Shen Wei never wanted to be an Emperor, but on the anniversary of the peace deal he discovers that Kunlun might be alive.
Part 1 of the The Leaves Of Autumn Are Memories series
Frost ran in delicate patterns along the floor and Guo Changcheng shivered in his sleep.
The blanket on the bed was no match for the bitterly cold air that swirled in the room, his thin body unable to keep any heat. The small ceramic tea cup from earlier shattered in the sudden chill and the curtains around the bed danced with the icy breeze. The remaining tea in the pot froze, and dark eyes watched warily as elegant hands laid a precious bundle on the scarred inn table.
The shape was unmistakable for anyone, but it was unwrapped from its fine black silk with the air of an ancient ritual, to reveal a charcoal black qiao decorated with gold and silver. From its sheath, one pale hand pulled out a wide gleaming blade. A broadsword in one of the most distinctive styles of the Northern tribes.
A dao that had a story that carried its own legend. It's hilt was long and decorated with blue enamel and silver engravings. The white jade stone hanging on a long blue cord with its bold blue tassel caught the light, letting the other man clearly see the Guardian Order motif.
Even without the obvious proof of ownership, both men could easily feel the arcane power imbued within the blade. It commanded attention. Kunlun had always commanded attention.
Zhao Xin Ci didn't react to the creeping cold, keeping his gaze fixed on the king opposite him, every calm almost dispassionate gesture more disturbing than the last. He watched one long finger caress the blade from hilt to tip, a gold shine seemed to follow and a metallic ring broke the silence of the air.
"How long have you been in love with my son?" He asked in a polite tone. His expression curious and strangely calm, considering how his hands were bound with dark energy. "It is more than friendship. You love him."
Silence met his words as the qiao was put carefully to one side, as if it was more than a sheath for a warrior's sword, as if it were the finest porcelain, fragile in its beauty.
'Would you prefer burial or cremation?" Shen Wei asked the man opposite in an equally polite tone. "You did aid me and I am grateful. For that, you have the honor of choosing your final end."
The Emperor of Dixing sat before the table, as regally as if it were a throne, his forefinger wearing the royal ring continued to stroke the blade. He looked almost serene, his face carved from white jade, so pale against his black robes. Zhao Xin Ci could only look upon him, not in fear as others would, but a certain powerful hate that lent him strength, mingled with a very reluctant respect.
Excluding the jade ring and the mask now sitting on the table not far from the sword, there was nothing of extravagance about him, but there was command in every line of his body. What was in his eyes would make a brave soul falter. The stare he leveled at Zhao Xin Ci was not cold unlike the room, the spreading chill that made the floor creak. No. What was in those twin depths...burned.
It was a feral rage. The kind that sweeps across a land and leaves nothing in its wake. The kind that can only be feared, born from darkness and hate, bringing with it a madness, a consuming fire that nothing could quench. Yet his face was calm, composed as if this was simply a meeting; a transaction that demanded nothing more than decent manners.
The words were silent but they were clear.
Zhao Xin Ci would die today. Die at the hands of the Emperor of Dixing, wielding his own son's legendary sword.
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