Night fell over the imperial capital, but the heat kept getting worse.
The Eastern wing was lavishly furnished, filled with delicate screens painted with ink-wash mountain landscapes, dark-wood tables, and incense burners shaping sweet clouds of smoke. Yet, to Zaliyah, it felt like a gilded coffin.
They really put a lot of thought into this, whose idea was it? Kizari? he thought as his eyes darted around the room.
He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only a thin, loose white inner robe. His black hair hung wet against his neck from a recent bath, and he stared silently out the open window at the dark looming towers of the main palace complex.
"Your highness," Iruna whispered, stepping quietly into the room holding a small porcelain jar of soothing salve. "Allow me to dress the scars."
"Leave it, Runa," Zaliyah said softly,
