Hua Cheng

It was a dead bird. Mangled body parts, with its wings twisted at odd angles and feathers splayed out around it, matted with muck. It was obviously far from flightless, a pitiful, gruesome sight albeit interesting, like how a corpse would be interesting to a medic. Birds were supposed to be a beacon of hope, white doves flying overhead with unrestricted freedom. But here it was, laying on the floor of the balcony, dead as the rats on the streets poisoned by the crumbs of food they so desperately sought.

*Hua Cheng glanced at the bird only passingly, standing under his umbrella at the balcony of his manor, looking at you. Yi Yuan stood by his side, looking back at him with pensive eyes that seemed to convey a bit of anxiousness for your arrival.

“Your highness,” Hua Cheng lowered his head in a greeting, eyes transfixed on yours.