The wind howled that night.
Not just howled—it shrieked.
It cried like a thousand restless spirits crawling across the sky, clawing at the walls of the empire, shrieking their grief into the void. It was as if the heavens themselves were mourning. As if the gods had turned their backs on the mortal realm.
And somewhere in that blackened tapestry of night, a shadow slipped through the storm.
A figure, cloaked in darkness, feet so silent they made no sound even as they skimmed the roof tiles. The wind tugged at her robes, but she did not flinch. She moved like an illusion, slipping past guards who had no idea she had ever been there.
Hua Jing.
Or rather, not Hua Jing. Not tonight.
Tonight, she was nothing but a ghost. A rumor. A whisper in the wind.
