The claw-shaped wax seal haunted Xue Yan more than she cared to admit. Not because it had been meant for her, but because it hadn't.
Even as she was primped and powdered for the Court Display, her mind wandered back to the letter—the cryptic threat, the cold shape of the seal, the flame swallowing its paper like a hungry whisper. It hadn't named its sender, but she didn't need names. The bird's claw was warning enough.
Her rival sister was drawing too much attention.
And attention, Xue Yan had learned, was the most dangerous currency in the palace.
She smirked at her reflection. The rouge on her lips was sharp, blood-like. Her robes were embroidered with red-crowned cranes—auspicious, regal. She looked every bit the favored daughter.
Yet when she passed Xue Lian in the corridor on their way to the Hall of Harmonious Splendor, her mood soured.
Xue Lian, despite her plainer dress and modest jewelry, carried herself like silk pulled taut—unmoving but unyielding. Serene, silent, and—infuriatingly—unbothered.
"You must be tired," Xue Yan said sweetly, tilting her head. "It's exhausting, isn't it? Pretending to be good."
Xue Lian didn't pause. "Not at all. Pretending to be cruel sounds far more tiring."
Xue Yan's smile cracked like an eggshell. But she recovered quickly.
"You won't last. Even birds fall when they fly too close to the heavens."
Xue Lian gave her a look so calm it stung.
"Then it's fortunate I prefer walking."
---
The Hall of Harmonious Splendor was a masterpiece of ornate subtlety. Latticed gold screens lined the walls, behind which court scribes and minor officials observed the daughters in quiet judgment. Incense curled like sleeping dragons along the air, scented with sandalwood and politics.
Each daughter was called forth to perform a small display: calligraphy, poetry recitation, or scholarly debate—meant to gauge not just education, but composure under scrutiny.
Xue Yan flourished when her turn came. Her calligraphy was elegant, practiced, full of confident strokes and stylized flair. When asked to compose a verse on the virtues of harmony, she recited a complex poem about celestial order and filial obedience. It earned nods of approval and murmured praise.
She returned to her seat with her chin high, throwing Xue Lian a sidelong glance.
"Try not to trip on your humility," she murmured.
Xue Lian rose without replying.
Her robe was simple: dove-grey silk with a single plum blossom at the collar. Her hair, while pinned properly, bore no jeweled combs—just a single jade pin, the kind given to mourning widows or meditative scholars.
Whispers followed her steps. Some judges leaned forward, curious.
She bowed deeply. When asked for her calligraphy, she stepped to the scroll with quiet hands. Her brush glided across the paper—not flashy, not stylized. Just fluid, precise.
The character she wrote was ren—for forbearance.
Then she turned and recited:
"In silence, the mountain remains unmoved. In patience, the river carves stone. The loud are often heard, But the quiet are remembered."
A hush lingered after she finished. One of the court officials tilted his head thoughtfully.
From behind the lattice, a hidden observer let out a breath.
---
Shen Jingyuan stood behind one of the golden screens, arms folded behind his back. He had not been expected to attend. The display was for mid-ranking officials, not high envoys of the Crown Prince.
But curiosity had a way of guiding powerful feet.
He had seen Xue Lian before—briefly, from a distance, when she'd first entered the selection. A quiet presence, modest to the point of invisibility.
Yet now, watching her beneath the incense smoke and lacquered lanterns, he saw something else.
Not meekness. Not even calculation.
Discipline.
Every gesture she made was intentional, tempered. Not the careful flattery of someone performing—but the restraint of someone with deeper roots.
She was not trying to shine.
She was trying to survive.
He watched the tension in her fingers, the way her eyes flicked toward the judges—not pleading for praise, but checking for threats.
Interesting.
Behind him, a scribe whispered, "Her name is Xue Lian. From the House of Minister Xue."
"I know," Jingyuan murmured. "She was the one who exposed the poison during the second trial."
He remembered the incident well. The nearly fatal misstep, the poised redirection. No panic. No dramatics. Just quiet control.
He smiled faintly. The court had so many masks, but this one… this girl wore hers like it was sewn to her skin.
---
After the final performance, the daughters were invited to mingle in the reception hall for light refreshments. The officials would not speak to them directly—such informality was frowned upon—but their glances, whispers, and private notes would shape the next set of eliminations.
Xue Yan lingered near the carved screens, accepting fruit and wine with a smile as polished as lacquer.
Xue Lian kept to the side, hands folded neatly, sipping only chrysanthemum tea. Her presence was like a quiet stream—easy to overlook until one realized the garden grew greenest near it.
A pair of noble daughters passed her, giggling too loudly.
"Her poem was so plain," one whispered. "I thought she was trying to teach children."
"Or monks," the other said. "Did you see her hairpin? I've seen better on grave offerings."
Xue Lian said nothing. Just turned to the window and admired the painted paper lanterns swaying gently outside.
Somewhere behind her, Xue Yan chuckled.
"Don't feel bad," she said sweetly, stepping closer. "You did well for someone who hasn't grown up in court."
Xue Lian smiled faintly. "And you did well for someone who has."
Before Xue Yan could retort, a bell chimed—signaling the close of the event.
As the girls filtered out, murmurs followed in their wake.
"Who was that quiet one with the jade pin?"
"She quoted mountain wisdom… curious."
"Reminds me of the late Queen Consort, in her younger days."
Xue Yan's nails bit into her silk sleeves.
---
Later that night, Shen Jingyuan leaned against a pillar of the Moon Pavilion, watching the courtyards darken.
One of his aides approached.
"Your report?" Jingyuan asked.
"The girl, Xue Lian—she is indeed from Minister Xue's secondary branch. Records show she lived in the countryside for some years after her mother's death."
"She's hiding something."
"Possibly. She's been quiet. No known allies. But the poisoning incident…"
Jingyuan nodded. "Too clean."
"Do you want her investigated?"
He paused.
"No," he said finally. "Let's see what mask she wears next."
---
Back in her room, Xue Lian removed her jade pin and placed it on her desk beside the inkstone.
The day's parchment still bore the faint scent of ink and chrysanthemum. She stared at the poem she had written, the brushstrokes serene.
Then, carefully, she opened a small box beneath her bed.
Inside was the burnt edge of the letter Xue Yan had received—the claw-shaped wax seal she had secretly retrieved from the ash heap.
She had recognized the symbol. She had seen it once before, in her past life.
And it did not belong to anyone in the palace.
It belonged to something far older.
Far darker.
She stared at the seal fragment, her eyes unreadable.
Masks were nothing new to her.
But the game she'd entered… might demand she wear more than one.
---
In the shadows outside her window, a crow stirred, then vanished into the night.