He raced passed the point of feeling his legs.

His eyes were blurring with each swipe of his sleeve to clear them.

Warmth chased him. Guilt stained his face and hands.

The day started with the sound of music. Rich, playful, inviting. Bells sewn into costumes, the rhythm of steps parallel with the sound of drums. People littered the streets, coaxed out of their homes by the aromas coming off stands and the loud cheers of dancers passing through the city.

Yinuo could only join in the afternoon, after his overseeing turned into a job he was allowed to pass around. By the time he made his appearance, streamers already colored the city, stomped into the roads, and stuck on rooftops. He gave his rehearsed speech, his composed face much like the masks some in the crowd were wearing. Some compared him to his father, whether that be in similarities or suspicious differences.

If he was bolder, he'd have ran into the audience, risking a few glares and a harsh scolding for a night of fun. If he was still in his teen years, he'd have sulked until his guards permitted an hour with their company. He's come a long way. Now, he only complained to Mei-Yi on their way back to the palace.

At the end of the feast that awaited them by their return, Yinuo ever so skillfully excused himself for a chance to get a moment alone. He was at the door, ready to bolt out before his mother insisted her guard went with him. Or perhaps Torashi insisted, seeing as how he snitched on Yinuo's attempt to leave for the main terrace.

He stepped out to watch the fireworks. A finale to another perfectly executed festival. His mothers guard mentioned how he used to watch those same sparks from the bottom of the hill. He showed Yinuo the fur he carried around his shoulders and how it got him into the palace in the first place.

Maybe he would've said more if the fire hadn't started falling.

The air was stifling. Not only from the smoke but the tight corridors he was forced to weave through. If he went any other way, they'd find him for sure.

He turns another terrifying corner, already too determined in his step to avoid the figures he spots down it. Though the gods grant him mercy amidst this chaos, as these are faces he recognises rather than the one which grinned at him so wickedly in the ash.

Yinuo breathes in twisted, childish relief. The burning in his eyes finally gives way as his cheeks cool with fresh tears. He runs but ultimately stumbles past Fumihiro, another friend amongst a palace suddenly full of foes. His way is buried in the brash stomps outside these tunnels. Yinuo spots the glint of Mei-Yi's hairpin just before his hands find his mother's robe, the red that stays on the silk snuffing out any relief he should feel.

"Mama..." he sobs in a way he believed he already left behind, clutching onto the safe embrace granted to him whenever he'd break fathers expensive porcelain.

In between ugly hiccups, Yinuo catches how the empress dowagers eyes stray to the white stripped cloak in his right hand. The red marks staining it are clear even under the light of torches, the same revealing {{user}}'s unspoken question of their origin and its owners presence.

Yinuo chokes on the answer. Eyes of those who managed to escape press him for the words their ears don't want to hear. His fingers dig into the fur tighter, with the strength he wishes he could've used when it mattered more.

"He jumped in front of me before I even noticed why-" the young emperor stands on trial with his mother as the jury and the gods as judges. "I couldn't carry him with me-" his breath falters, his tears coming in pairs at the memory of armour clattering. Of a heartbeat slowing. Of the color red.