"Not all poisons kill with pain. Some taste like memory before they bury you."
The palace banquet hall shimmered in candlelight—gold upon gold, a spectacle built to distract from winter.
Crimson lanterns floated above the tables like suspended moons. Silk curtains embroidered with cranes and plum blossoms rippled gently from the breeze that filtered in through carved screens. The low hum of zither strings rose and fell like breath across the hall, wrapping the nobles in a lull of ritual elegance.
It was the Crown Prince's celebration in honor of the western envoy's safe journey—and of "the season's good fortune." A thin excuse. Everyone in the room knew the true purpose: display. Power wrapped in splendor. Subtle gestures pretending not to be war.
Xu Feiran sat to the right of the Crown Prince, as was proper, clad in a high-collared ceremonial robe of muted red, embroidered with silver cranes in flight. It was not the color of joy. Not truly. But no one questioned it. Not even the Crown Prince, who merely nodded once as she entered the hall, then turned away.
Yue'er had dressed her carefully that evening. Every pin placed to say: I am watching. Every fold stitched to say: I remember.
Feiran said little during the first course.
Around her, the nobility laughed and praised the food, the wine, the Crown Prince's wisdom. They complimented Meilin, who wore pale blue that evening and sat a few seats away—far enough not to provoke, close enough to be seen. Her hair was done in a newer style, foreign-influenced, with soft curls falling just over one shoulder.
Everything she did felt like an echo sent toward Feiran.
Feiran ignored her.
Instead, she focused on the wine.
Osmanthus.
It was sweet, aromatic—golden in hue, delicate on the tongue. She swirled the cup once before setting it down untouched.
Halfway through the banquet, after the third round of ceremonial toasts, a steward approached.
He carried a lacquered tray, smaller than the others. On it sat a single porcelain cup. Thinner. Painted with a faint silver ring near the rim.
"An offering," the steward said with a bow, "from Lady Wen. She says it is an old southern vintage, infused with sun-dried osmanthus petals from the royal gardens."
Feiran didn't move.
"She insisted," the steward added. "She said Your Highness once mentioned a liking for this wine, years ago, at the Mid-Autumn Festival."
Yue'er's eyes narrowed from across the room.
Feiran reached for the cup slowly.
It was warm.
Too warm.
But not unpleasant.
She lifted it, inhaled.
It smelled like memory. Like the garden behind the Xu estate—before power, before titles, before her name meant anything but "daughter."
She drank.
Just one sip.
The warmth touched her throat like silk.
And then the steward bowed again and vanished into the blur of bodies and laughter.
At first, there was nothing.
Feiran resumed her stillness. Listened as Lord Xiala praised the palace architecture. Watched as the Crown Prince answered with quiet elegance. Observed Meilin laugh too brightly at something he didn't say.
She sipped water.
The music changed. A faster rhythm.
And then—
It began.
A shift in the air. A slow pull behind her eyes.
The floor beneath her didn't move, but her blood did—rushing a fraction too quickly. Heat crawled across her collarbone. Her hands felt lighter than they were. Her fingers too far from her body.
Yue'er leaned in.
"Niangniang?"
Feiran blinked.
The room brightened. Then dimmed. The colors too sharp. The voices stretched, slightly behind their mouths.
She tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick.
Not drunk.
Not wine.
Wrong.
She rose.
Someone gasped.
Feiran managed to place her cup on the table before her hand faltered. She turned, barely catching herself on the edge of the chair, and walked—carefully—toward the corridor. Her steps too measured. Too precise.
A shadow followed.
Yue'er was at her side instantly, one hand on her waist.
Feiran didn't protest.
Not here.
Not now.
They passed through the open lattice doors, down the first hall, and into the private garden path just beyond the banquet chamber. Snow had begun to fall again. It landed on her skin like stars.
"Breathe," Yue'er whispered.
Feiran opened her mouth to speak—and stumbled.
Yue'er caught her. "Niangniang—"
"Something was in it," Feiran managed, her voice thin. "It tasted right, but the air after…"
She pressed a hand to her chest.
Yue'er turned, signaling a nearby guard. "Fetch a physician. Now."
Feiran sank to her knees beside the frozen lotus pond, her breath uneven.
Her vision blurred.
Above her, the plum branches swayed. Still bare.
She thought: Not yet. Not again.
Yue'er knelt with her, gripping her shoulders. "Stay awake. Tell me—do you feel burning? Cold? Dizziness?"
"All," Feiran murmured. "All at once."
Yue'er touched her wrist. Her pulse fluttered like trapped wings.
"She said it was a vintage," Feiran whispered.
"Meilin?"
Feiran nodded.
"She said I… liked it."
Her mouth curled bitterly.
"I've never told her anything."
Yue'er's jaw tensed. "She's pushing you. Testing what you'll notice."
"No," Feiran said, softly now. "She's testing what I'll survive."
The physician arrived quickly—a middle-aged court healer with trembling fingers and a sharp nose. He examined her with careful discretion, whispering instructions in Yue'er's ear as Feiran sat on the low daybed in her inner chamber, clutching a warm compress to her chest.
"She'll recover," he said. "Whatever she consumed, it wasn't meant to kill. It mimics heat stroke. A destabilizer. Mild hallucinogenic compounds, possibly from dried datura or wild chrysanthemum."
Feiran turned her head slightly.
"Not meant to kill," she repeated.
"Not directly, no."
The physician bowed deeply.
"I will return in the morning."
Feiran said nothing.
After he left, Yue'er stayed close, silently replacing the cooling cloth on her forehead, then lighting a fresh burner of calming sandalwood incense.
Feiran lay still, the weight of her own thoughts heavier than the drug.
"She wants me confused," she said eventually.
Yue'er didn't respond.
Feiran stared at the ceiling.
"She wants to see how much I'll pretend not to notice. How polite I'll remain. How tightly I'll wear this crown while she unties its strings."
Yue'er leaned over her.
"She thinks you're alone," she whispered. "But she's wrong."
Feiran met her gaze.
"You're with me."
Yue'er nodded once.
Feiran whispered, "And he?"
Yue'er did not answer.
Neither did Feiran.
They both knew the question was more dangerous than any poison.
Outside, the snow thickened.
And somewhere—across the palace, beneath his own private roof, with his own guards and shadows—the Crown Prince read a message.
A single line sent by someone anonymous.
She drank it. She did not fall.