Fuchai closed his eyes, his lashes outlined dark and long against his cheeks, tilting his head back slightly. When the tip of the sword sank in, he flinched, a low sound escaping his throat, but didn’t try to retreat. He just stood there, letting me drive the blade through his heart. Ribbons of red spilled over my palms, trickled down my wrists. My skin was too hot, wet and clammy with blood. And there was blood on his lips, too, a stain of crimson in the low light. History seemed to be holding its breath, gazing down upon us.
