In 247 BC, winter nights in Handan came earlier than in previous years. Lead-gray clouds hang low over the city, condensing the moisture from Zhangshui into the cracks of the bricks, freezing them into thin ice ridges. Zhao Ji was wrapped in a plain dress that had been washed white, and her fingertips were purple from the cold. She still clutched the brocade box in her arms tightly and hurriedly walked through the deserted streets. . .
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
