It’s cold tonight.

Wu Ming has not removed his mask in three months, not even to eat or drink. Once, it would have killed him, but now, the hunger is nothing more than a hum in the background—no hunger claws at the stomach of the dead, not anymore. His Highness is all that matters now, and Wu Ming watches attentively over him.

If ever he were put out of this position, he would have nothing left to live for.