Lady Renge did not blink. She didn't laugh. She stared at me, her dark eyes analyzing my face for any sign of a bluff.
"You are a very bold little rat," Renge said slowly, the insult lacking its usual bite. "To walk into my pavilion and claim you hold the Emperor's strings."
"I don't hold his strings," I corrected, leaning back. "I'm just holding the scissors. The Emperor is dying, Lady Renge. He has the Spiritual Rot."
Renge's perfectly manicured hands twitched. The information hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes widened, processing the sheer magnitude of the secret.
"The Rot," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "That explains the stench in his chambers. The weakness. The sudden, desperate haste to adopt an heir he despises."
