The capital was too quiet.
Even in the earliest hours of the morning, the palace usually hummed with the distant sound of servants hurrying about, of brooms against stone, of low conversations drifting down corridors. But today, the air was still. Tense. Heavy. The silence wrapped itself around the golden roofs like a shroud, as if the very stones of the imperial palace had chosen to hold their breath.
It was coronation day.
The dead emperor had yet to be buried yet the ones being coronated did not seem to care.
Everything had to be perfect, they said
The entire palace was drenched in purple. From the silken banners cascading from the balconies to the lotus petals scattered in shallow bronze basins, everything had been dyed in the royal shade of ascension. Purple—the color of power, of legitimacy, of divine mandate. But today, it looked less like royalty and more like mourning.
