The news of the impending coronation spread like wildfire across the empire, burning through every corridor, whispering into every ear. The entire palace, already cloaked in mourning black and weighed down by grief, was suddenly thrown into a new frenzy. Mourning clothes fluttered in the breeze like funeral banners, and yet, over them loomed the shadow of something far more sinister.
Inside the seventh consort's courtyard, Hua Jing was pacing.
She had walked the same path over and over again, wearing down the finely embroidered silk rug beneath her sandals. Her hair, once elegantly styled, was now falling loose around her shoulders. Her eyes, bloodshot and tired, darted toward the gates every few seconds.
Xia Lin stood to the side, wringing her hands, worry etched into every line of her youthful face. "My lady, please, you need to calm down... pacing like this won't bring the prince back."
But Hua Jing didn't answer.
