The Sages say the Heavens are Ninety-Nine, the Planes beyond counting. Yet upon Golden Crow Planet, there was one certainty, thought the young girl glumly as she leaned her chin upon her palms and gazed through the window at the colours fading as the Golden Crow sank beneath the horizon.
Being born a beauty was an affliction one could never escape.
With a soft sigh she struck her palm against the casement, silk sleeve whispering against the carved wood. "Chénli, why must I be forever pestered by those mayflies wherever I go?"
A spirited voice answered from deeper within the chamber. "Gūniáng, they mean no harm. But truly, is it not diverting to have so many merchant heirs and young nobles pressing their suits?"
"Diverting? A pack of moths fluttering at every lantern is hardly diverting. Perhaps you mean the Heir of House Ji—he might pass for presentable, if one's taste runs to dumplings."
Her maidservant giggled as she stepped forward to smooth the folds of her mistress's robe. "Heir Ji has gentle eyes, and his household is wealthy. But if I were to choose, it would be Gi Chian."
"The Ice King?" Dàilán sniffed. "Cold and haughty. He mouths the proper words, but has no heart for them. He presses his suit only because his clan bids it. Enough, Chén'er—my attire is adequate."
"En." Chénli withdrew a step, though her eyes shone with mischief. "Still, gūniáng, you will one day have to choose. Better to find one you can bear to live beside."
"They are all useless," Dàilán replied with quiet disdain. "Without the weight of their families, most would falter at the first storm."
Chénli giggled, following a step behind as her mistress swept from the room. "So you want a strong man then… do you like Tè Bǐ?"
"Strong is useless when paired with a wooden post for a head," Dàilán grumbled, her sleeves flicking irritably as she strode down the corridor. "All he knows is training. Why must I trouble myself with marriage already? I have seen only fourteen summers."
Chén'er laughed softly as she matched her pace. "And yet they press upon you still. It is no wonder, Mistress—does not the whole city call you our clan's Mist Orchid?"
"That 'Orchid'?" Dàilán's lips curled in distaste. "I would gladly bestow the name upon my cousins if I could."
The wooden floors creaked faintly beneath their steps, polished smooth by generations. Painted screens of misted mountains stood between carved panels, their once-bright pigments softened with age. Though the Guan estate had never boasted the splendour of wealthier clans, every detail bore the mark of careful tending. Passing through these familiar halls, they turned into one of the smaller dining rooms.
The chamber bore the mark of an old clan that had prospered through steady hands rather than sudden fortune. Dark wooden panels lined the walls, polished smooth by generations of care, though the carved latticework designs were of a style a generation out of fashion. Hanging scrolls of mist-wreathed mountains and narrow passes filled the spaces between lantern niches, their ink faded but still dignified. The glow of essence-stones set in bronze sconces cast a warm but muted light—serviceable, though lacking the brilliance prized by wealthier clans.
At the centre stood a round table of age-darkened elm, its surface gleaming from years of careful oiling. The wood was plain, the lines unembellished, yet it had the weight of an heirloom. The clan's seal had been carved discreetly into its edge: a stylised mountain gate, weathered but enduring. Porcelain dishes, some bearing the fine gold seams of old repairs, had been set in proper order. Nothing was new, but everything was neat, well-maintained, and quietly respectable—an echo of the Guan family itself, upholding tradition though the times pressed harder against them.
An older man with threads of grey at the temples entered from a side door, bronze-embroidered robe catching the glow of the essence-stones. The clan sigil, a mountain pass worked in gold thread, marked his chest; as he moved, the embroidery caught and held the light, a faint shimmer of Essence seeming to curl like mist between unseen peaks. His voice was deep and resonant, touched with amusement.
"Lán'er. It gladdens me to see you in good health. Come, be seated."
Both girls bent low in greeting.
Still bowed, Dàilán raised her voice softly. "Father."
"Rise." His eyes softened as he gestured. "Enough formality."
"Many thanks, Father." Dàilán straightened with care. Chénli did likewise, then moved ahead to draw her mistress's chair. Dàilán inclined her head in thanks as she seated herself, silk sleeves settling into place. Only then did Chénli bow once more and take her own place opposite.
He took his seat at the head of the table, resting one hand lightly on the elm's dark surface. His gaze lingered on his daughter's face, composed yet faintly clouded with indignation.
"Lán'er. A number of families have pressed their sons forward of late. Was their pursuit overly troublesome today?"
Dàilán's lips tightened. "As Father says, they press heavily. But they are hardly worth mention. If not for the clans behind them, most could not fend for themselves. The 'Orchid of Guan' they praise so highly should not be bartered to men who know nothing of guarding a pass."
Her gaze flicked briefly to the sigil on his chest—the mountain gate of Guan—before she looked away, her mouth tightening at the irony.
He tapped a finger once against the wood. "Lán'er, if it were up to me, you would not have to marry so soon. But you know the Guan line has suffered in recent years. Our position is not weak, yet neither is it strong. None of the greater clans would consider an alliance without… inducement. This is a matter your uncles and I have long debated."
"Father, this daughter begs to speak plainly."
"You are my only child," he replied. "You are my heir. You may always speak before me."
She bowed her head, jade pin catching the lamplight. "None of these suitors seek to strengthen our family. They only wish for the renown of wedding a beauty—though it is my cultivation the clans truly covet. To bind a wife whose talent outstrips their own sons is a prize they cannot resist. Every step I have taken has been wrestled for—no gift of Heaven has ever fallen into my lap."
He nodded slowly. "I agree. Yet your Second Uncle has pressed Eldest Brother until he is persuaded. They claim no clan would dare withdraw support once you were wed—else it would shame their own name."
Her lips thinned. "The daughters of the senior lines are not more suitable? By age and by rank, should they not be offered first?"
He frowned, though his tone remained gentle. "Daughter, it ill becomes you to wish such duty upon another. Yet… yes. That was the point I raised. Your Eldest Uncle sought to check Second Brother by saying it would disgrace the clan if the youngest were wed before the eldest daughters. But such arguments only delay the matter—they do not resolve it."
Chénli lowered her eyes, though her voice carried a sharper edge. "It must have stung your cousins, gūniáng—they strut about, lording their seniority over you, yet the very heirs they gossip over pass them by without a glance." She laughed softly. "To be so ignored must have burned."
The young heiress rolled her eyes. "Let them stew in it. I would gladly give every one of those silkpants to them if I could."
Father Guan coughed into his sleeve to hide his amusement, then lifted his cup with deliberate calm. "A succinct truth," he allowed, before sipping. "But it is also a shameful one. We have little else that might draw support."
He set the cup down and clapped once, a quiet, measured sound. "Serve."
A side door slid open. Servants filed in with steaming dishes and fresh bowls, their sleeves neat, their steps soundless. The talk at the table softened at once to pleasantries; then all three fell quiet, allowing the staff to work. Only when the last servant bowed and drew the door closed did they resume.
As the scent of broth and braised vegetables rose, Chénli leaned forward without hesitation, lifting her chopsticks to begin scooping food from the platters and setting it into the others' bowls.
"Master and Mistress should eat well."
"Leave it, Chén'er. I can serve myself, and Father is not yet in his dotage," Dàilán muttered.
The maid only rolled her eyes and continued, her movements swift and precise. Each dish passed beneath her fingers with the faintest brush of Essence, testing for taint before she portioned it out. Within breaths both bowls were filled with careful balance, her own left for last.
Father Guan chuckled, picking up his chopsticks. "Sometimes, even old men enjoy being served by beauties, Daughter."
"It is my honour, Master," Chénli murmured, colour in her cheeks as she resumed her seat.
"Humph, what beauties?" Dàilán sniffed. "You have not so much as glanced at one since Mother left. If I thought it would do any good, I would send Chénli to your bed myself."
"Dàilán—Mistress!" Chénli gasped, scandalised.
"I notice you have not expressed dislike of the idea, Chén'er," Dàilán teased as she nibbled a few greens. "What about it, Father?"
Father Guan coughed to cover a laugh. "I would not survive the experience at my age."
"Mother would disagree," Dàilán returned, though her eyes softened with memory.
"She would," he said quietly. "And she would remind me, as she always did, to remember her with laughter rather than grief."
They ate for a time in companionable quiet, porcelain clinking softly, steam drifting in the lamplight.
The hush after the last tray departed lingered like steam over tea.
Chénli set her chopsticks down, composed. "Master, this servant speaks only what others forget to hide. In most halls, we are furniture—people speak freely around us. That is how I learned what I know. Until recently I believed the talk of marrying Youngest Miss to 'strengthen alliances' came from Eldest Uncle alone, a path through our difficulties. Only in these last two moons have I heard that Second Uncle presses the matter from the shadows."
Father Guan's gaze sharpened. "Careful, Chénli. You speak boldly."
She bowed, unrepentant. "Bold, but true."
Dàilán drew a slow breath. "Mother's habit of treating the servants with courtesy has proved its wisdom—and her rule about keeping clan business behind screens."
He rubbed at his glabella as though easing a hidden ache. "Lán'er… I have never sought the seat of Clan Head. My brothers know this."
"But the Elders are likely to choose you regardless," she answered. "And Second Uncle…"
He grimaced. "Without proof, I cannot accuse. I must proceed carefully." His tone gentled. "Chénli, why did you not speak sooner?"
"Because I thought Eldest Uncle merely sought a way out for the clan," she replied. "Only lately did I learn where the pressure truly comes from."
Dàilán's fingers tapped once on the rim of her bowl. "She would not agree to this, Father. She wanted me to marry for love, as you did—and she would say I am too young."
"I know, Lán'er." His voice was heavy. "I am stalling and looking for other paths—perhaps enough time to find one among those suitors whom you might come to care for. But Second Brother presses this hard, and Eldest will grant me only so much latitude. Eventually…"
Dàilán nodded softly, setting down her chopsticks. "Why is Second Uncle so insistent on this path, Father?"
He sighed, a shadow crossing his face. "I cannot be sure. Even when I think he harms the clan's face by offering you up so easily, he always frames it with… plausible arguments."
Chénli snorted. "That is simple. Youngest Miss's abilities raise Master's standing—she is both a city-shaking beauty and a cultivator of rare promise for her age. First Master's strength has waned since the ambush beneath the Attendant Moons; he has no sons, and his daughters are empty vases. Compared with that, the Second Master's heir is a useless wastrel. Who would the Elders choose for the clan's future? Master, of course—if Youngest Miss remains as Third Line Heir."
Dàilán blinked; she had not put it together so baldly. "So if I am married away…"
"Your father's claim thins," Chénli finished. "If you stay, he is the natural successor. Second Master knows this."
Her father rubbed his glabella again, exhaling. "Mm. That would also explain why Eldest Brother keeps delaying a choice among the suitors. I thought he only sought heavier pledges by dangling your hand—but if he intends me to take the seat for the clan's sake, despite my reluctance, then I must accept."
A chill prickled Dàilán's skin despite the warmth of the braziers. "Second Uncle has coveted that position for years. If he has guessed Eldest Uncle's intent… then the 'accidents' and small disgraces plaguing our halls of late begin to look deliberate."
Father and daughter traded a pale glance.
"I will speak with Eldest Brother," her father said at last, voice steady but quiet. "Carefully. For now, we change nothing—no sudden moves, no altered routes. Only vigilance."
Chénli inclined her head. "Understood."
He glanced toward the screen and raised two fingers. "Clear. Fruit."
The side door slid open. Servants entered with quiet bows; in silence they lifted away bowls and platters, wiped the table, and withdrew. Moments later, they returned bearing a tray of sliced fruit and a small dish of preserved plum. Once the plates were set and the last servant bowed out, the fragrance of pear and plum reclaimed the room.
Dàilán picked up a slice of pear, the sweetness clinging to her fingers. After a pause: "I have no appetite for politics or pretty words. I hate being paraded as a 'beauty'. Judge me by my cukltivation, my blade and my skill at hunting relics—I could best any of those useless silkpants and they know it. Let me stand on my own ability. Is that so much to ask?"
Chénli gave a small laugh, though it was tinged with worry. "Mistress will change her mind once she meets one she admires. And is not skill itself part of your allure?"
Dàilán rolled her eyes. "What allure? Everything I have has been clawed through study and discipline. I am no prodigy."
Her father chuckled, the sound dry but warm. "So you are not yet at Earth Eighth? Most of your peers still linger in the Mortal stage, Lán'er. You underestimate yourself." He tipped his cup, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "And what is this about relic hunting, Lán'er?"
"Father!", the young woman let her age show, rasing her voice with a touch of impatence against the gentle teasing, "at Merchant Street… which is why I ran into those useless... "
The young heiress paused and brightened, "En… perhaps it would be better if I left the city awhile. I could go relic hunting properly; the shops never have anything worthwhile—half the wares they peddle are fakes I can spot a li away."
Not safe, gūniáng," Chénli cautioned at once. "Recall what befell First Master in the pass beneath the Attendant Moons. If they dared strike him, they will not hesitate to strike at you."
Dàilán coughed. "You mean…"
Chénli only shrugged. Father Guan's face darkened, but neither spoke. Silence gathered.
Somewhere in the pause, Dàilán had absentmindedly lifted the pear slice again. Now she let it fall back to the dish. "I do not feel like eating anymore," she murmured quietly.
The essence-lamps crackled softly, filling the hall with their subdued glow.
Dàilán lowered her gaze to the ring upon her hand—her personal seal as third-branch heir. The mountain gate was carved plain and sure; with the faintest touch of Essence, a ghostly orchid shimmered into being, blooming against the pass. An 'Orchid' at the pass, she thought bitterly. Admired, but bartered; a mark pressed into wax rather than a person to be heard. Rooted in stone where the winds howled.