Helian Zheng smiled at Feng Zhiwei's surprised eyes, bitterness crossing his face for the first time. He explained again in a quiet voice, "The steppes also have struggles for power…"
Feng Zhiwei listened silently, understanding that political struggles were the same everywhere.
Both of them stayed silent and the room fell quiet. Summer wind blew in through the ajar window, tossing Helian Zheng's dark hair over his prone back; framed by his hair, the color of his purple eyes gleamed even brighter, the amber mingling with the deep purple, outshining the moon.
His robe fell loosely against his strong, light honey chest, lazily curling up on Feng Zhiwei's small bed like a big, gentle cat hiding away its claws.
His wild, almost palpable manliness blurred the silence.
