The Hanging Quail
His mother died when he was ten, and the cold palace was like a tomb. At seventeen, he killed his father and brother, carving a bloody path to the throne. Everyone thought he was a pushover, someone who would crumble at the slightest touch, until he smiled and plunged a knife into the crown prince's throat.
“Threadbare and full of holes, this tattered robe of mine was stitched together by your hands, one stitch at a time.”
Now that the robe is in tatters, it's time to change into silk. The question is, whose hide should I cut it from?
The Chief Grand Secretary of the Ming family stood below the vermilion steps, his robes as white as snow and his convictions as unyielding as iron. He upheld his principles; he killed the people in his way.
When snow blanketed the imperial city, whose blood would prove hotter?
