The study of the Eastern Wing was never meant to hold war councils.
The carved screens were too delicate, the incense too soft. It smelled of ink and old wood, not blood and iron, and Zhu Mingyu had always preferred it that way. But this morning, even the silk wall hangings seemed to quiver under the pressure in the room.
He stood behind his desk, hands folded behind his back as he stared at the open window. Wind moved through the patterned screens, ruffling the pages on his desk, but he didn't reach to still them.
Behind him, Commander Yuan Lixing stood stiff as a spear—refusing the tea, refusing the seat, refusing even the pretense of civility.
"My sister has been disgraced," Lixing said, voice cold and measured. "Her child is dead. Her husband is cold. And now, our uncle's head has rolled into the abyss without even a proper burial."
