Yang Xuanji followed the servant's pointing finger and casually glanced toward the palace gates.
The early morning light was faint, and a cold wind blew at the second palace gate. By the crimson gate stood a small, slight figure—the Eighth Prince, Li Chengtai.
He was wrapped in a thick gray-gold fur cloak, his delicate face peeking out from the folds, his little nose red from the cold. His large, dark eyes blinked repeatedly, and his tiny hands were tucked into the cloak. Though still childlike, he stood firm in the wind like a little tiger.
Spotting Yang Xuanji, Li Chengtai's eyes brightened. He hurried over and greeted respectfully, "Good morning, Master."
His voice was still soft with youth.
Knowing that the elder Yang Xuanji would enter the palace today, Li Chengtai had risen early, dressed in fresh clothes, and waited at the gate with sincere eagerness.
Yang Xuanji stroked his beard, his sharp eyes appraising the child before him.
