The bamboo grove outside Kent's pavilion was quiet that night, silver moonlight dripping through the leaves like falling silk. His cauldron—battered bronze with faintly glowing dragon etchings—hovered silently at his side, following him wherever he paced. He had grown used to its presence, the weight of its spirit brushing against his soul with each breath.
The stillness broke with the sound of soft steps. A figure approached, cloaked in dark blue robes, beard long, eyes gleaming like deep water. It was the old envoy of the Yellow Blossom River Prince.
"Kent King." The man bowed with a grace that carried both humility and the weight of authority. "I come on behalf of my master."
Kent turned, his expression unreadable, though his cauldron hummed faintly as if it recognized intent. "The prince sends his shadow so soon? What does he want?"
