"I don't really even know where to start," Yichen sighed, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. "Maybe from the day I learned I was an orphan."
His voice was calm, but something fragile hid beneath it.
"I was around three or four," he began. "I saw some kids teasing a woman—pulling her sleeves, laughing, clinging to her. I thought she was their madam, but my brother Yixuan told me she was their mother."
He paused, eyes softening as if staring at something far away. "I didn't know what that meant. I didn't know what a 'mother' was."
The crackling of the candle beside us filled the silence.
"Back in the orphanage, it was just me and Yixuan. The only family I knew was my brother. When I asked him where our parents were, he said—"
He straightened, as if reciting from memory.
"'They are not here. They never wanted us. To hope for them is to hope that roses will bloom in winter.'"
The words lingered like frost in the air.
"I cried a lot after that," Yichen admitted quietly. "Every night, I prayed to whatever gods there were, asking for a family that would never come. But one day… the tears just stopped."
He forced a small smile. "So I decided to stay happy. Why make a miserable life worse, right? I had Yixuan, and that was enough."
As he spoke, his voice warmed with faint joy. "We'd sneak out after curfew, whispering about dreams we'd never reach. Once, we got caught and had to clean the dining hall all night. I thought I'd hate it, but it became my favorite memory. We talked until dawn."
His eyes glistened, but he blinked it away. "Then he left."
The words came like a blade's edge.
"On my tenth birthday, he was fourteen—old enough to work. He left a letter and vanished. Said he got a carpentry job in the palace. Promised to send money." Yichen laughed bitterly. "I didn't want his money. I wanted my brother."
The candlelight flickered across his face—half shadow, half sorrow.
"I found his letter again on my eleventh birthday. He said he got me a job too, here at this mansion, under Miss Lianyu's care." He turned to her with a sheepish grin. "He said you were kind."
Lianyu chuckled softly. "He wasn't wrong."
"Well, he was wrong about thinking I would forgive him." Yichen's grin wavered. "He abandoned me. I still can't forgive that."
We said nothing. Only the faint chirping of crickets filled the air.
"It's fine," he said quickly, forcing a cheerful tone. "This place is better. More food, and at least I found people who, hopefully, won't abandon me."
The humor in his voice cracked just enough for me to hear the ache behind it.
Then, suddenly, his eyes brightened. "Enough about me! Meilina, your turn. How was Bharat? Oh, and are you also a Buddha?"
"It's Buddhist," I corrected with a laugh. But their eager faces told me I had no choice.
I took a deep breath. "Alright. I suppose it's my turn."
I hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of my teacup. "There's much I've kept hidden. But perhaps it's time."
The room grew still. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
"My life in Bharat… wasn't as joyful as I've made it sound," I began softly. "Beneath the festivals and silk sarees was nothing but hatred."
They all looked surprised, except for Lianyu, who simply nodded—as if she had always known.
"In my family, inheritance was everything. The eldest son received double of whatever the other sons had, and the rest got whatever scraps remained. So they fought. Brothers, wives, cousins—everyone poisoned by greed."
The taste of bitterness rose in my throat, sharp and metallic.
"My mother, a clever woman, saw through it all. She taught me and my brothers how to detect poisons, how to defend ourselves, how to kill."
I looked up and caught their wide-eyed stares.
"She'd say, 'Better safe than sorry. If someone wants you gone, remove them first.'"
The memory of my mother's voice—calm, unwavering—echoed in my mind like a distant bell.
"I was trained in swordsmanship secretly. My father thought teaching a daughter to fight was a waste, but my mother watched every lesson and passed it on to me in the shadows. My brothers helped too."
I smiled faintly. "I trained until I turned sixteen, the age when girls became bargaining pieces. Suitors came and went. I refused them all. Until one day… I didn't get a choice."
I exhaled slowly. "My father married me off to a Chinese merchant. Without my consent. Without even telling me."
Ariya gasped. "That's—"
"I woke up on a ship," I interrupted, my voice flat. "Bound for a foreign land."
I could almost smell it again, over two years ago, the salt-heavy air, the stench of sweat and rotting wood. The ocean had looked endless. My future, even more so.
"But I refused to be a prisoner," I said quietly. "A servant entered my cabin to check on me. I used my saree to strangle him just enough to knock him out, took his clothes, covered my face, and escaped."
They were silent, their expressions a mix of horror and awe.
But Lianyu's voice cut through the room like silk over steel. "Have you ever killed anyone? Has anyone ever tried to kill you?"
Her eyes were sharper than usual, as though she could see beyond my words.
"No," I said. "No one's tried. And I've never had to."
I hesitated, then added, "But my father has. He was the third son, and the first two stood between him and power. The eldest died in battle, but the second…" I looked down. "The second was murdered. Quietly. Cleanly. My mother never said it aloud, but we all knew."
A long silence followed. The air felt heavier, thick with unspoken grief.
"My father was a genius," I whispered. "A brilliant, monstrous genius."
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring, suspicion, cruelty, or another sleepless night—but for now, in this small room, with laughter trembling between pain and peace, I felt like I'd finally found something that resembled family.