The air in the Garden of Refined Scents was sharp as a shard of ice, carrying the last, sweet scent of dying osmanthus. It was the kind of day that felt like an ending, a final, beautiful breath before the deep freeze of winter. For Wei Yingluo, it felt like a beginning.
She moved through the garden not with the fiery, defiant stride that had once been her signature, but with a liquid, unnerving grace. Her back was a straight line of unbreakable will, her head held high. Her face, once a canvas of vibrant, readable emotions, was now a serene, perfect mask. The other concubines, gathered around a stone table for an afternoon tea, fell silent as she approached. It was the silence of a forest floor when a predator walks through.
"Well, well. Look who the mountain winds have blown back to us."
