Prince Qui rarely got called by the emperor. He was the son that paid his father enough visits that he would not go looking for him himself. It was why he would not be able to refuse when his father summoned him no matter how much he had hated to get out of that room. Somehow, that was the most that he had felt detached from the world ever since he came back. Walking the long hallways from the palace made him think that he was in a dream.
Finally finding the right quarters of the emperor tonight, he knocked on the door.
"Come in, Qui," said the voice.
His father was not in bed but on the huge table looking over a gazillion papers. Whenever he saw his father, weathered, old, and looking like the rules bored him, Prince Qui always felt bad. His father had been a soldier. He had been meant to do physical labor. Not something as stagnant as ruling an empire.
"You sent for me," he said, keeping his body straight.
