The tea had gone cold.
He hadn't touched it.
He never did when the palace reeked of schemes.
Zhu Mingyu sat in stillness, alone in the private study of the Crown Prince's estate. The air inside was heavy, still, sharp with the bitter scent of old ink and unspoken fury. A single oil lamp burned low, casting fractured shadows across the lacquered wood floor, dancing along the shelves of unread scrolls. His court robes, still immaculate, glimmered faintly under the light. Gold-threaded dragons coiled along his sleeves, silent symbols of power no one in the palace believed he actually held.
On the surface, he was a portrait of princely restraint.
Only the teacup betrayed him.
A jagged crack split its porcelain side—clean, sharp, deliberate. Not shattered. Not spilled. Just enough to mark it. A flaw. A warning. A wound no one would ever speak of.
Just like him.
