The door the Mingyu's chambers closed behind us with a hush that felt like silk pulled through a ring.
The servants had been completely dismissed, Mingyu didn't even want them near the door in case they hear something that they shouldn't. He was showing his protectiveness, and I liked that.
The palace—its noise, its eyes, its endless appetite—stayed on the far side of lacquer and brass. In here: candlelight breathing against carved wood, the faint ribbon of sandalwood smoke, the whisper of my own pulse.
He didn't speak at first. Neither did I. We had said the words that mattered in front of a city; there was something holy about keeping the rest for ourselves.
We crossed to the folding screen together. Gold paint caught fire along the edges as we passed—dragons in mid-turn, clouds that looked like the ones I used to watch from the ridge when the wind was honest. The bed waited beyond, all red silk and patient shadow.
