Xisias

Yao struggled to focus on his writing, holding the brush as carefully as he could. However, every time he moved to make a stroke, he caught sight of the mark on his palms and it would cause him to freeze mid-stroke. He knew his teacher was getting frustrated, especially since he already knew these characters and it was supposed to be a quick refresher, but he found himself unable to ignore them.

He had managed to keep the mark hidden throughout the night of his birthday and the days that followed, but every passing day increased his worry. What if his mother saw them when they held hands? What if she  noticed in the morning light, when she brushed his hair behind his ear and kissed the top of his head? She had a way of seeing things before anyone else did, as if her eyes were tuned to signs others overlooked. Once he’d tried to hide a fever from her by forcing a smile and washing his face with cold water but she’d taken one look at him and sent him straight back to bed. The memory made his throat tighten.

Wei had mentioned cultivation. What was that? Why had his mother forsaken it for him? Had she wanted to give it up, or had she been forced to? 

Why did he have this mark?

He tried again. Ink pooled too heavily on the downstroke, feathered on the corner where his wrist faltered. The character blurred into itself and Yao flinched as the paper wrinkled beneath the brush. He drew back quickly, his breath catching in his throat. The ruined character bled into the fibers like a wound, and he hovered his hand in the air as if afraid to touch the mistake.

“Start again,” came the quiet voice of his teacher.

Yao glanced up. Instructer Shen didn’t sound angry, but there was that silence behind his tone. The kind that made Yao want to crawl under the table. Shen sat with his hands folded, still and upright as always, watching with the same unreadable calm he used whether he was reading, teaching, or delivering a quiet reprimand.

“Yes, Teacher,” Yao whispered.

He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him, careful not to smear the wet ink from the last one. His sleeve brushed the edge anyway, leaving a faint gray mark at the wrist. His stomach sank.

He dipped the brush again and steadied his hand. The first stroke went well, the second nearly matched but when he went for the third, a noise from outside made him catch the tail too short. The brush trembled in his hand and Yao finally placed the brush down and folded his hands in his lap to keep them still.

Shen said nothing, although Yao knew the man was watching him intensely. Then: “Show me your hands.”

Yao felt as though the floor had opened beneath him. He wanted to say he couldn’t, that he had ink on them, that they were dirty, that he wasn’t finished yet. That he would do better if he could just try again. But none of the words formed in time, and Instructer Shen was still watching him with those steady, patient eyes.

So Yao raised his hands. Slowly. His fingers were small and ink-stained, the skin at the knuckles rubbed faintly red from where he’d pressed too hard trying to scrub the mark away that morning. But the mark remained like faded ink under his skin. A mark that would not go away no matter how many times he washed. 

Instructer Shen leaned forward, but he did not speak and his expression remained the same. Instead, he reached across the table and, with a care that startled Yao, took the boy’s hand into his own. His fingers were dry and cool. They turned Yao’s palm just slightly, examining the mark that curled like a root or a winding thread.

“How long has this been here?” Shen asked.

Yao didn’t answer right away. The shame had crawled up his neck and lodged itself just beneath his jaw. He wanted to pull his hand back, to hide it again beneath his sleeve, but Instructer Shen’s grip was gentle, not tight. Not a restraint; just a weight, like a question you couldn’t ignore.

“Since my birthday,” Yao said at last.

He waited for something. A scolding. An accusation. But instead, Instructer Shen nodded once and released his hand. Yao pulled it back quickly and folded it into his lap again, pressing it against his knee as if trying to rub the mark away by touch alone.

“Has your mother seen it?”

Yao shook his head. “Not yet.”

Yao noticed as Instructer Shen nodded and motioned to one of the maids nearby. “Go get the Mistress.”

“Yes, Master Sh–”

“No!” Yao shouted, his heart working its way into his throat as he panicked, bolting upright in his seat. The brush clattered to the floor beside him, splattering ink in a small arc. “Please, no! don’t call her. I’ll… I’ll fix it. I’ll write better, I promise.”

His words spilled over each other in a breathless rush, but Shen didn’t move, nor did the maid. She hesitated only long enough to glance between them, then turned and left the study in silence, the soft shuffle of her slippers receding down the hall like a closing door.

Yao’s chest squeezed painfully. He gripped the edge of the table now, palms flat against the wood, shoulders hunched as if he could hold the whole world back with the weight of his own will. Instructer Shen stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust from his robe. His eyes had not left Yao.

“Do you know what that mark means, Yao?” Shen’s voice was quiet but not soft and Yao felt tears building in his eyes as he sat back down. He stared at his lap, once again digging his nails into his palms. “I asked a question Yao.”

“It means I can cultivate.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“No.” Yao answered truthfully, losing the battle with the tears. They stung as they slipped down his cheeks, warm and quiet, soaking into the fabric of his sleeve where he tried to hide them. He wasn’t sure why he was crying, but he had the sense he had just ruined something. That no matter what he did, he could never fix it. Instructer Shen did not sit again and made no move to comfort Yao, but neither did he turn away. 

“You will not be punished for something you did not choose,” Shen said at last, voice low. “But you must understand: your life is no longer quite the same. Your mother had a choice because of her age, but you will not be offered the same.”

“A–” But before he could get the words out, Yao heard his mother’s hurried steps before she reached the threshold. He turned toward the sound instinctively, heart hammering in his chest. The door slid open a breath later, quiet and quick, and she entered with a swish of fabric and wind-kissed silence.

What Yao did not expect was for her to instantly embrace him. 

The scent of jasmine clung to her sleeves, the faintest trace of the garden outside and the brush of her hair against his face made Yao want to cry all over again. Her arms wrapped fully around him, one hand gently cradling the back of his head, the other folding over his narrow shoulders. Yao stiffened for only a moment before his body gave in to the warmth and familiarity, the safety of her presence eclipsing everything else. His fingers bunched in the folds of her robe and he pressed his face into her shoulder.

“Mistress.”

“I will inform Master Taiheng.” His mother released him as she turned to Instructer Shen, and Yao noticed a look in her eyes that he had never seen before. There was something else in her posture now too, something rooted and honed, a quiet command beneath her gentleness that made even Instructer Shen incline his head in deference. The lines of her expression were smooth, but behind her gaze flickered something sharper. “I will start his training.”

“What level did you reach?”

“High enough to have a choice.” Was her response, but to Yao, it sounded more like his aunt that the mother he had spent his days with. She met Shen’s gaze evenly, as if the weight of old, unspoken things passed between them in silence. Shen gave a faint nod and turned away, folding his hands behind his back.

“Then I leave him to you.”

Yao’s mother waited until the door had closed before speaking again. She looked down at him with the same eyes he’d known all his life, but they no longer seemed soft. Not exactly. The kindness was still there, but tempered now with something else. 

“Yao.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t–”

“Yao.” Her voice made the words stop in his throat, cutting through the air with a softness that left no room for argument. Her fingers touched his chin, tilting his face up until he finally met her gaze. “There is nothing to be sorry for. Do you understand?”

Yao swallowed hard. He didn’t. Not really. But he nodded anyway, because she needed him to. He noticed as she shifted, sitting on the floor before motioning him into her lap. Yao moved to sit with her, finally relaxing as she began to gently stroke his hair. 

“Let me tell you a story, Yao. A story of a crane and a carp.” There was a hint of sadness to his mother’s voice, but Yao said nothing, closing his eyes as she spoke. “A story of change that was unwanted and unavoidable.”

“Not too long ago…”