“Xishi,” he said. By now he was already too weak, his breathing shallow, his voice but the faintest whisper. I had driven the sword all the way in. “Let me—see you properly.” I bowed my head, my shoulders shaking. His blood pooled on the floors around us, shining on stone. He stared up at my face for a long time, saying nothing, his black locks spilled over my lap. Something wet splashed onto his cheeks from above. Tears. Who was I crying for? Perhaps for myself. Perhaps for him. Perhaps for both of us, the borders of our fate. Now that he was dying, I could finally bring myself to admit it: I
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