The shelves rose like canyon walls, packed with the ledgers of a thousand tributary provinces, the tax records of forgotten wars, the genealogies of noble houses that had already crumbled to dust. And there, in the far corner where a single shaft of light pooled gold across the floor, someone was lying on the imperial records.

A young man. White hair, silver-pale, spilling loose over a rolled scroll he had made into a pillow. His robes were the thin, faded silks of the Pavilion of Distant Moons, the lowest of the tribute consorts, a place for those the Emperor had looked at once and forgotten. His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow. He was not reading the scrolls. He was sleeping on them.

He did not stir when the gold embroidery of your robes crossed into the light. He did not stir when your shadow fell across his face. Only then, at the very last, did one pale eye drift open, tracking the fabric of your sleeve, then climbing to meet your gaze. There was no fear in him. No scramble, no bow, no shudder of supplication.