The sun rose early, but no one knocked on Yun Zhi's door.
Usually by dawn, a servant girl would bring warm water to rinse her face, sometimes a steamed bun left on a cloth, still warm if she was lucky. But this morning, there was nothing. No footsteps. No hushed voices. Just silence, thick and deliberate.
She sat on the edge of her sleeping mat for a while, waiting, listening.
Still nothing.
Eventually, she rose. The room was already warming, the light through the wooden lattice pale and soft. She dressed in silence—brushing her hair but leaving it unpinned, tying her sash with slow, practiced motions.
She stepped into the courtyard barefoot.
No birds sang. The air was heavy with heat and stillness. Even the bamboo didn't rustle. The cicadas had gone quiet.
She had taken only a few steps when she heard it.
Laughter.
Not the bright kind, not real amusement. This laughter came in sharp bursts—too loud, too pointed. The kind of sound people made when they wanted you to hear.
It came from the eastern garden.
She stopped in place, spine straightening slightly.
That path led directly to the main hall where she had been summoned for robe measurements later that morning. She could take the long way, through the back corridor, around the koi pond and laundry quarters. It would mean twenty extra minutes in the sun. It would mean avoiding them.
But she didn't turn.
I'm tired of walking in circles.
She moved toward the archway, steps soft, expression still.
The closer she came, the clearer the laughter became—feminine, lilting, edged like a knife dipped in honey. It curved around her like a net.
She passed under the stone arch and into the garden.
There they were.
Ruolan sat under the pavilion, legs crossed at the ankle, a porcelain cup balanced between two fingers. Her robe was pale yellow silk, embroidered with clouds and cranes. A cluster of white magnolias adorned her hair, pinned so perfectly they didn't move in the breeze.
Yuelan leaned against one of the painted pillars, fan in hand, flipping it open and shut with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her expression was relaxed, almost lazy, but her eyes—sharp as glass—fixed on Yun Zhi the moment she appeared.
Meilan and Xiaolan stood on the steps just below, huddled together like pigeons on a wire. Their expressions hovered between curiosity and cruelty.
The laughter stopped.
They turned to her as one, like petals snapping shut.
Yun Zhi bowed slightly, her voice calm. "Elder Sisters."
Ruolan's lips curved into a smile, but it didn't touch her eyes. "Why so formal, little Zhi? You're practically royalty now, aren't you? No need to bow to the rest of us common folk."
Yuelan let out a quiet snort. "Yes, do practice your airs. Chin up, shoulders back. You'll need the posture to survive the palace. Pretend you belong there, and maybe they won't eat you whole."
Yun Zhi kept her voice even. "I was only passing through."
"Oh no," Ruolan said, setting down her tea and standing. "Stay. We were just talking about you."
A breeze stirred the garden, finally. It carried the faint scent of blooming peonies—sweet, cloying, like the perfume of a room just after something has died.
Yun Zhi remained silent. There was no safe answer to that invitation.
Meilan stepped forward, eyes round. "They say the second prince had a servant whipped to death once. Just for stepping into his shadow. Is that true?"
"They say he doesn't like women," Yuelan added, voice low and silken. "Or maybe he just doesn't like soft ones. The kind who fold at the first wind."
Yun Zhi's fingers tightened slightly in her sleeves.
Don't flinch. Don't blink. They want that.
"Are you scared?" Xiaolan asked. Her voice was small, almost childlike. Almost sincere.
Yun Zhi looked at her and gave the only true answer. "Yes."
Ruolan laughed. A short, sharp sound. "Good. You should be."
Then her smile disappeared. Her tone changed.
"You don't belong in that palace, Yun Zhi. You don't even belong in this house."
She took a step forward.
"You think wearing a red wedding robe will make you one of them? You think being chosen makes you special?"
"No," Yun Zhi said quietly.
"Don't lie," Ruolan snapped.
She was close now—too close. Her perfume was thick and expensive, powdery and floral. It made Yun Zhi want to turn her face away, but she didn't.
"You're not smarter than us. You're not prettier. You've never been the favorite. You've never earned a thing. And yet somehow…" Ruolan's lip curled. "You get to be the one who marries a prince."
Yun Zhi kept her eyes low. "I didn't ask for it."
Ruolan reached forward.
Not to slap. Not to shove. She brushed a strand of Yun Zhi's hair behind her ear. Gentle. Almost affectionate. Almost.
"You just stayed quiet long enough to make us forget you were still here," she whispered. "That's your only talent. Being forgettable."
She smiled.
"You're not one of us. You never were. You're a ghost in this house. And soon, you'll be gone for good."
Yun Zhi stood very still. Her hands were tight inside her sleeves now, nails pressing into her palms.
Behind them, Yuelan turned her head and raised her voice just enough for the servants nearby to hear.
"You didn't see anything. You didn't hear anything. If I find out otherwise…"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.
The four servant girls and one stable boy near the garden wall all dropped their eyes. One even stepped back, as if afraid of being too close.
None of them looked at Yun Zhi.
Ruolan smoothed the front of her robe and stepped back. "You should go now."
Yun Zhi didn't reply. She turned, walked away slowly, keeping her spine straight and her shoulders steady. Not fast. Never fast.
Behind her, the laughter resumed.
When she rounded the corner and disappeared from view, she stopped beneath the shadow of a bamboo grove. The air was cooler here, shaded. The stone wall behind her was smooth and cold.
She leaned back against it slowly.
Breathed.
In. Out.
They hate me.
Not because of the decree.
That only gave them an excuse.
They've always hated me. They just learned to smile through it.
Their mother had taught them how. Madam Lin never raised her voice—but she didn't need to. Her silence had always been punishment enough.
Yun Zhi thought of Ruolan's hand brushing her hair. Soft. Deliberate. Calculated.
"You're not one of us."
No. She wasn't.
She was her mother's child—a woman long gone, whose name had slowly been erased from the household walls. A woman her father had once loved, perhaps. A shadow Madam Lin could never quite chase out, no matter how many daughters she bore.
Yun Zhi wiped her face with the heel of her palm. Not tears. Just sweat. Dust.
That's what she told herself.
The worst part wasn't the cruelty.
The worst part was how normal it felt.
Later, she sat alone again in the rear courtyard.
The embroidery frame lay in her lap, untouched.
One of the younger servants crept in, placed a bowl of porridge on the stone table without a word, and slipped away. The porridge was still warm. Someone had remembered.
Yun Zhi didn't eat it.
She stared down at the swirls of rice and steam and thought of the words echoing in her head.
"You don't belong in that palace."
Maybe they were right.
But she was going anyway.
Not because she had earned it. Not because anyone wanted her there. But because someone, somewhere, had decided she was useful.
That was enough.
She thought of her father's voice. Flat. Final.
"Whatever it costs you—pay it."
She would.
Not for them.
For herself.
Even if the palace swallowed her whole, at least it would swallow someone who mattered.
Even if only for a moment.