The silence that settled over the square was not silence at all.
It was the sound of hearts pounding too loudly in ribcages, of shallow breaths being strangled in throats, of boots shifting against stone but never daring to step away.
When Siān stood there, face fractured with broken, bewildered—yes, even sorrowful—expressions, the entire gathering seemed to lean toward him without realizing it. Their gazes, hundreds of them, were fixed as though bound by chains to the figure at the center.
Lan Qíshēng was not the only one who felt his heart sink, heavy as an anchor in dark waters.
Every soul present, from the lowliest guard to the highest-ranking official, wore an expression of wide-eyed astonishment—faces drawn, eyes hollow, and voices trembling with an unnameable dread. It was not merely fear that clutched at their hearts; it was something far stranger, a palpable tension that crackled in the air, hinting at perilous uncertainties lurking just beyond their comprehension.
