The carriage cut smoothly through the high sea of white clouds, pulled by the steady beat of the four-winged pegasi.
Inside the cabin, the faint smell of dried tea leaves and purple sandalwood hung in the still air.
Ye Hongyan and Haoran were sitting on the carriage, already on on their way back to the Imperial Academy.
Haoran leaned back against the deep silk cushions, his hands were clasped over his stomach, his brows furrowed, deep in thought.
His golden eyes were fixed on the wooden grain of the opposite wall, unblinking and cold.
For some reason, he had a very bad feeling.
It was not the simple worry of an ordinary cultivator fearing a sudden mountain storm.
It was a cold, sharp twitch deep within his spirit, like a fine needle scraping against his inner marrow.
It was an unmistakable chill, an oily, crawling sensation along his neck.
The same feeling he had felt when he found out that his cousin was a transmigrator many years ago.
