Look at the lacquer, layered with shades of blue and purple, some deep and some pale. The rich, vibrant colors blend together, lending it an understated splendor.
Many years ago, on a night just like this one, hurried servants placed a newborn infant in his hands as he waited outside the door.
The baby girl smelled faintly of blood. She neither cried nor fussed, lying quietly swaddled in her blanket.
Through the curtain, Hao Ye saw her mother, his sixteen-year-old wife, lying lifeless on the bed. Vast pools of deep red spread from beneath her, staining half the sheets. The room was filled with the cool, metallic scent of blood.
The palace was bustling, but there were only the three of them: him, his wife, and his daughter. All was silent and still. He stared at the scene in bewilderment, suddenly at a loss for what to do.
He could have any woman in the land: the most beautiful, the proudest, the cleverest, the most virtuous.
Except her. She was the one woman he could never have, because he was her imperial father.
That's right. "Go on. I really want to continue reading."
Why don't you write it? MS is very interesting.