Lady Anhai sat perfectly still as the last hairpin slid into place—a delicate phoenix cast in gold, its wings outstretched as if ready to take flight. Her mother stepped back, examining her with the silent scrutiny of someone who had spent seventeen years preparing a single masterpiece.
"You look ready," Lady Yu finally said, though her voice was quiet. Not uncertain—but reverent. As if speaking louder might shatter the moment.
Anhai met her mother's gaze in the bronze mirror. The reflection that stared back was serene: lips like painted coral, skin powdered to porcelain, eyes calm. No trace of the girl who had once run barefoot through bamboo groves or hidden behind scrolls in the study. No trace of fear.
But inside, her chest swelled with it.
Not fear of failure—she had studied too well, learned too deeply for that. No, her fear was of success. Of being exactly what she was meant to be.
The Crown Prince's bride.
"You will not be the most beautiful," her mother continued, adjusting a fold of the robe embroidered with red lotuses. "Nor the most clever. But you will be the one he trusts."
Anhai nodded once. She had heard this before. A hundred times. It was not beauty or brilliance that secured power in the palace—it was reliability. Consistency. The art of being seen, but never entirely known.
A palace attendant knocked at the door.
"It's time," came the muffled voice.
Anhai stood, her hands smooth as she lifted the ceremonial sleeves. Her heart thudded in rhythm with her steps as she followed the attendant into the corridor, where incense curled in the air like ghostly dancers. Red lanterns lined the path to the waiting palanquin.
The city outside the Yu estate buzzed with early morning life, but here, silence reigned. As if the entire world held its breath.
She stepped into the lacquered carriage. Inside, she was alone. A silk curtain separated her from the rest of the world. The moment it fell, the quiet shattered.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Behind her, her mother remained in the courtyard. They did not say goodbye. That was not the way of noblewomen. There were no embraces, no tears. But as the carriage began to move, Anhai allowed herself one glance back.
Her mother still stood there, motionless.
And for the first time in years, Anhai wanted to cry. Not because she was afraid. But because she understood. This was the final act of her girlhood. After this, she would belong not to her family—but to the empire.
The palace gates loomed ahead, vast and gilded, opening like a dragon's mouth to receive her.
She straightened her spine. No tears. No doubts.
She was Anhai of House Yu.
And she would be the phoenix who rose quietly, beautifully, without burning a single feather.