The lanterns from the banquet still flickered beneath the trees, casting long shadows on the crimson silk draped over the tables. Distant laughter echoed from the clearing, dulled now, like the final notes of a performance no one had truly enjoyed. Somewhere, a stringed instrument stuttered through a farewell melody.
Zhu Mingyu did not look up.
He sat inside his tent, the door flap left slightly open so he could hear the outside world breathe. A scroll was unrolled on the table before him, but he hadn't read a word. His fingers pressed into the lacquered wood, the tension in his shoulders coiled tight and sharp.
She hadn't returned.
And she always made sure to sleep in his tent at night. Even if they weren't in the same bed. In fact, the only reason why she even had her own tent was because that was what was expected.
