The night was as dark as ink, and the candlelight flickered.
Shen Li, draped in a dark red robe lazily touching the ground, appeared more captivating than ever, accentuating his enchantingly handsome face. He leaned against a low table, holding a wine cup between his slender fingers, his narrow fox-like eyes slightly squinting, fixing his gaze on the brocade box in Qiu Yang's hands, remaining silent for a long while.
It was hard to guess what he was thinking.
Qiu Yang knelt on the floor, the arms holding the brocade box trembling.
The hall was terrifyingly quiet, with only the increasingly strong aroma of wine permeating the air.
His knees had long since gone numb, yet he dared not move an inch, even suspecting whether Your Majesty was truly drunk. Could it be that he hadn't heard him clearly?
Qiu Yang mustered the courage to look up.
