The storm had been threatening all evening.
By the time the last of the ministers had slunk from the palace halls, the wind was tugging at the shutters like an impatient guest, promising rain and thunder before dawn.
The air tasted of it—sharp, clean, carrying the faint metallic edge of far-off lightning.
Inside, the lamps burned low, throwing their soft gold across the inlaid floors as if even fire knew better than to be loud tonight.
Mingyu dismissed the servants with a single look, one that left no room for questions.
Trays vanished. Doors closed. Voices retreated down the long corridors until only silence remained, heavy and welcome.
Xinying stood by the window with her hair unpinned, the light from the coming storm finding the edge of her cheek where her sleeve had slipped.
