The Empress's palace was the sort of place that made your skin itch under silk.
Too much red. Too much gold. Too much of everything.
The walls shimmered with embroidered panels of cranes and lotus blossoms, the floor polished until I could see the distorted reflection of my own face. Incense curled in the air like snakes—sandalwood and something sweeter, meant to smell delicate but landing like a weight in my lungs.
It was meant to overwhelm.
And it succeeded.
The Empress sat atop a dais, framed by trailing silks and a painted screen, her face pale beneath layers of powder. She wore jade and pearls like armor, her spine stiff and elegant. But behind the beauty, there was something hollow—like a statue built too thin to hold its own weight.
