The rain came hard and cold.
Liu Qingwan's consciousness was like a piece of wet cloth being scooped up, with water dripping down drop by drop. She opened her eyes, and her vision was blurred with gray. It's rain. The cold rain hit her forehead, the tip of her nose, and her lips, bringing a biting wakefulness.
Pain.
Not just cold. Her throat felt like a ladle of molten iron had been poured into her throat, burning her so much that she couldn't make a sound. My stomach was also churning. She remembered this feeling. That cup of poisonous wine gifted by the emperor tasted like this when it entered the throat. It was spicy, bitter, and had a strange aroma of almonds. The queen's confidant, Zhao Muqing, who was smiling all over his face, stood in front of her and watched her drink it all in one gulp.
"Second Miss Meng, have a safe journey. On the way to Huangquan, don't forget to say a kind word for our seventh prince."
Her hands clenched tightly. His nails dug into his palms, but the familiar, sharp pain was far away. Wrong. She looked down at her hands. A pair of plain white hands, slender and well-defined, with no thick calluses on the fingertips from years of holding needles, nor the scar left when she blocked Shen Jing's sword five years ago.
These are not her hands.
