The walk down the Imperial Mountain felt longer than the ascent.
The air was colder now. The mist had thickened while I was in the pavilion and it clung to my suit, beading on the shoulders and sleeves in tiny cold pinpricks. Each breath came out white and thin. It scraped my throat. The sandalwood and jasmine from the courtyard faded behind me, replaced by wet stone, damp earth, and the sharp, green smell of bamboo.
The adrenaline that had kept my mind razor-sharp during the meeting was slowly bleeding away, leaving a cold, heavy exhaustion in its wake. My legs felt it first. The stone steps were uneven under my dress shoes. They were slick with moisture. Each step made a soft, wet _scuff_. My hands were cold. The absence of a weapon still felt wrong, like a missing weight on my hip.
I had walked into the lion's den and survived, but I had walked out with a collar around my neck. The thought sat heavy in my chest. My pulse was slower now. I could hear it.
