Deming had stood in palace corridors before, but tonight the stones seemed to breathe differently.
The news of Longzi's new appointment still lingered in every corner—Captain of the Emperor's guard, a place that would put him close enough to be noticed, trusted, whispered about.
It should not have surprised Deming.
Longzi had always known how to turn battles into positions and victories into invitations. But the weight of it pressed against Deming's chest all the same.
He adjusted the strap of the half-mask across his face, fingertips tracing the cool iron edge that hid what his father had despised. It was an old habit, useless, but one he had never broken.
The scar beneath was not a wound so much as a brand—a reminder of who he was and why he had been cast out before he had ever grown into manhood. The Second Prince, the expendable one.
And yet Xinying had never looked at him with that contempt.
