Over shattered marble pavers, the heavy iron-rimmed wheels of the supply wagon ground relentlessly.
Ahead lay the Western Palaces—a choking maze of vermilion rows of stone pillars, blind alleys, and sunken courtyards where three hundred years of royal concubines had lived, aged, and rotted.
The night air of the Forbidden City was unnaturally cold, hovering at two point four degrees.
Against that biting chill, Lu Chen’s physical frame acted as a nearby fire.
At ninety point zero degrees baseline body heat, blasting heat poured through the coarse linen of his tunic and the oilcloth apron bound across his chest.
Every breath he exhaled formed a dry, shimmering plume of semi-clear steam that vanished into the darkness before it could condense.
Fallen pine needles and dry weeds within three paces of his boots curled, turned brittle. Then it crumbled into brown ash under his tread.
Beside him, Blacksmith An Ni walked with her heavy cold-iron hammer resting against her shoulder.
