The side passage Di Jun led her down was a stark contrast to the cavernous grandeur of the throne room. It was narrow, the walls unadorned, carved from the same oppressive black stone that comprised the entire city. The air grew warmer, but not in a comforting way; it was a dry, sterile heat, like air that had been cycled through a thousand filtration spells. It was the breath of a sealed, guarded space.
They climbed a spiraling staircase, the steps worn smooth by countless footsteps over millennia. Not a word passed between them. The silence was no longer the heavy, oppressive weight of the court, but a focused, taut quiet, the kind that precedes a storm. Hua Qian could feel the thrum of his power beside her, a low, resonant frequency that vibrated in her bones. It was a constant reminder of the chasm between their worlds, a gulf of age and power she could only begin to comprehend.
