The Palace of Endless Spring did not announce itself.
There were no plaques declaring its purpose, no banners explaining its function. From the outside, it appeared no different from the surrounding architecture of the Inner Palace — layered roofs glazed in muted jade, vermilion walls softened by age, corridors that curved gently to guide the eye and the body alike.
Yet everyone within the imperial compound knew what lay beyond its gates.
Officially, it was a place of cultured entertainment — music, poetry, refined companionship meant to ease the burdens of those who served the throne. Unofficially, it was called the Flower Palace, a name spoken without shame, but never loudly.
Pleasure here was not hidden.
It was regulated.
***
Shen Lanyin arrived just before noon.
The timing was deliberate. Morning audiences had ended, and the afternoon rehearsals within the palace courts had not yet begun. It was a narrow span when attention drifted, when new arrivals could be processed without becoming immediate objects of scrutiny.
She stood among a line of women beneath the covered passage leading into the rear of the Inner Palace.
All of them were adults. All of them dressed plainly. None of them spoke.
Guards moved down the line, checking documents. A eunuch followed, carrying a lacquered case filled with registry papers and seals.
When he reached Lanyin, he paused.
"Name," he said.
"Shen Lanyin."
He marked it down.
"Age."
"Twenty-one."
He nodded, eyes flicking briefly to her face before returning to the page.
"Approved."
That was all.
She did not ask what would have made her unacceptable.
****
As the line moved forward, Lanyin became acutely aware of her own presentation.
Her robes were simple, well-kept but unadorned, chosen for propriety rather than beauty. Her hair was gathered neatly at the nape of her neck, without ornament. Nothing about her attire invited attention.
Her figure was slender but not delicate, her posture composed, her gaze lowered as etiquette demanded. She did not hurry, and she did not hesitate.
She looked like someone meant to pass through gates.
The kind remembered only later.
****
They crossed the threshold into the Palace of Endless Spring.
The change was subtle but unmistakable. Sound softened, as though absorbed by silk and carved wood. Light filtered through layers of screens and hanging curtains, breaking into gentle patterns across stone paths washed clean that morning.
Women moved everywhere.
Some walked alone. Others in small groups. Attendants passed carrying trays of porcelain cups and folded silk. Music drifted faintly from deeper within the compound—slow strings, patient and unhurried.
Men were present too.
Palace guards stood at intervals, their expressions impassive. Eunuchs moved freely, eyes sharp. A pair of officials passed through an open pavilion, their conversation subdued, their steps slower than necessity required.
No one stared at the new arrivals.
That, Lanyin realized, was worse than being watched.
****
A woman stepped forward from the side of the path as the group was guided inward.
She was neither young nor old, her beauty refined rather than striking. Her robes were of good quality but understated, worn with the ease of someone accustomed to scrutiny. Her movements were precise, economical.
She did not smile.
"This intake will follow me," she said calmly.
Her voice carried without effort.
"I am Xu Qiao. Silken Courtesan. I have been assigned to oversee arrivals until evening."
Oversee—not welcome, not reassure.
She turned and began walking, clearly expecting to be followed.
The group complied.
****
As they moved deeper into the Flower Palace, Xu Qiao spoke without slowing.
"You are all unassigned entrants," she said. "You have no rank. You have no pavilion. You have no privileges beyond what is provided during training."
She gestured ahead, where a wide courtyard opened.
"This season's intake will train together. You will eat together. You will be evaluated together."
A pause.
"At the end of training, you will be separated."
No explanation followed.
They passed the Hall of Measured Grace, its doors open to reveal women practicing posture beneath the watchful eyes of matrons. Bamboo rods tapped shoulders, corrected chins, adjusted spines.
"This is where you will spend most of your days," Xu Qiao said. "You will learn how to stand. How to sit. How to pour. How to listen."
Someone behind Lanyin inhaled sharply.
Xu Qiao did not turn.
"This palace does not teach desire," she continued evenly. "Desire is assumed. What you will learn is how to deliver it properly."
That, Lanyin understood.
Pleasure here was not spontaneous.
It was administered.
****
They were shown the sleeping hall.
It was a long chamber lined with low beds arranged in neat rows, thin screens offering the illusion of privacy. The air carried the faint scent of incense and unfamiliar perfume.
"You will sleep here during training," Xu Qiao said. "Lights out at the third bell. Late rising is noted."
Someone asked, softly, "And after training?"
Xu Qiao stopped.
She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping the group.
"After training," she said, "your living arrangements will reflect your usefulness."
She resumed walking.
****
That night, exhaustion settled over the hall like a blanket.
Lanyin lay on her narrow bed, hands folded over her abdomen, eyes open to the darkness above. Around her, women shifted, whispered, stifled quiet sobs. Somewhere, someone laughed once in their sleep and then fell silent.
If she vanished tomorrow, another woman would take her place by evening.
The thought came unbidden—and with it, memory.
Her father standing silent as the decree was read.
Her mother lowering her head too quickly, as if bowing might undo what had already been decided.
The carriage door closing behind her, not slammed, not locked—simply shut.
No farewell had been forbidden.
None had been necessary.
She had crossed a line that did not exist on any map.
Here, women did not leave unless they were carried.
Her chest tightened—not with panic, but with the weight of understanding. Her life had narrowed into a single corridor, and the walls were already close enough to touch.
She closed her eyes.
Not in prayer.
In exhaustion.
And something answered.
Not a voice.
A pressure bloomed behind her eyes, cold and invasive, like ink bleeding through silk from the inside out.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes flew open.
For an instant, fear surged—sharp and instinctive. Her fingers clenched into the bedding, heart pounding so loudly she feared it would wake the others.
Is this illness?
A curse?
A ghost of the palace?
Characters formed, pale and hovering, their meaning settling into her mind without sound.
[⟡ THE INNER RECORD ⟡]
[Condition Met:
• Identity Severed
• Exit Probability: Null]
[Status: Activated]
Her body reacted before her mind could.
She sucked in a sharp breath and nearly cried out, clamping a hand over her mouth. Her pulse raced. Her limbs felt heavy, too real.
More lines appeared, slow and deliberate.
The pressure withdrew.
The characters faded.
The sleeping hall returned—breathing, shifting, alive.
Lanyin lay rigid, staring into the dark.
Her hands trembled.
She pressed them into the mattress until they stilled.
Whatever that had been, it was not a blessing.
But neither was it nothing.
She turned onto her side, facing the thin screen, listening to the quiet misery of strangers breathing beside her.
By morning, she would pretend none of this had happened.
Because she already understood the first rule of the Flower Palace:
Those who spoke of what they saw did not remain long enough to be believed.