, so it shouldn’t have mattered.

She inched closer to one of the windows. Feng Mian followed behind her, keeping low to the floor, his sword balanced just an inch from the sticky floorboards.

Zhi Ruo poked her head up to stare out of the snow-crusted window and almost immediately dropped down to the floor. Her heart pounded loudly, the color draining from her face. Like Feng Mian had said, hundreds of Kadian soldiers surrounded the place. Beige tents were erected all around, with Kadians circling fires, sitting on makeshift seats, moving material from one location to the next, sharpening their swords, and tending to horses. They were in the middle of a military camp.

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