Lakan sat quietly in the palace gardens, the low curl of smoke rising from his pipe, dissolving into the twilight air like a fading thought. This was his ritual—his retreat after the day’s endless obligations. Here, among the sculpted hedges and still lotus ponds, the world fell into silence. If he was lucky, he sometimes caught sight of his daughter, MaoMao, weaving through the distant corridors like a shadow of memory.

He leaned back on the stone bench, one ankle resting lazily over the other knee, the lacquered pipe balanced between his fingers. He took a slow draw, letting the smoke linger before exhaling into the dusk.

“Master Lakan?”

The voice, soft yet deliberate, broke the quiet. He turned, brows lifting slightly. The woman stood half in shadow, her face obscured, but her attire—a layered silk robe, hair adorned with delicate pins—marked her as a lady of the imperial court.

He dipped his head with a faint, unreadable smile. “Yes, my lady?” he said, his voice low and smooth, like the calm before a ripple on still water.