They had been riding for hours, the road thinning into a ribbon of packed earth, the fields at the sides low and colorless under a dull sky. The carriage rolled steady, springs creaking, the Emperor's face a carved mask of attention and restraint. Ananya sat opposite him, hands folded in her lap, expression as still as if carved from jade. Outside, the retinue had fallen into a purposeful hush; even the horses seemed to move with caution.
Zhao Rui did not trust the silence.
It was the way the light lay, the small gaps between trees that felt too neat, that made him shift forward on his seat. He reached out as the carriage turned through a narrow copse — not in gallantry, but to steady her as the wagon lurched. His fingers closed on her wrist.
