The moon hung high, casting an eerie glow on the blood-streaked path.
Zhao Yan, Wei Ling, and Deng Mi limped forward, their robes tattered and their bodies black and blue from the savage ambush. The wind stung their open wounds, and every step felt like dragging mountains behind their heels.
Zhao Yan's breathing was heavy.
Labored.
Then, a wave of nausea.
It slammed into him without warning, his vision blurring as the world tilted sideways.
Wei Ling, ever sharp despite his injuries, saw it. "Your Majesty!" he cried, rushing to the prince's side, his own pain forgotten.
Zhao Yan stumbled again. He tried to speak but his tongue felt like sand. The metallic taste of blood coated his mouth. The pressure in his temples was unbearable.
"Something's wrong," Deng Mi said, his voice hushed and tense.
Wei Ling threw one arm around the Crown Prince, trying to steady him.
"Your Highness! What is it? Say something!"
Zhao Yan's gaze was dazed.
Then he raised his hand.
