The afternoon light spilled through the lattice windows of the Empress's quarters, warm and quiet. The world outside hummed with the faint rhythm of palace life—servants murmuring, wind brushing the silk banners—but inside, everything stood still.
Lian An sat by the carved sandalwood table, her tea long gone cold. The ghosts were asleep for once, drifting in lazy coils of mist near the window. The peace felt fragile, almost borrowed.
She should have felt relieved to be home after the long weeks at her father's estate. Yet her heart sat heavy. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the blood on the Duke's robes—the arrow jutting from his shoulder, the chaos of that night. She remembered running barefoot through the marble corridors, her night robe tangled, the Emperor trying to stop her, and the wild slap that had rung through the moonlit garden.
She had only wanted to reach her father, she told herself. She hadn't meant to raise her hand to anyone.
