The moon was swollen and red, hanging low in the sky like a silent omen. It cast no warmth, only a cold silver light that stretched across the cracked stone path as Hua Jing sprinted eastward, her breath short, her heart louder than her footsteps.
The vial of poison clinked softly inside the sash at her waist. Every time she heard it, she felt like she might scream.
Gu Wei.
That was the name Zhao Ling Xu had whispered. A reclusive healer in the Third Province, east of the palace. East. East.
She didn't know what distance it meant in this world. This world, where carriages were rare luxuries and horses were bound to the military. This world, where narrow paths wound like veins between sleeping villages and ghost-quiet forests. This world she was still learning how to survive in.
She gripped the fabric of her robes tighter and kept moving.
The streets were nearly empty. The capital was in mourning.
Every step forward seemed to echo through an empire holding its breath.
