The letters left his hand before dawn. Each sealed, each set upon the trays of servants who never asked questions. Hei Long's study emptied itself of wax and parchment, leaving only the faint smell of smoke and the impression of words still vibrating in the air.
When he stepped outside, the corridors were hushed. Not silence born of neglect, but of respect—walls that knew their lord was not to be disturbed. The palace carried him toward the north balcony again, though the night had already passed. Something remained there, waiting.
The city below was still veiled in the soft fog that comes just before first light. Roofs sloped like brushstrokes, half-hidden. The river's voice was steady, low, a constant undercurrent that threaded through everything. Hei Long rested his hand on the railing. It was cold, not yet warmed by sun.
He did not have to wait long.
