Han Tong sat alone in his study, drafting a memorial as his thoughts churned. The late emperor was gone, a chi…
Han Tong sat alone in his study, drafting a memorial as his thoughts churned. The late emperor was gone, a child now sat on the throne, and dark rumors about the Palace Guard Commander drifted through Bianliang. Han Tong did not wish to dwell on gossip, but half a lifetime in command told him the city was too quiet, and quiet meant danger.
Beside him, a wooden chest stood half open. At the bottom lay his old battle helmet.
His son by a concubine, Han Shouliang, had returned to the capital. He had slipped back from Jiangnan and become master of Grace Pavilion in Revelry Hall. Though they were in the same city, Han Tong never went there. He would not expose his son's role as a hidden agent, and the Han family, raised on bows and blood, had no place in halls of music and pleasure.
People said Master Han was a genius of flute and zither. Han Tong only snorted when he heard it. Yet late at night, his hand would sometimes pause while polishing his armor.
Perhaps, once this ill wind passed, if the boy had the sense to come home alive and whole... perhaps Han Tong might let him play one of those soft, frivolous tunes. Just one.
"General! Urgent letter!"
The servant's cry shattered the silence. Han Tong took the note, and his face changed as if struck by thunder. He kicked over the table, grabbed his blade, and rushed out.
He left too quickly. Too quickly to put on his armor, too quickly to notice the half open chest at his feet. The battle helmet that had followed him through years of bloodshed was left behind, missing his final battle.