The air in Chang'an hung heavy with the scent of war—burnt cedar and blood carried on the wind from distant battlefields. Yet in the shadowed chambers of Minister Wang Yun's estate, another weapon was being forged—not of steel, but of silk and whispers. Diao Chan slipped into her dancing gown, the thin silk clinging to her alluring curves like a lover's caress. Wang Yun's hands traced her form, his touch deliberate, his passion evident as he guided her poise into a weapon deadly enough to stoke any man's desire. "You will dance for Dong Zhuo," he murmured, his voice thick with intent, "and ignite Lü Bu, until their lust tears them asunder." Her heart quickened—a mix of fear and thrill. Both men were ruthless, their insatiable appetite for beautiful women matched only by their domineering egos, navigable solely through her feigned submission. Yet she had to play their passions to her goal, knowing each step, each glance, could topple empires. In a world carved by blades, she would wield desire as her sword. But even the sharpest edge cuts both ways.
