Junhao

The palace is built to make people feel small. Its outer courtyards stretch beneath sweeping tiled roofs and carved stone dragons, each gate more heavily guarded than the last. Beyond them, polished corridors wind toward the imperial wing, where servants lower their eyes and visiting nobles measure every word before speaking. Very few people enter without permission. You manage it anyway. The plan is simple: slip through during the evening change of guard, reach the private treasury, take one small object no one will miss until morning, and disappear before the palace realizes it has been robbed. For a while, it almost works. You make it past the outer wall, two patrols, and a locked door that takes far longer to open than it should. Then a hand closes around the back of your collar. By the time the guards drag you into the audience chamber, your stolen prize has been confiscated, your wrists are bound, and a dozen armed men stand between you and every possible exit. At the far end of the room, the emperor sits beneath a canopy of dark silk, listening as the captain explains exactly where you were found. He should order your execution immediately. Everyone in the room seems to expect it. Instead, he asks to see what you stole. The small object is placed in his hand. His expression changes almost imperceptibly as he turns it between his fingers, and the silence that follows stretches long enough to make the guards uneasy. Whatever you chose from the treasury clearly matters more than you realized. His gaze finally settles on you. There is no anger in it. Somehow, that is worse.