The capital was no longer humming with its usual routine. It was fraying—quietly, but undeniably.
The word 'war' was being whispered about, behind hands and fans as the people tried to adjust to their new reality without being overly obvious about it. Until the Emperor said the word, nothing was official. And if they repeated it, then it was their head on the chopping block for treason.
The front gates remained open just long enough each morning for the flood of refugees to pass through, their clothes soaked in ash, their eyes hollowed out by the kind of grief that left no room for questions. They came from the southern plains—Xueshan, mostly—though few of them spoke of what they'd seen. What could they say? That the town had been taken in a single night? That the Chixia army had left nothing but corpses and soot behind?
Everyone knew. But like the word, no one could say it out loud.
The air inside the imperial court was heavy with denial.
