The palace of Dalishu sat on a plateau overlooking the northern plains. In winter, the wind cut through its halls like a blade. In summer, it was almost bearable.
Qui Qian preferred winter. The cold reminded him he was still alive.
He sat in his study, a half‑finished memorial before him, his brush idle in his hand. The candle had burned low.
He coughed.
Once. Twice. A third time—this one deeper, rougher. He turned his head and spat into the cloth he already had waiting.
Blood. Dark. Spreading into the fabric like ink on silk.
Behind him, Chi Yuan stepped forward. His personal attendant's hand reached out—
Qui Qian raised one finger.
Chi Yuan stopped.
Qui Qian folded the cloth neatly, hiding the stain, and set it aside. Then he picked up the small porcelain cup beside him—the evening medicine, cold now—and drank it in one go. No wince. No pause.
He set the cup down.
Chi Yuan retreated to his place by the wall. He said nothing. He had learned, years ago, that his master did not like to be fussed over.
Qui Qian pressed two fingers to his wrist. His pulse was slow. Steady. Too slow for a man his age.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small object—the other half of the phoenix seal. The rubies caught the candlelight, glinting red like drops of dried blood.
He turned it over once. Twice.
Then he tucked it back into his robe and returned to the memorial.
A knock at the door.
"Enter."