Outside of the palace, the lanterns along the eastern pavilions were never entirely honest.
They burned too steadily for the wind that haunted the river, casting a glow over merchants who spoke in lowered voices and thieves who didn't bother lowering theirs at all.
Maybe that was why Yizhen liked it there so much.
The air carried rumors as easily as it carried incense—dealings about taxes, smuggling routes, priests bribed to look the other way, nobles who thought their shadows were invisible if they paid enough for them.
The place hummed with the kind of talk that built empires in back alleys while the court still debated the price of ink.
Tonight, though, his attention wasn't on the whispers. It was on the woman beside him.
Xinying walked as if she belonged anywhere she set her feet.
