At the sa ti, on the other side of the palace grounds, the night had grown still again, but only on the surface. Deep within the winding corridors behind the northern wing—forgotten by many, familiar only to a few—shadows blurred against shadows as a figure moved with astounding speed. Cloaked fully in black, his form was barely visible to the eye, his footsteps as silent as a whisper carried by the wind.
In his arms was the Pri Minister, his expression as calm as though he were being carried through a ballroom rather than smuggled away from a scene of betrayal and bloodshed.
The wind rustled faintly as they turned sharply, passing through crumbling archways and slipping between overgrown hedges and hidden doors. The man in dark clothes was fast—inhumanly fast—and with every few steps, the Pri Minister’s long robes fluttered like a flag behind him, his silver hair catching fragnts of moonlight.
After several long monts, a bored sigh escaped the older man’s lips. He yawned, covering his mouth with gloved fingers as if he had just woken from a lazy nap.
"Can you stop now?" he said nonchalantly. "They’re not following."
Without a word, the black-clad man halted, his boots hitting the cobbled floor with practiced control. He released his grip on the Pri Minister, who landed lightly on his feet as if this whole escapade had been little more than a casual walk.
The older man straightened his robes, dusting off invisible particles from his dark lapels with exaggerated care. A small chuckle bubbled from his throat—amused, unhurried.
"Good for you to co!" he said, glancing sideways at the other man.
"If you had co a little late, I would have been turned into mash!"
But the figure in dark clothes gave no reply. He rely turned away and began walking, not sparing a single glance in return.
Most would cower in the presence of the Pri Minister—tread lightly around him, bend at the waist, flatter his na with trembling lips. But this man... This man was different. The indifference in his gait, the silence in his steps—it was not fear that bound him but power. A power that stood outside politics, outside titles.
Still, the Pri Minister showed no hint of offense. Instead, he followed behind the younger man with a light step, hands clasped behind his back. Occasionally, he even whistled a jaunty little tune, as if he were taking an evening stroll rather than fleeing the aftermath of a failed confrontation.
Their path wound deeper into an abandoned sector of the palace—a place no longer patrolled, its use long since forgotten. Eventually, they reached a weather-worn gate hidden behind a curtain of vines. The black-clothed man pushed it open and stepped through.
They entered an inconspicuous courtyard. Ivy crawled up broken stone walls, and an old well sat off to the side, its bucket missing, rope frayed with age. Moonlight spilled across the crumbling tiles like a pale veil, casting long shadows across the quiet yard.
Here, at last, the dark-clothed man stopped.
He raised his hands and removed the headpiece of his garb.
In an instant, the shadow was replaced by a face—sharp and striking, almost unreal in its symtry. Pale skin, high cheekbones, and cool, penetrating eyes. He looked no more than twenty-nine or thirty, though the disciplined way he held himself suggested a man far more experienced. His build was lean but strong, exuding the quiet confidence of soone who knew precisely what he was capable of.
The Pri Minister tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. There was no mistaking it—the resemblance was there. Subtle at first glance, but undeniable the longer one looked. The cut of the jaw. The shape of the eyes. The very air he exuded.
The Pri Minister’s expression curved into sothing unreadable, both wry and sad, as he gazed at the younger man.
"First Prince," he said lightly, voice laced with a curious blend of pride and bitterness. "You cannot treat like this. After all... I am still your fa—"
But the man—Zhao Ling Xu—turned, eyes like blades of polished obsidian, and fixed a look so cold, so chilling, that the Pri Minister’s voice withered on his tongue.
The unspoken word—father—hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire.
The Pri Minister swallowed, his smile faltering for just the briefest of monts. And in that crack, the depth of their broken history revealed itself.
For Zhao Ling Xu did not move, did not flinch. His expression remained unreadable, but the silence that now stretched between them was louder than any scream. The space between them was filled with things never said—old betrayals, torn loyalties, pain that had once bled and now calcified into stone.
And though the Pri Minister tried to recover, adjusting his robe and letting a low chuckle slip past his lips, the tension between them had beco razor-sharp.
The pri minister looked at him softly, "My s..."
Before he finished, he was interrupted
Zhao Ling Xu finally spoke, his voice low and calm.
"Do not call that."
A command, not a request.
The Pri Minister gave a half-smile, half-sigh, and looked away toward the courtyard wall. The night wind stirred the leaves above, rustling them softly, like whispers of things long buried.
"You’re still as cold as ever," he muttered. "You got that from your mother."
Zhao Ling Xu said nothing. His expression didn’t change. But his hand flexed slightly at his side, the only sign that the words had struck sowhere deeper than he wanted to admit.
The Pri Minister turned back to him and studied the younger man with a gaze full of veiled regret, nostalgia, and sothing else—sothing more dangerous.
"But cold or not, you ca," he said. "You still ca when I needed you."
Zhao Ling Xu’s stare didn’t soften. "Don’t mistake convenience for loyalty."
As soon as he said that, from inside, footsteps could be heard before an extravagantly dressed woman ca from the inside.
A harsh voice was then heard,
"Are you out of your damn mind?"
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