The air was still, thick with the weight of unspoken tension. Zhao Yan stepped out of the cold palace with a heavy expression, his jaw tight and his eyes shadowed. The golden mask he so often wore had been left behind, revealing the raw lines of grief and anger etched across his face. Behind him, Wei Ling and Deng Mi silently matched his pace, both of them exchanging anxious glances as they walked alongside their prince.
Wei Ling, ever the careful observer, couldn't hold his concern any longer. "Your Highness," he said in a low voice, "you don't look well. Are you—?"
Zhao Yan didn't even look at him. With a single flick of his fingers, he cut him off. "I am fine."
That was the end of it. No one dared to speak further.
