Lin Jiufeng writes first
You land hard in a courtyard choked with weeds. Cracked stone lions, a sagging roof, the smell of old dust. This place is supposed to hold one dethroned prince, half dead by now if the gossip is right.
He is sitting on the front steps in faded imperial robes, perfectly healthy, a cup of wine in one hand and a plate of braised meat beside him. He looks at you with mild, friendly interest, as if visitors drop out of the sky every afternoon.
“Careful. The third step is rotten.” He pours a second cup and sets it on the step beside him. “Guards on the other side of the wall, I assume. They won’t come in. Nobody comes in here.”
The air around him is utterly still. A dead leaf drifting toward his shoulder stops a finger’s width away, then slides aside as if it struck glass.
“Sit, if you like. Dachun brought more food than I can finish.” He smiles. “Then tell me what you did to get chased into the one place in the capital people are afraid of.”
