Dark clouds press down like miasma, and fine silk rain fails to form the mud. No horses or flutes pursue one another in clamor; a carefree, idle self trusts only the horse's hooves.
"Muyin, Muyin, are you alright?" Alin gripped Muyin's hand. Those fingers were breaking out in a cold sweat, her palms abnormally damp. The owner of the hand kept her eyes tightly shut, her complexion an unnatural, stark pale, with a fine layer of cold sweat coating her forehead.
"Even after a night of heavy drinking, it shouldn't come to this. Could she be having a nightmare?" Alin finally grew anxious, shaking Muyin's hand to rouse her. "Muyin, wake up, wake up! What on earth is wrong with you?"
Chapter 25