The silence after the final stroke was profound. Pei Rong's eyes widened, the manic fury in them fading into something hollow and lost. He staggered, the red of his blood bright and garish against the white marble steps of the Jade House.
He reached out, his fingers trembling, as if to clutch at the power slipping through them. But there was nothing left to hold. His knees buckled, and he sank slowly to the ground. The Prime Minister's breath came in wet, rattling gasps, each one weaker than the last.
Zhao Yan stood over him, his sword lowered but ready, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His own blood dripped down his arm from a shallow cut, but he paid it no mind. His eyes were locked on Pei Rong—watching, waiting.
Pei Rong looked up, his lips twitching into a twisted smile. "You… you think this means you've won?" His voice was thin and ragged, but there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "You… you'll never hold this empire… never."
