Night pressed heavily over Prince Liang's residence.
Inside a side chamber lit by a single trembling lamp, Prince Liang sat alone. His robe was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled, and an untouched decanter of wine stood beside him—until he poured another cup with an unsteady hand.
His son.
The word echoed in his chest like a wound that refused to close.
He drank, the bitterness burning down his throat, but it did nothing to dull the ache. The room felt too large, too empty. Every corner reminded him of what he had lost before he had even held it.
A soft sound broke the silence.
Footsteps.
Prince Liang did not look up.
"Go back," he said hoarsely. "Not tonight. We will speak tomorrow."
But the footsteps did not retreat.
Instead, a familiar fragrance filled the air—light, floral, deliberate.
Shin Gu.
