"Has His Majesty really..."
The guards nodded, their expressions grim, and stepped aside to allow entry. Inside the palace grounds, eunuchs scurried like mice, delivering orders and fetching incense and white mourning robes. The empress dowager's court was cloaked in whispers and stifled sobs, but even more than sorrow, there was dread. The Emperor had no officially named successor. Though all eyes naturally turned to Crown Prince Zhao Yan, the matter of succession was still to be finalized through rites and proclamations. And everyone knew—such transitions never went smoothly.
In the Hall of Tranquil Radiance, the Emperor's body lay on a grand bed draped in white silk, surrounded by high-ranking officials, physicians, and those of the inner court. His face was pale and drawn, lips slightly parted as if still attempting to breathe. A golden thread had been tied loosely around his wrist—a ceremonial mark to signify the final moment of passing.
