By the time the fourth day of the imperial hunt dawned, the forest stank of sweat, wine, and desperation.
The early morning mist hadn't even burned off yet, and already, nobles were bragging about kills they hadn't made and swinging swords they didn't know how to draw. Servants scurried through the underbrush with carts of preserved meats and pastries, just to keep up appearances. Every arrow, every slash, every staged 'victory' was being written down, painted in gold leaf on scrolls meant for palace records. History, after all, was only a lie written neatly.
I watched it unfold from my position near the edge of the hunting grounds, sitting cross-legged on a low bench beneath a silk canopy. Shi Yaozu stood behind me, as he always did—silent and still, a shadow with eyes.
The sun was warm, the air sticky, and the display nauseating.
