"Careful," Yizhen murmured, "this one still thinks he's clever." He was dressed as Yan Luo today, his robes practically falling off his body as he strolled forward, ignoring the women's gaze.
I adjusted the veil over my face. My hat was on my head snuggly, and the white piece of flimsy cloth covered my identity.
"He thinks he's alive," I chuckled, studying the man in front of us. "And that's a much more dangerous delusion."
The teahouse was one of the old, forgotten ones—wooden beams cracked, paint peeling, door hanging crooked from one hinge. A relic of peace left behind by war. The nobleman waiting inside likely thought its ruin would shield him. That its emptiness would make him less visible.
He should've known better.
Yizhen stepped aside, letting me take the lead. I didn't need the gesture. I was already halfway through the door before he'd finished blinking.
