The amber dawn broke over the ancient capital, bathing the rooftop tiles in a honeyed glow. Lotus blossoms trembled with dew, releasing their sweet perfume into the warm morning air. Below, the palace gates stood proud and unyielding, their lacquered crimson doors engraved with dragons coiled in eternal embrace.
Within the east wing's ornate chambers, Qiao Zhi stretched, her form lithe and statuesque. She rose to her full height—a striking six feet—and moved with the grace of a warrior despite the fine silks draped about her. Her high cheekbones and strong jawline were softened by full, rose-petal lips; her eyes, dark and penetrating, shimmered with amusement as she caught sight of the sunrise. Some called her a handsome beauty in the old fashion, but those who knew her saw something beyond mere looks: a quiet confidence, a steady power that eclipsed many a famed courtesan or beloved concubine.
