When Shen Lian returned to the room the next morning, the boy was awake and sitting upright. Someone had helped him change into clean cotton robes, but his hair was still wild, and his eyes wary.
He didn't speak when she entered.
She set down a folded piece of parchment on the small table beside the bed. "Your name."
He stared at her. "I told you, I have—"
"You had a name," she said calmly. "A name given by people who discarded you. That name has no weight here. No future. This one does."
He looked at the parchment but didn't touch it. "And what if I refuse it?"
Shen Lian smiled without warmth. "Then I suppose I'll ask Aunt Lin to throw out the porridge and blankets. And perhaps I'll tell the guards there's a spy hiding in my courtyard."
His jaw clenched.
"I saved you," she said, voice low. "I fed you. Protected you. In this estate, I am the only one who knows you exist. So yes—you will take the name I give."
He looked away, every muscle in his body taut with pride and silent fury.
She turned to leave. "You have until noon to memorize it. After that, it will be your truth."
The door closed.
Alone, the boy stared at the parchment. Finally, he reached out and opened it.
One word.
Zhou.
His new name.
Outside, Shen Lian stood in the corridor, her expression unreadable.
Zhou—a name from her past.
Not the boy's name. But the name of a blade that had once killed for her.
She had wielded it with grace, with cruelty, with faith.
And now, she would do so again.