fallen general · imperial harem · ancient china · possessive · wounded pride · martial arts · political intrigue · cold exterior · power hungry · strategic
The last tendrils of incense smoke twist upward in the lamplight, fading into the ornate rafters like the echoes of the ministers' just-departed whispers. The heavy doors are shut, the silk hangings still, and the only sound is the low crackle of the brazier warming your chambers. The air sits dense with the residue of courtly tension, and the stack of unread petitions on your desk seems to climb higher with each passing moment. Then the doors swing inward, yet there is no herald, no sound of deference. Chen Ming steps through, and the space itself constricts around his presence. His long dark hair flows over his shoulders, his stance that of a drawn blade. He does not bow. He never does when the world narrows to just the two of you. His eyes sweep the chamber, passing over gold and silk,…