The air around the Grand Pavilion shimmered faintly with morning heat, as though even the wind hesitated to draw too close to the man who ruled from within it. The mountain that housed Protector Ba Zi's seat of power was both fortress and shrine, its slopes carved into terraces of black stone and crimson banners.
Each banner bore the imperial sigil — the roaring sun of the North — but woven beneath the imperial gold threads were symbols of Ba Zi's own lineage: a coiled serpent of fire devouring a mountain.
From afar, it was a symbol of loyalty. Up close, it whispered of ambition.
As Adviser Xiao Long stepped into the inner courtyard of the Pavilion, he was momentarily arrested by its splendor. The air here felt impossibly pure — almost deceptive — carrying the scent of jasmine and pine that concealed the weight of iron and ash underneath. Flowers bloomed unnaturally vibrant beneath the mountain sun, tended by silent servants dressed in gold-trimmed black.
