Night settled slowly over the palace, carrying with it the quiet hush that only came when lanterns replaced the sun.
In the Empress's courtyard, the lamps glowed softly, casting warm halos across stone paths and wooden pillars. Crickets chirped somewhere beyond the walls. The air smelled faintly of incense and night-blooming flowers.
Lian An sat cross-legged on the low couch near the window, her back straight through sheer will rather than comfort.
Her fingers throbbed.
Not a sharp pain—worse than that. A dull, constant ache that crept from her fingertips up to her wrists, like they had been scolded and punished all day long for daring to exist.
She stared down at the crochet frame resting in her lap.
The stitches were… uneven.
Not disastrous. Not good either.
