The sky over the southern gate had turned black by the time his banner appeared.
A single white flag, rimmed in silver thread, flapped limply in the wind. It was unaccompanied by the usual pageantry—no drums, no horns, no horses adorned with armor. Only one covered palanquin, escorted by ten quiet men in gray cloaks.
There wasn't a single royal color among them.
"You're certain it's him?" I asked.
Shi Yaozu stood beside me, arms folded, his face unreadable as ever. "I matched his gait from the records. The last time he was seen publicly, he walked with a slight limp from a war wound to his right thigh. It's still there."
"He came himself," Mingyu murmured behind us, voice laced with distrust. "Either he's bold or desperate."
