It was raining that day, the fifteenth day of the ceasefire that lasted — mercifully — long. Liu Mingyun sat on the scarcely covered floor of his tent, a storm of maps strewn all around him, ground ink, a dark smudge on his fingers and some on his cheeks.
The Crown Prince leaned back against the leg of the rickety bed, eyes fluttering close in his brief moments of rest. The silence in his tent was heavy, oppressive as it pressed down on him. A few seconds passed, slowly, the silver-haired youth opened his eyes, the crimson irises strangely dull as he bowed his head and looked down at his hands.
His hands shook ever so slightly, wracked by the faintest of tremors almost imperceptible in the firmness of his arms. How long had it been since he had last slept?
Three days and four nights? Five days, or was it six?
