The Crown Prince's study always smelled like ink and something older—something brittle. Maybe it was the old paper, maybe it was the history he tried so hard to wear like armor. Either way, it gave me a pounding headache.
I sat across from him, on the other side of the table with a half-unrolled map between us and a sealed scroll pressed flat between two lacquered stones. Zhu Mingyu watched me from behind his desk, arms folded, jaw clenched just enough to betray his irritation. Not fear. Not yet.
But close.
"Here is the information you wanted," I started, "These are the main trade arteries," I continued, pointing at a thin red line that curved around the southern provinces. "This one used to belong to your uncle's faction, but it's bleeding out now. Yan Luo says two of the governors are planning to defect if they don't get food relief before the next rain."
Mingyu made a small noise in his throat. I didn't bother looking up.
