The capital slept under a veil of silver mist.
Inside the palace, lanterns burned late in the Hall of Governance.
Stacks of petitions and reports covered the Emperor's desk — papers on border security, trade taxation, the wounded Duke's recovery. Emperor Rong Zhen sat hunched forward, shoulders taut, a thin vein pulsing at his temple.
The war along the southern road had unsettled everything — merchants' caravans halted, supply lines stretched, soldiers demanding reinforcements. Every decision weighed the balance between safety and revolt.
He had not eaten properly in two days.
A cup of untouched tea cooled beside him.
When the final court messenger departed, he leaned back, closing his eyes. For a few moments, the hum of his thoughts dulled.
"Your Majesty."
The familiar voice snapped him awake. General Wei Han, his long-time friend and confidant, stood by the column, smirking faintly.
"Still buried in scrolls? You'll turn into a ghost before the next sunrise."
