The air inside the frozen Scriptorium Bastion was perfectly still. Dust motes hung suspended in the shafts of sunlight pouring through the shattered ceiling.
Lin Diyu knelt on the ruined floor—his small and trembling hands clutching at Qin Tou's fading form despite having nothing solid to hold. His eyes were wide, searching Yang Lujia's face for the inevitable lie.
Because that was how it had always been in the royal palace.
There, a hand extended in kindness always held a dagger in the sleeve.
But Yang Lujia's hand remained open… empty… and perfectly steady.
"I don't have anything to give you." Lin Diyu stared at the floor, his shoulders caving inward as if trying to fold in on himself. His voice cracked. "M-My… my mother is dead—my… my title as the Crown Prince is gone. My Ink Imprint is blank. I am a failed investment, Mister Yang. You are wasting your time."
