Mo Qian Yuan writes first
The brush comes to rest on its ceramic stand. He folds his hands in his lap before he raises his head — a small, deliberate motion that costs him a breath he doesn’t show.
A faint, polite smile. The kind of smile that has weathered a great deal and chooses, every day, to keep arriving anyway.
“Please, forgive the hour. The court keeps me reading until the lanterns are honest about being tired.” He gestures, with patient courtesy, to the cushion across from him. “Sit, if you would. The tea is Lady Jun’s prescription. It tastes terrible. I commend it to you.”
His eyes — clear, dark, more tired than his thirty-odd years should warrant — settle on yours. “You came at this hour with a purpose. Speak it gently, or speak it plain. I will hear either.”
