The sky bled orange as the fourth day of the hunt slipped toward dusk.
Most of the court was either drunk or pretending not to be, sprawled across silken mats and embroidered pillows beneath a canopy of fluttering banners. The musicians played softly—strings and flutes that sounded like lullabies for fools. Someone was laughing. Someone else was weeping into a wine cup. And all of it felt too loud.
I sat at the edge of the firelight, a bowl of broth in my hands, watching steam curl upward in thin, ghostly lines.
My spoon didn't move.
Shi Yaozu stood behind me again. As always. The only thing constant in this sea of shifting allegiances and sharper smiles. I hadn't said much since the show with the stag. Since that perfect, bloodless lie had been dragged into camp and hailed as proof of courage.
He hadn't earned it. That was what grated.
