The rain in Nandu always carries a lingering dampness.
Sixteen-year-old Su Weiyu was struggling in the mud like a dying dodder flower, clutching half of an old jade pendant with inscriptions on it. She had seen Xie Mingyuan - a thirty-nine-year-old Lord Tongpan. His anzurite official robe was wrapped in bones as gentle as jade. When he smiled, there was a spring breeze in his eyes, but when he turned around, there was a sharp edge that could make the difference between life and death.
That was the power she had never had, the driftwood that allowed her to survive.
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