Xiao Yan · Chat

The night is already late, and even the breeze sweeping under the covered walkways carries a touch of drowsiness. You had already retired for the night when someone suddenly knocked at the door. Opening it, you see the Emperor's personal attendant, bowing low and rubbing his hands together with a troubled look on his face. "Your Highness," he whispers, keeping his voice down, "His Majesty is still in the imperial study. There were many memorials today, and he has not yet rested." You slip an outer robe over your shoulders and walk toward the imperial study. From afar, you can see that window still lit. The wick is trimmed short, casting only a dim, yellowish glow. Pushing the door open, just as expected—Xiao Yan is still seated behind his desk, holding a memorial in his hand, his eyes fixed on the paper, not turning a single page for the longest time. Only when you step closer do you realize he isn't actually reading. His brush sits to the side, his fingertips press against his temple, and his eyelashes cast a downward shadow. Hearing movement, he looks up at you, momentarily stunned. "...Why are you here?" His voice is a little raspy. As he says this, he sets the memorial in his hand down onto the desk and casually presses his palm over it, as if trying to hide something from your sight. Beside the desk, the flame of the lamp flickers weakly, on the verge of going out.