Chapter 13 Scars of the Past

A week had gone by since the failed attempt on King Lei Moyao's life. The palace was still locked down under strict security, but no matter how hard the guards and spies worked, the would-be assassin's identity remained unknown. Each passing day fueled King Moyao's rage, his paranoia spreading like an untreated wound.

In the vast, echoing throne room, King Moyao stood rigid before Supreme General Kǒngyún and Commander Wuji, his jaw tight and his eyes blazing with fury. "How could an assassin breach the palace and vanish without leaving a single trace?" he thundered, his voice bouncing off the marble walls. "Are my soldiers so useless? Are my generals blind?"

Commander Wuji lowered his head in a deep bow, sweat beading on his forehead. "Your Majesty, we've increased patrols and questioned every possible suspect—"

"Yet I'm still alive, and the assassin is still free!" King Moyao snapped, his fists clenched at his sides. "Enough of this! I want the guards pulled back. They've been on edge for a week. They're worn out."

"But, Your Majesty—" Wuji began, only to be silenced with a glare.

"That's an order, Wuji. Reduce the number of guards. If the assassin returns, we'll be ready," the king said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

From the shadows, Commander Xiéyàn silently observed. His face remained unreadable, but his mind was working quickly. This might be the opening he had been waiting for.

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Elsewhere, in Prince Lei Yǔlín's private chambers, steam rose gently from the bathing pool, blurring the lantern-lit room with a dreamy haze. Waist-deep in water, Yǔlín faced away, the light highlighting every curve of his muscular back as water streamed down his skin. His wet hair was slicked back, and droplets glistened along the sharp lines of his shoulders.

He didn't hear Su Shu enter. Her robe had slipped down her arms, exposing her glowing skin under the soft amber light. She froze, eyes widening.

Yǔlín's back was covered in scars—harsh, uneven marks crisscrossed from his shoulders to his waist. Some were faint, like old memories. Others were raised and raw, still pink with recent healing. A particularly nasty one slashed diagonally across his spine, the skin around it puckered and red.

Su Shu gasped softly. How could someone as powerful as Prince Yǔlín carry such brutal evidence of suffering? Who had done this to him?

Drawn forward without thinking, she reached out, her fingers trembling as they hovered just above the scars. Then, with a sharp crack, a porcelain jar slipped from her grip and shattered on the ground.

Yǔlín's head whipped around. His golden eyes were sharp, dangerous. In one fluid motion, he turned fully to face her, water cascading down the chiseled lines of his torso. His face showed shock—followed by something darker.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low and chilling.