She shifted her arm, and that was when he realized that the cherry blossom patterns on her páo were actually splatters of blood. “How do you not remember?” she whispered, and the accusation in her voice hurt more than any blade. The last time someone had spoken these words to him, it was Shàn’jūn, kneeling on the floor of the Chamber of a Hundred Healings, clutching a bleeding, eleven-cycles-old Yeshin Noro Dilaya.
