If there was one thing in creation Zhisen could never mistake, it was the smell of blood. It was thin, but strong, like a shot of potent liquor. It was a dark scent, but the effect was light-headedness. It was coppery, but it was lead that sank into his gut and melted into the soles of his feet, chaining him to the spot.  Maybe that ringing silence was more like numbness than shock.

If there was one emotion Zhisen could never discard, it was wrath. It was a quiet feeling, lurking beneath his false composure like a coiled serpent about to strike. It writhed, struggling and wrecking him from the inside, suppressed there, a choking fire. It was violent, polluting his dreams with slaughter, vengeance, and suffering. Maybe they were nightmares, not dreams.

If there was one sight in his life Zhisen could never forget, it was the charred corpse of his brother, Ziying. His half-brother. His half-. His friend. His mentor. His half-full cinerary urn. His last shred of sanity? No, Zhisen reminded himself every day that he hadn’t lost his mind, not yet. He didn’t have the time to break down pathetically. He didn’t have the tears to shed. He didn’t have anything in his veins but unquenchable fire. When he saw that charred corpse and he heard the empress shrieking and he saw Xiaobo doubling over and retching, Zhisen’s mind was quiet. It was the first and the last time in his life that his mind was so silent. For directly after that stillness, the storm rushed in.

Zhisen had nothing but the smell of blood, the charred corpse, and his wrath.

He knew who had done it.

Still, it was not the time to point fingers. He was only half-royal. He could only be half-miserable.

But he could not half-avenge.