That night the western courtyard was colder than usual.
The wind slipped through the broken tiles and thin paper windows, carrying the damp smell of moss and old wood. The abandoned residence had never been meant for living.
Even the servants who brought their meals came and left quickly, as if the place itself were unlucky.
A single candle burned beside the low table.
Consort Wei sat in front of it, staring at the small porcelain vial in her hands.
The liquid inside was clear.
Almost harmless looking.
Her fingers trembled.
Lady Han's voice echoed in her mind.
Remove the problem, and your fortune may yet improve.
Consort Wei pressed the vial tightly in her palm.
Her breathing became shallow.
This was only sleeping medicine, she told herself.
A stronger dose than usual.
The apothecary had not asked questions when she purchased it that afternoon.
Servants and concubines bought medicine often. No one cared why.
If Lin Yue drank it…
She would simply fall asleep.
Quietly.
Peacefully.
No more whispers about curses.
No more accusations.
No more suffering.
The Shen family might forgive Consort Wei eventually. Lord Shen might even allow her back into the main residence.
Her life could return to what it once was.
The thought made her stomach twist violently.
She forced herself to stand.
Across the small room, Lin Yue sat on the floor beside the window, carefully mending a tear in her sleeve with a thin needle.
The candlelight flickered across her small face.
She looked tired.
Too tired for a child.
Consort Wei's chest tightened painfully.
"Yue'er," she called softly.
Lin Yue looked up immediately.
"Yes, Mother?"
Her voice was gentle, obedient.
Always obedient.
Consort Wei quickly turned away, pretending to pour water into a cup so her daughter would not see the tears gathering in her eyes.
Her hands shook as she uncorked the vial.
The faint scent of medicine drifted into the air.
Just a few drops.
That was all it would take.
The clear liquid slid into the water without a trace.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain Lin Yue could hear it.
"Come here," Consort Wei said quietly.
Lin Yue set down the needle and stood.
Her steps were soft against the cold stone floor as she walked toward the table.
Consort Wei could not bring herself to look at her.
Instead she stared at the cup in her hands.
This will save you, she told herself desperately.
If Lin Yue lived, she would continue to suffer.
Lady Han would not stop.
The Shen family would not accept her.
Her daughter would spend her life fighting people stronger than her.
Maybe…
Maybe this was mercy.
Lin Yue stopped beside the table.
Her small hands rested neatly in front of her.
"Yes, Mother?"
Consort Wei lifted the cup slowly.
"Drink this," she said, her voice barely steady. "It will help you sleep."
Lin Yue looked at the cup.
Then she looked at her mother.
Her dark eyes were quiet and thoughtful.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Consort Wei felt her chest tightening with unbearable pressure.
Take it.
Please just take it.
But Lin Yue tilted her head slightly.
"Mother," she asked softly, "are you crying?"
The words shattered something inside Consort Wei.
She looked up suddenly.
Lin Yue was staring at her with concern.
Not suspicion.
Not fear.
Concern.
A child worried about her mother.
Consort Wei's vision blurred with tears.
Her hands began to shake violently.
"I—"
The cup slipped from her fingers.
It struck the stone floor and shattered, water spreading across the ground.
The smell of medicine filled the room.
For a moment there was complete silence.
Lin Yue looked down at the broken porcelain.
Then slowly back at her mother.
Consort Wei collapsed to her knees.
A sob tore out of her chest before she could stop it.
"I can't," she whispered hoarsely.
Her hands covered her face.
"I can't do it…"
Lin Yue stood very still.
She did not fully understand what had just happened.
But she understood one thing clearly.
Her mother was suffering.
Quietly, she knelt beside Consort Wei and wrapped her small arms around her.
Consort Wei froze.
Then she broke completely.
Her arms tightened desperately around her daughter as she cried into the child's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again and again.
Lin Yue did not ask why.
She simply held her mother and waited for the storm to pass.
Outside, the wind rattled the broken tiles of the abandoned courtyard.
But inside the small room, mother and daughter clung to each other in the candlelight—
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡
Two days past and the voices only got louder, hungrier and more selfish .
"If she were gone…" Consort Wei thought, and the words tasted bitter even to herself. No more comparisons. No more whispers. No more humiliation. The idea gripped her like a shadow, curling in her chest. And yet, even as it frightened her, a cold part of her heart welcomed it.
By the twelfth day, the thought had hardened into action.
While preparing tea for Lin Yue, Consort Wei slipped something into the cup. Her hands were steady, practiced, as though she had done this many times before. A mother's care had long fled from her heart, replaced by fear and resentment. The child had been born under a "fractured star," they had said. And in her mind, that fractured star was not heaven's fault—it was Lin Yue's.
Lin Yue did not complain. She never did. She had learned that speaking out brought only anger, whispers, and blame. But over the next days, her small body betrayed her. Two days in, her cheeks lost their soft flush. By the third, she could barely hold down her meager meals. On the fourth, she awoke in the night, shivering under four blankets, teeth chattering despite the warmth.
Qing noticed. Qing always noticed. She watched the cups, the bowls, the order in which things were served.
One evening, when Consort Wei left the room, Qing lifted Lin Yue's untouched tea and sniffed it. Her face drained of color. She recognized the scent—the faint bitterness of poison hidden beneath sweetness. She did not throw it away, but carefully set it aside and replaced it.
That night Lin Yue lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling beams, her small body trembling from weakness and fear. Why does she hate me? The thought pressed against her chest, heavy and strange.
She had once imagined that her mother's arms would be safe, that they would shield her from the world. Now she understood that some people could hurt even those they were supposed to protect.
"Qing," she whispered.
"Yes, miss?"
"I feel… strange."
"I know," Qing replied quietly, kneeling beside her.
"Am I sick?"
"You are being made sick," Qing admitted, voice barely audible.
Lin Yue's wide eyes darted toward the closed inner chamber where her mother slept, heart pounding. "By who?"
Qing's lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes lowered. She didn't need to speak. Lin Yue already knew the answer.
A shadow passed over her small heart.
Anger, confusion, and fear mingled there.
She is my mother… and yet she would hurt me. She would let me die. Her fists clenched under the thin blanket, nails digging into her palms. The warmth of betrayal burned hotter than the chill of the night.
"Will it stop?" Lin Yue whispered.
"No," Qing said, looking away.
Lin Yue's breath caught. "Will I… stop waking up?"
Qing swallowed hard. "If we do nothing…"
Lin Yue's small hands fisted tightly around the thin blanket. She stared at the ceiling beams, counting her heartbeat, counting her breaths. A deep, quiet resolve formed inside her, fragile but relentless.
If I die, she lives. If I live… I must survive. I must not let her win.
"Why?" she asked finally.
Qing's voice cracked. "Because fear makes people cruel."
Lin Yue turned her gaze to her thin fingers, tracing the faint lines as though memorizing them. She understood now. Love was not guaranteed. Safety was not granted. And cruelty could come even from the people who were supposed to care for her.
"Qing," she said softly, eyes fixed in the darkness, "what happens to daughters who are unwanted?"
"They disappear," Qing whispered.
Lin Yue closed her eyes, feeling the emptiness in her stomach echo the emptiness in her chest. She opened them again, determination hardening like stone.
"Then I will not disappear."
Even as the cold fear lingered, Lin Yue felt the first spark of something else: clarity, resolve, and a quiet, dangerous courage. She would survive. And she would remember.