Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 120336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
I remained still.
The man before me was not only my brother by blood but my brother-in-arms, and yet in that moment he felt like a stranger.
“Turn around.”
I swallowed down sadness, gazed at Monique on the bed one last time, and did as he said. “I would have behaved, brother.”
“Maybe.” Song remained by the bed as I walked away. “Maybe not.”
And I knew without him saying it that he would stand watch over Monique for the rest of the night, making sure that I did not sneak back in.
Chapter seventeen
The Fox Spirit
Moni
Groggy and disoriented, I opened my eyes.
My lashes fluttered against the golden sunlight streaming through the window of the tent, casting long, shifting beams of light across the fabric walls. The air was crisp and cool, with a faint trace of pine and damp earth.
I blinked a few times, trying to decipher my sluggish thoughts. It felt like I was rising from a deep, endless dream.
Where am I?
The thought whispered through my foggy mind as I tried to orient myself.
Slowly, the scene around me began to sharpen.
The tent’s walls were a deep, luxurious navy, edged with silver embroidery in swirling, elegant patterns that reminded me of dragon scales.
The ceiling arched high above and was supported by poles wrapped in silk ribbons that twisted like climbing vines.
Where the fuck is this?
In the far corner, a lacquered wooden table stood, and the polish shined like a mirror. On it rested a tray with delicate porcelain cups and a teapot. Steam still curled from the spout.
The scent of jasmine tea mingled with the mountain air.
A small oil lamp sat beside it. The glass was etched with lotus flowers.
I shifted beneath the covers and realized I was lying on a bed—not just any bed, but one draped in thick quilts of velvet and fur, layered so luxuriously I felt cocooned in softness.
A bed this extravagant seemed out of place in the rugged setting, but then again, nothing about this tent seemed typical. It wasn’t just shelter—it was a masterpiece of wealth and refinement brought to the wilderness.
My gaze wandered to the window; an opening trimmed with fine netting to keep out insects.
Beyond it, I could see jagged mountain peaks stretching into the distance, their snow-dusted tips gleaming under the afternoon sun.
The sky was a flawless canvas of blue, painted with streaks of white clouds that seemed to hover just close enough to touch.
That’s right. I’m on Mount Utopia and. . .
I stared at the jagged peaks.
The memory of last night came crashing back to me.
I killed people.
And not accidentally.
And certainly not as someone else’s pawn, although I could make an argument for it.
Still. . .I made the decision myself; I couldn’t even blame Leo.
I pulled the trigger.
I ended lives.
A chill crept over me, deeper than the mountain air seeping through the tent’s fabric walls.
I am a. . .monster now.
I gripped the edge of the fur-lined quilt, holding it tight against my chest as if that could anchor me in a world that suddenly felt. . .different.
Something had shifted.
I closed my eyes and rubbed them, hoping the clarity I felt was just fatigue, a trick of sleep.
But when I opened my eyes again, the world looked sharper—crisper.
It was as if someone had handed me glasses and for the first time, I could see every edge, every detail, every flaw.
The mountains weren’t just beautiful.
They were commanding.
Terrifying.
The sunlight gleaming off their snow-dusted peaks was almost too bright.
Too vivid.
Even the embroidered dragons on the tent walls seemed alive, their scales shimmering as though they might rise from the fabric and slither into the room.
Is this what killing does to you? Or am I just losing it?
I swore I could hear better—the rustle of silk ribbons brushing against the tent poles, the soft, rhythmic beat of my own pulse pounding in my ears.
Or was that something else?
I closed my eyes and focused, listening deeper.
I swore I could hear the mountain itself, the way the wind danced over the peaks and whistled through the valleys.
The subtle hum of life surrounded me—an insect buzzing near the netting, the distant call of a bird, even the faint scrape of boots on rock far beyond the tent.
Am I imagining this? Or am I becoming something else entirely. . .due to killing?
I flexed my fingers in front of my face and stared at them as though they belonged to someone else.
These hands. . .
They’d been hands that had once been soft, untainted.
Now, they were a killer’s hands.
I had blood on them last night. Someone washed my hands while I was sleeping?
More important, I wondered if the blood that had been washed off hours ago had truly gone or if it had seeped into me, burrowing deep into my skin, into my soul.
Something about me was different now.
No, not just different.
Permanent.
This is who I am now?