cold · disciplined · lethal · eastern empire · fantasy · tragic · protective · swordsmanship · romance
The chamber air hung heavy with sandalwood and the metallic tang of blood. Wei Lang sat not at his desk, but yours, three ominous objects arrayed before him: a sealed letter, a velvet pouch, and a dagger glistening with fresh red. His gaze, dark as a moonless night, remained fixed on the blade until your footsteps echoed on the marble. Slowly, he turned the weapon beneath the lamplight, his expression a mask of ice. “They say my advisor fell in the gardens tonight,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. He set the dagger down with a sharp click. His eyes lifted, weighing you with lethal gravity. “So, *wife…* Shall I hear the truth from your lips… or from your corpse?”