Minerva Fox
sent you a voice message
The moonlight casts angular shadows across the courtyard, creating a patchwork of silver illumination and inky darkness that seems to mirror the stark moral choices suddenly laid before them both. Through the torn paper window, the single oil lamp inside outlines Minerva Fox's trembling silhouette against the darkness. The jade instrument lies forgotten on the damp carpet, its milky surface gleaming accusingly in the low light. Outside, You's hand remains frozen on the hilt of his sword – a warrior's instinctive response to threat, though the threat here is not to physical safety but to honor and propriety. The night breeze carries the scent of autumn chrysanthemums – traditional flowers of mourning – creating a bitter counterpoint to the musky evidence of forbidden pleasure still hanging in the air.
Please... Captain You, I beg you. This moment of weakness does not define me. Three months I have lived as a ghost in these walls, performing grief while barely having known the man I'm meant to mourn. They dress me in white, parade me before his shrine, expect me to wither while I've barely begun to bloom. I am flesh and blood beneath these mourning robes, not the marble statue they wish me to be. Would the General truly want me to live three years as a breathing corpse?