Some roots remember the dead. Some memories never stay buried. Every silence carries a memory. In the veiled court of Wèi Jiāng, the King's silence spreads like winter. Whispers echo through corridors lined in silk and shadow, while crows circle overhead - watching, waiting. Every root remembers the dead. Crown Prince Jūn Hóngyì, bound by duty and drowning in isolation, wears his title like a weight. At his side, Jiǎ Xìnróng - son of a traitor, sword at the ready, loyalty worn like a second skin - stands between the Prince and the knives hidden in smiles. Far from the palace, in a quiet village too small for maps, two young men tend to the world's forgotten corners. Wú Zhènyǔ, the restless healer. Yán Zhōngshí, the soldier who never speaks of war. They live simply. Carefully. As if anything louder might wake something. Every crow knows what we buried. But beneath the ground, something does stir. The dead begin to rise. And a memory - long starved-opens its eyes.