The south storehouse stank of millet and fear.
Straw muffled the floorboards, a thin layer meant for grain sacks that had instead soaked up sweat and piss. The air was cold enough to bite, but the man tied to the central post was slick with it, his head lolling forward until the rope pulled him upright again.
Captain Hua.
He was smaller than I remembered from the parade ground. Men always are once their sword is taken.
Gaoyu straightened when I entered. He didn't salute; he simply shifted his knife from one hand to the other and let the point drag a lazy circle into the dirt. Yaozu leaned against the far wall, arms folded, eyes like frost. Neither spoke.
They didn't need to.
Hua tried to. His lips cracked when they moved. "Majesty," he croaked, though no crown sat on my head. "I—I sent for leave only because my mother—"
"Your mother will outlive you," I said flatly. "Don't waste her name here."
