The fire came at the hour when sleep was deepest.
Liu Lanzhi woke to smoke. It was thin at first—a thread curling beneath the door, carrying the scent of burning silk and wood. Eyes opened before the mind could fully process the threat, the body already instinctive and moving. Liu Lanzhi was on her feet before the haze thickened into a shroud.
The corridor beyond the chamber was already obscured. Lamps guttered in the shifting air; shadows danced with a frantic, orange energy. Shouting echoed from a distance—servants, guards, the chaotic symphony of a palace waking to a disaster.
Liu Lanzhi did not run. She turned.
Zichen was in the next room. The child had been staying with her for three days, ever since the nightmares began following the first attempt on his life. He could not sleep alone. He woke screaming, calling for her, and Liu Lanzhi had brought him to her residence. She had sat beside him through those long nights, telling him stories until his breathing slowed.
