The head hit the table with a muffled thud, wrapped in silk but still leaking blood where it was pressed against the solid surface. It rolled slightly against the lacquered wood, staining a circle into the grain.
Zhao Xinying didn't glance at it again. She stood at the threshold to her chamber, casually unlacing the outer robe from her shoulders. The movement was unhurried, elegant, as if discarding death was no different from shedding cloth at the end of the day.
"Do me a favor?" she asked over her shoulder, her voice light, almost teasing, yet undercut with command. "Give that to Yan Luo before you come to bed. Don't take too long. I'll be waiting."
