"Miss, miss?"
Qingluan sat motionless in front of the brass mirror.
The maid behind her saw the miss deep in thought and dared not speak too much, but used her nimble little hands to comb her black and beautiful hair, tying it into braids and wrapping it into a bun, her skin smooth as fine jade, causing even women to be moved.
Lipstick applied, eyebrows adorned, obviously planning to travel to the old capital of Dongyue, this journey inevitably involves conflict with others, yet this noble-born miss calmly sat at the dressing table, showing no signs of tension, her expression serene, her profile captivating.
For her, strength is neither her reliance nor her weapon, for it was never truly hers.
Only her appearance and this shell are her entirety, the true gift from her mother, something belonging to "herself" rather than gifts from others. Since her maiden days, whenever she travels, she is always in full attire, leaving the perfect impression.
But sadly.
