The quiet of Zhu Mingyu's study was broken only by the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the arm of his carved sandalwood chair. Sunlight filtered in through the lattice windows, catching on the strands of golden ink painted across a scroll he hadn't yet read. He stared at nothing, but the silence felt dangerous—like the pause between thunder and lightning.
A shadow guard knelt before him, dressed in black from throat to toe, head bowed low to the floor.
"Kill the kitchen staff," Zhu Mingyu said at last. His voice was steady, composed, but cold enough to shatter glass. "My wife may be soft and kind. I, however, am not. They tried to kill her in her own house, and that is simply not acceptable."
The guard didn't blink. "Yes, Your Highness."
Without another word, the man vanished, silent as mist.
