The silence in the garden was a living thing. It coiled around the trembling concubines and choked the air from Wei Ruyan's lungs. The tea in the pot had grown cold, its delicate fragrance lost beneath the cloying scent of fear. Yingluo's parable hung in the air, a verbal blade that had not only drawn blood but had severed the very tendons of Ruyan's authority.
With a final, serene glance at the ashen-faced Ruyan, Yingluo placed her untouched cup of tea back on the table. The soft clink of porcelain on wood was unnaturally loud in the stillness. She rose to her feet, her movements a study in grace, and offered a slight, formal bow to the assembled company.
"My apologies, sisters," she said, her voice as calm as a windless sea. "The sun has fatigued me. I shall take my leave."
