The road beyond the forest was eerily calm, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath after the storm.
The air smelled of sap and ash. The wheel had been fixed, the wounded tended, the dead wrapped for the journey home.
Only the Emperor remained motionless on horseback, gaze fixed on the arrow still lodged deep in the carriage frame.
The shaft trembled in the faint breeze — black fletching, heavy iron tip.
A perfect soldier's arrow.
But its angle was wrong.
Zhao Rui dismounted, boots crunching softly against the gravel.
He traced the path of the arrow with his eyes, following it to the seat where the Empress had been sitting.
Three arrows had struck — all within the same mark.
Not one toward his side.
---
The Pattern
"Strange," he murmured.
The captain beside him stiffened. "Your Majesty?"
Zhao Rui's tone was calm, too calm. "You see the pattern, don't you? The shots came from the left ridge. All aimed here…"
