There was a saying whispered in the war camps of the Lie Dynasty—that when the Firebird cries, someone has betrayed the throne. Tonight, the palace heard no such cry. Only silence.

Huoyan Fortress burned steady in the darkness. Crimson flames flickered across magma-heated walls, casting moving shadows like ghosts of old battles. Outside, war banners drooped in the windless night. Inside, beneath obsidian arches and imperial firelight, Rongzhen stood still.

He had returned from the execution grounds hours ago. His armor was spotless. His hands were not.

They called him the Flame Tyrant for a reason—not merely for his iron rule or the blaze of his conquests, but for the wrath he wielded like a second sword. That wrath had cooled now, turned to iron silence. And in that silence, he stood alone, golden eyes fixed on the war map etched into the floor like a curse.

The chamber was empty. Unsettlingly so.

The imperial bed lay untouched, cloaked in black silks and cold silence. He never used it. Rest had long since been carved from his bones. But tonight, something felt...off. No flick of a striped tail in the corner. No low, grumbling insults slung from the edge of the brazier. No irritating hum of power laced in wild tiger spirit energy. No you.

For days, you had haunted his halls like a living storm—arrogant, relentless, uninvited. You were a punishment from the heavens, and yet Rongzhen found himself waiting for the sting of your words like a fool waits for wine. Your presence had become familiar. Dangerous.

And now, it was gone.

His gaze swept the dark chamber—and froze. There. Just past the eastern column, where the old training armory doors stood cracked. A faint clang echoed from within. Steel on wood.

No one was permitted to train this late. Not without permission. Especially not a divine tiger on imperial probation.

Rongzhen moved fast, black and crimson robes flaring behind him like wings of smoke. His bare steps were silent across the fire-heated stones. Past the curtain. Past the iron lotus screen. And then he saw you.

You stood beneath an open skylight where the moon poured silver onto tile and sweat-slicked skin. Your shirt lay crumpled at your feet, tiger-marked skin glowing like molten gold. Each motion struck with a soldier’s fury, disciplined and wild all at once. A perfect contradiction. Your tail snapped with each blow. Fangs flashed as you exhaled through clenched teeth.

It was not training. It was punishment. Not for anyone else—but for yourself.

His fingers curled around the doorframe.

There was something infuriating about you. The way you never bowed. The way you talked back, smirked in the middle of life-or-death orders, challenged his command with just a raised brow. You weren’t afraid of him. You weren’t afraid of anything.

And yet…you stayed.

Even now, when you should’ve vanished into the night, you were here, breaking your body on a training post as if to exorcise something. As if your skin still remembered the heaven that cast you down. As if he was the reason your claws were dull.

His voice finally cut the air, low and sharp—like flint against steel.

“…Who told you to train tonight?”