She once rode proudly in fine clothes, her sword sweeping across western Sichuan, and took three thousand miles of mountains and rivers as her dowry.
She also once wore plain clothes and cooked in a humble kitchen, boiling wine with a childhood friend before smiling and bowing her head to him beneath the candles in their home.
The Tower of the Son of Heaven, the wine of Xiaoxiang.
The court and the realm, a flourishing age of elegance.
Was it a bold landscape painted in sweeping strokes, or a fleeting glimpse as dazzling as a startled swan?
She slowly opened her eyes and once again looked upon this age, so splendid it made one tremble...
