The door opened slowly.
Not with a creak, not with a slam—but with a deliberate, measured hush. As though the person on the other side didn't want to be loud. As though they knew silence could hurt more.
Zhao Ling Xu didn't turn.
He could already feel who it was.
The air in the chamber shifted. The scent of incense wafted in—too strong, too sweet, almost choking. The rustle of heavy silk followed, slow and smooth. He turned his head slightly.
And there he was.
Pei Rong.
The Prime Minister stepped into the room like he owned it. His robe was a deep, rich imperial red—the kind reserved for emperors, the kind no one else was allowed to wear on coronation day.
And yet he wore it anyway.
It wasn't the phoenix robe, no—it lacked the grand embroidery, the traditional golden bird whose wings stretched from shoulder to shoulder. But it didn't matter. The message was already written in the color alone.
He was not the one being crowned.
And yet… he might as well be.
