Dusk settles over the capital like a bruise—purple, heavy, swollen with dread. The palace torches flare brighter than usual, their flames pitched high as if trying to keep something unseen at bay. Ye Jing-e stands at the top of the Moon Courtyard steps, feeling the stone beneath his boots pulse faintly with the ritual hum rising from the East Wing.
The whisper of chanting reaches him again—Witch Rue Yim's voice, steady and rhythmic, as if her very breathing bends the air around her. There is power in her voice. Old power. Older than the palace. Older than the king.
Jing-e tries to quiet the trembling in his hands.
A general should not tremble.
But he cannot shake the image of Princess Niwa behind that veil—silent, slender, walking like she had already made peace with dying.
He hasn't.
Not even close.
