The first thing she knew was the scent of chenxiang.
It was a rich, smoky, sacred fragrance, the kind reserved for her mother's ancestral hall. It curled into her consciousness, a ghost of a memory so potent it felt like a physical blow. But it was wrong. The last scent she had known was the bitter, metallic tang of her own blood, the acrid stench of the prison straw, the cloying sweetness of the poisoned wine that had burned a path down her throat.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Not the damp, grey stone of a dungeon cell, but a canopy of pale blue silk, embroidered with silver clouds. Not the rough, itching blanket, but the soft, heavy weight of a quilt woven from the finest silk floss. Her hand flew to her neck, her fingers trembling as they found only smooth, unblemished skin. No rope burn. No mark of the executioner's blade.
She sat up, a gasp catching in her throat. The room was hers. The room from her girlhood. The polished rosewood desk, the jade brush rest shaped like a resting crane, the window looking out onto the garden where her mother's peonies would soon bloom. A mirror of polished bronze stood on a vanity table, and in its distorted surface, she saw a face she hadn't seen in ten years. A face unlined by sorrow, eyes dark and clear, not yet haunted by the specter of betrayal.
Sixteen years old.
"Miss! You're awake!" A familiar, cheerful voice. Her maid, Xiao Tao, bustled in with a basin of warm water. "Your mother sent me to check on you. She said you were dreaming again. Are you alright? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
If only you knew, Yingluo thought, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest. She was the ghost. A ghost returned to haunt the living.
"I'm fine, Xiao Tao," she said, her own voice a surprise. It was higher, softer than the one she remembered, the one that had screamed curses at Li Jian until her voice was raw. "Just a strange dream."
It wasn't a dream. It was a memory. The memory of her father's proud head severed from his body, rolling to a stop near her feet. The memory of her mother's weeping as she was dragged away. The memory of her brothers, her strong, brave brothers, cut down like wheat in a field. And Li Jian. Her husband. His face, once the object of all her adoration, now as cold and distant as the winter moon. He had held Wei Ruyan—her own sister, her meimei—as they watched her die. He had whispered something in Ruyan's ear, and Ruyan had laughed.
The rage that had been a simmering ember in her soul now roared to life, a fire so hot it felt like ice. She clenched her fists in her lap, her nails digging into her soft palms. The pain was grounding. It was real. This was real. She was back. And they would pay.
The day unfolded with the surreal quality of a play in which she was the only one who knew the script. It was her sixteenth birthday. The courtyard of the Duke of Zhenning's mansion was filled with the sound of laughter and music. Her mother, the Duchess, fussed over her, straightening the collar of her new pale-green gown, her face a mask of maternal love that made Yingluo's heart ache.
"You are the light of this family, Yingluo," her mother said, her eyes shining. "May all your years be as happy as this one."
Yingluo forced a smile, the muscles in her face feeling stiff and foreign. "Thank you, Mother." She wanted to scream. Happiness? This day is the first step toward the abyss.
Her father, a giant of a man with a kind face and hands calloused from holding a sword, gave her a rare, proud smile. "My daughter. Sixteen years old. Soon, the whole capital will know of your beauty and talent."
And soon, they will know of your supposed treason, she thought, the words like acid in her mouth. She looked at him, at the man who had taught her to ride a horse and read the classics, and a fierce, protective love surged through her. Not this time. This time, she would be his shield.
And then, she arrived.
Wei Ruyan moved through the crowd like a wisp of willow smoke, her face a picture of gentle, demure beauty. She was Yingluo's adopted cousin, an orphan her parents had taken in out of the kindness of their hearts. A kindness that had been repaid with absolute treachery.
"Sister! Happy birthday!" Ruyan's voice was as soft as ever, her eyes wide with feigned adoration. She carried a potted plant, its branches bare and spindly against the winter-gray sky. "I know how you love the plum blossoms that defy the cold. I searched for months to find this. It's a rare variety from the south. They say it blooms even in the deepest snow."
In her past life, Yingluo had wept with joy, throwing her arms around her sister, her heart overflowing with love for this thoughtful, precious gift. Now, she looked at the tree and saw it for what it was: a vessel of slow, creeping death. She remembered the years of chronic coughing, the fatigue that had plagued her, the "weak constitution" the court physicians had clucked over with sympathy. It had all started here. With this gift. This beautiful, poisonous gift.
Yingluo's smile was cool, remote. "Ruyan, you are too kind." She took a step closer, her gaze fixed on the pot. "But a southern plum, in our northern climate? It will surely die."
Ruyan's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "I… I had the best gardeners tend to it. The soil is special, prepared to help it withstand the cold."
"The soil, you say?" Yingluo's voice was dangerously soft. She reached out and touched the dark, rich earth. "How fascinating. Xiao Tao," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, "go fetch the Head Gardener. I wish to ask him about the properties of this 'special' soil. And while you're at it, bring a small, empty pot. I would like to plant a cutting from this tree in my own chambers, to tend to it myself."
The color drained from Ruyan's face. If the gardener examined the soil, the subtle, slow-acting poison mixed into it would be discovered. It wasn't enough to kill quickly, just enough to weaken, to create the illusion of a frail constitution that would later make the accusation of "practicing dark arts to prolong her life" all the more believable.
"Sister, no!" Ruyan rushed to say, her voice trembling with a carefully crafted panic. "I wouldn't want to trouble you! The soil is… it's nothing, really. Just some river peat and a few secret ingredients. It's a family recipe!"
Yingluo turned her gaze from the tree to her sister's face. She let the silence stretch, letting Ruyan stew in her own fear. "Nonsense," she said, her tone light, conversational. "It is my favorite gift. I must learn its secrets, so I might cherish it properly." She looked to her father, who was watching the exchange with a raised brow. "Father, is it not said that to truly appreciate a gift, one must understand its nature?"
The Duke, a man who saw the world in terms of honor, strategy, and straightforward action, nodded slowly. "An excellent thought, Yingluo. One must always know the nature of things. It is the key to victory." He gestured to a servant. "Fetch the Head Gardener. At once."
The Head Gardener, a man named Chen who had served the Wei family for forty years, arrived moments later. He bowed low to the Duke and the Duchess, his eyes curious. Yingluo pointed to the plum tree. "Uncle Chen, my sister has brought me this wonderful gift. She says the soil is special. Could you tell me what is in it?"
Old Chen knelt, his gnarled fingers scooping up a bit of the dark earth. He brought it to his nose, sniffing it once, then again. His friendly, weathered face darkened. He stood and bowed to the Duke, speaking in a low, urgent whisper.
The Duke's expression, which had been one of mild curiosity, turned to thunder. He stared at Ruyan, not with the anger of a father, but with the cold, hard suspicion of a general who has discovered a spy in his ranks. Ruyan went pale, her hands twisting in her sleeves. She looked from the Duke to Yingluo, her eyes wide with a dawning, terrified realization.
Yingluo felt nothing. No triumph, no satisfaction. Only the cold, steady beat of her own heart. This was not a victory. It was merely the first move on a long and bloody board.
That night, long after the household had fallen silent, Yingluo sat by her window, looking out at the sliver of the moon. The day's events replayed in her mind, but beneath the calm satisfaction of her first small victory, a profound loneliness settled over her. She was a ghost in her own life, surrounded by people she loved but could no longer trust, playing a role no one could understand.
A soft knock sounded on her door. She tensed, her hand instinctively going to a hairpin on her dressing table. "Who is there?"
No answer. The door creaked open a few inches. A small, folded piece of paper was slid onto the floor, and then the door was closed again as silently as it had opened.
Frowning, Yingluo walked over and picked it up. The paper was fine, expensive, and sealed with a small dollop of red wax, but no insignia. Her heart pounding, she broke the seal and unfolded it.
Inside, written in elegant, sharp calligraphy that she did not recognize, were two lines from a famous, obscure poem about a phoenix rising from its own ashes. A poem she had recited only once, in the darkness of her prison cell, as her last act of defiance.
Below the poem, a single, chilling question was inked in the same precise hand:
"Which of us is the ghost, and which is the dream?"