The next day.
Pale, golden morning sunlight filtered through the delicate wooden lattice of the courtyard windows, casting soft, warm squares across the polished cedar floorboards.
The pungent tang of boiled spirit herbs, crushed ginseng roots, and bitter wolfberry salves filled the spacious bedchamber, completely overtaking the lingering scent of smoke that still drifted through the outer courtyards of the Ye Clan estate.
Outside, the steady thud of mallets and the quiet murmur of guards hauling away debris signaled the slow, stubborn revival of the city.
Ye Hongyan and Shen Haoran are inside Ye Liuman's room, who was still recovering.
The patriarch of the Ye Clan lay propped up against a mountain of plush silk pillows.
Thick white bandages, soaked with dark green medicinal paste, wrapped tightly around his broad chest and shoulders, binding the cracked ribs and shielding the jagged wound along his spine where the poison needles had been extracted.
