(Prince Zhao Lie Stripped of Command and Sent to Weed Terraces)
The heavy iron door of the royal bedchamber swung open with a muffled groan, admitting a brisk rush of palace air.
Flanked by two veteran guards of the Imperial Dragon Guard whose armor bore the stains of hurried travel, a young man stumbled into the bedchamber. He wore simple scholar robes of plain gray silk, wrinkled from weeks of confinement in the damp underground dungeons beneath the palace. Yet despite the dark circles under his gentle eyes and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, his upright stance radiated calm dignity.
This was Third Prince Zhao Chen. The quiet scholar prince who had openly protested Grand Teacher Mo Wuji’s war decrees, and had been thrown into chains for daring to speak on behalf of starving peasants.
“Father!” Zhao Chen cried out, his voice catching in his throat.
Seeing his elderly father sitting upright in the velvet armchair by the hearth, sipping warm barley tea with color in his cheeks, Zhao Chen’s knees gave way. He rushed across the marble floorboards and dropped beside the chair, burying his face against the Emperor’s knees as hot tears soaked the royal silk.
