The southern wing of the palace lay in darkness, the air damp and thick with the scent of old stone and sweat. Torches flickered, their light casting long, jagged shadows on the cracked marble floors. In the shadows, the last of Pei Rong's loyalists gathered—huddled together like cornered wolves, eyes glinting with the last scraps of defiance.
They had been here for hours, their whispers filling the cold silence. The hall was an old storehouse once used to hold treasures of the empire—silks, jewels, and fine porcelain now long plundered and forgotten. The rebels had stripped the shelves bare, stacking broken furniture and splintered shields in makeshift barricades. It was a pitiful fortress, but it was all they had.
