The silence that followed Lu Chen’s words was cold, brittle, and heavier than lead.
For three hundred years, no living soul had entered the Hall of Supreme Harmony without pressing forehead to stone and reciting nine cycles of royal praise.
The withered old man sitting upon the Golden Throne didn’t right away react.
His clouded eyes stared blankly into the shadows of the central aisle, his wrinkled brow furrowing as though attempting to decipher words from a language dead for a thousand years.
Then, slowly, his frail shoulders began to hitch.
A dry, whistling rattle rose from his sunken ribs, shaking the frayed yellow silk of his royal robes.
The rattle deepened, turning into a wet, rasping sound like a rusted iron saw being dragged across waterlogged pine.
Then came the laughter.
