Bian shifted slightly, turning his head just enough to catch his grandpa's eye without drawing anyone else's attention.
Under the cover of golden light and domestic serenity, Bian's lips moved silently, each word carved with venom.
"I hope you don't say shit you shouldn't."
Lin flinched ever so slightly, the lines of his weathered face twitching with discomfort. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His hands tightened in his lap.
At the head of the table, the Emperor sat like a celestial being wrapped in sorrow. His long braids, threaded with gemstones that caught every flicker of light, had stilled. His graceful hands, which had not stopped moving since they sat—adjusting the curve of his goblet, the angle of his knife—finally stilled too.
He looked up.
Straight at Lin.
And with a voice stripped of grandeur, gentle and raw, he broke the silence.
