a wisp of hair that clung to Shang’s temple. She brushed it aside gently, and Shang caught her hand in his and brought it to his chest.
Mulan’s skin tingled.
“I’ll never meet another girl like her,” he said. “Now that the war is over, I’d be a fool to let her out of my sight.”
A surge of warmth swept over Mulan. She felt herself glow, felt the heat in her heart ripple through her veins and rush to her head. It was the strangest sensation. At first she strained to maintain control, for maybe she’d misunderstood Shang. Oh, she couldn’t tell. The ground was spinning and her heart was pounding so madly, maybe she’d imagined everything he’d said. But from the way he held on to her hand, the way he looked at her, waiting tensely for her answer, she knew she hadn’t imagined it. So she couldn’t control the giddiness of her heart, the swoop in her stomach, or the tremble in her knees. And her face broke into a smile.
Then, before King Yama interrupted them again, Mulan turned to face the gates. It was bright outside, unlike the darkness that had wrapped her and ShiShi during their terrifying fall into the Underworld. Meng Po had promised many more trials would await her and Shang, but whatever they were, she knew they’d face them together.
And it was together that they passed through the Gates of Diyu.
Light exploded, so blinding and bright that Mulan had to shield her eyes with her free hand.
Keep walking, she thought, remembering King Yama’s instruction.
Each step grew more difficult to take. Fierce winds knocked them off their feet. An invisible force tossed them into the air. She couldn’t tell whether they were rising or falling. The wind was so strong Mulan could barely breathe.
But she could feel Shang’s hand over hers. He interlaced his fingers with hers and tightened his grasp so they wouldn’t be blown apart. He squeezed her hand and winked, an assurance they would be all right.
They started moving faster. A powerful gust roared and thrust them up and up. The winds swirled, and everything spun. Air juddered beneath Mulan’s feet, and like tidal waves, the wind folded over them, flinging them apart.
“Shang!” she screamed.
They reached for one another, but the wind was too strong. They were moving too fast. A flash of white from above stung her eyes. The light grew brighter and brighter, swallowing them in its brilliance.
Shang’s face was the last thing she saw before the world tilted, and everything went black.
Mulan’s eyes snapped open. She bolted up, accidentally hitting the back of her head against the pole behind her. Pain shot up her spine, and she groaned.
Her vision was blurry, still blinded by that intense light from the gates, and traces of the bell’s distant ringing still hummed in her ears.
But she didn’t need to see to know where she was. The ground under her boots was moist and cool, with the soft crunch of newly melted snow. The frost that had glazed the pole behind her—only hours before—was gone. And outside, she heard Yao and Ling making rooster sounds, a call for everyone to wake.
There was no doubt about it. She was back in her tent, back at camp with the rest of Shang’s troops.
Mulan rubbed her eyes and gathered her legs to her chest. The wooden bowl with the remnants of Chien-Po’s soup clattered at her side. Everything was just as she’d left it.
She quickly pulled herself to her feet. “Shang?” she whispered.
No answer.
Mulan heard a whistle-like snore escape from behind her shield. Gently, she lifted it and peeked underneath.
Mushu. Still asleep.
She decided to let the dragon rest.
Pockets of sunshine flickered through the tent, freckling Mulan’s armor with tiny dots of light. The rest of the tent was still dark, but the shadows gathered most heavily in the center—where Shang’s cot was.
And there, she saw Shang’s still figure, just as she’d left him.
Her shoulders drooped with disappointment. Had it all been a dream?
She breathed into her hands. It wasn’t as cold anymore, but her hands trembled. She flexed her fingers to warm her muscles, then noticed the bandages around her ankle were gone. She lifted the hem of her pants. The wound the demons had given her was gone, and the scratches on her hand had vanished, too. Even her uniform was back to the way it had been before, and her father’s sword rested against the tent folds next to Khan’s saddle.
And yet…
Feeling something soft and