Hua Jing remained seated quietly beside Zhao Yan, her hands folded tightly on her lap. Her eyes flicked briefly to the Empress's display of grief, but her own face remained solemn. The room was too heavy with sorrow for anything else. Beside her, Zhao Yan still hadn't moved from his place, his hands resting limply on his knees, eyes fixed ahead at the man who had raised him.
And then, slowly, the grand doors creaked open again.
One by one, members of the imperial family began to trickle in, their footsteps muffled by the thick mourning carpets now laid across the floor. They came clad in ceremonial white, the color of death and respect.
