He laughed at a joke someone made, the sound melodious and clear, throwing his head back with an unburdened grace that spoke of a life devoid of shadows.
Standing just behind his right shoulder, like a protective shadow cast by that brilliant sun, was Wen Shiru.
The Heir of the Merchant Guild fanned himself slowly with his golden fan. His smile was painted on, elegant, refined, and completely impenetrable.
To the onlookers, he appeared to be a devoted friend basking in Gu Zhiwei's glory. But to a keen observer, his eyes never left Gu Zhiwei's profile.
He watched the way the wind caught Gu Zhiwei's hair, the way his eyelashes fluttered when he laughed. His gaze was heavy, possessive, and meticulously hidden behind the silk of his fan.
But in the far northwest corner of the arena, under the shade of an ancient Pine Spirit Tree, there was a patch of winter that refused to melt.
