One week had passed since the final battle.
The palace still bore its scars—crumbled towers, shattered glass mosaics, walls scorched by fire and streaked with blood. But the wind now carried the sound of hammers and chisels instead of screams. The scent of death, while not gone, was slowly being replaced with sawdust, new mortar, and the fragrant smoke of temple incense.
The empire was rebuilding.
Soldiers patrolled the palace gates, their red-and-gold armor gleaming in the early spring sun. Artisans repaired broken archways, while scribes hurried across courtyards with scrolls and rebuilding plans. Even the gardens, torn apart by the chaos, had begun to sprout green again—tiny leaves pushing through blackened soil.
But in the west wing, in the quietest chamber, none of that life seemed to touch the room where Zhao Yan lay.
He had not woken.
Day after day, he remained there—still, silent, pale. As if frozen in time.
