West Wing, Lingering Shadows Pavilion.
Stasis absolute.
Moonlight—cadaver-pale.
Shen Qingwu’s utterance—
A detonation! Obliterating the chamber’s final vestige of calm.
“You… who are you?”
Voice soft. Tremulous. Yet weight—tectonic.
In the shadowed corner—
Qin Hao’s eyes—snapped open!
Those eyes—usually stagnant tarns—now crackled with twin arctic stars! Razor-sharp! Lancing Qingwu!
*Hsss—!*
He inhaled sharply!
Wrong!
His right hand—concealed beneath the sleeve—jerked! Scorched by phantom iron! A searing, bone-deep torrent erupted! Scalding agony! Surging up his spine!
*HUMMM—!!!*
A silent detonation—within his skull!
He ripped open the frayed jacket cuff!
Gazed down!
Wrist’s juncture!
Palm’s center!
The lifelong mark—faint as birth-stain, draconic sigil—
Aw
