The camp was too quiet.
Even the birds refused to sing.
I stood at the edge of the central firepit, watching as one of the younger soldiers scrubbed blood from the stones with salted water and an old cloth. His hands were raw, sleeves damp to the elbows, but he didn't stop. Not even when the wind carried the copper scent back to his nose.
He didn't look up at me either.
Smart boy.
The morning mist hadn't lifted yet, so the camp still looked gray. Like the ghosts of the men we'd killed were hovering just above the dirt, uncertain if they should linger or vanish.
Zhu Mingyu had given the order. Deming had drawn the names. Yaozu, Longzi, Yizhen—each had handled their part without hesitation.
And I had walked among them, silent and unseen.
Not because I was hiding. But because I was listening.
Because I wanted to know what kind of kingdom I was helping build.
And whether I could live with it.
