On a snowy night in the seventh year of Jingming, rebel forces breached Tian De Gate.
The nineteen-year-old courtesan was dragged before the throne. With his little finger, the new emperor playfully wiped away the bead of blood at the corner of her lips, then turned and tossed her a length of white silk:
"A courtesan dying for her country would make a fine tale."
She glanced at the filthy, battered young man lying outside the hall, blood splattered everywhere, and finally understood how completely the traitorous prince had used her all these years.
Bells and chimes rang out as the assembled ministers knelt in homage.
But the one who should have been sitting on that throne was clearly the little beggar boy, his face covered in grime.
Theme: The fate you think you control may be nothing more than a script already written
