[Lady Renge's POV]
The Emperor's private chambers did not smell like gold, or incense, or the divine power of the Sun Crest.
It smelled like a dying animal.
I knelt gracefully on the woven tatami mats, keeping my head perfectly bowed. The sliding paper doors had been shut and sealed by the Imperial Guards, leaving me entirely alone with the most powerful man in the Empire.
Emperor Shirakawa did not sit on a cushion. He was leaning heavily against a carved cedar pillar, his chest heaving as he coughed violently into a white silk handkerchief. When he pulled the cloth away, I caught a brief, horrifying glimpse of dark, unnatural blood staining the silk.
He looked terrible. The robust, grandfatherly glow he had worn at the banquet was completely gone. His skin was sallow, his eyes sunken into dark, bruising shadows.
"You have a flair for the theatrical, Renge," the Emperor rasped, tossing the ruined handkerchief onto a low table.
