The tea was bitter.
Ziyan sipped it anyway, hiding the small wince behind her cup. Duan Rulan hadn't moved since the moment they entered. She sat like a carved idol — elegant, impenetrable — her face composed, her eyes far too sharp for anyone in the trade business to simply "deal in silk."
Behind her stood two servants, still as statues. One bore ink-stained scrolls. The other, a lacquered fan etched with golden plum blossoms.
"I read Zhao's letter," Duan Rulan said at last. "He speaks highly of you. That means little. Zhao trusts too easily."
Ziyan didn't reply.
"But," Rulan continued, folding her hands, "he did mention you carry something unusual. A mark. A history."
Her gaze flicked to Ziyan's palm — where the lotus shimmered faintly.
"You've already attracted attention," Rulan said. "That's dangerous here. The Eastern Capital is a place where attention gets people killed."
Feiyan tensed at her side.
"I didn't come here to be seen," Ziyan replied. "I came for knowledge. Help. And maybe allies, if they're not too expensive."
Rulan laughed — not loud, but enough to show sharp teeth.
"Everyone here is expensive," she said. "Even silence."
They were housed in a private wing of the compound — an opulent guest suite overlooking a koi pond too still to be natural. The walls were lined with calligraphy and old weapons, polished so often they had never seen real battle.
Later that night, Duan Rulan summoned Ziyan alone.
Feiyan objected. Ziyan insisted.
Rulan led her to a long corridor lit by blue lanterns. At its end was a round room, floor tiled in marble shaped like a coiled serpent.
Laid out on a table were several sealed letters. Names were carved on each in red ink.
Ziyan recognized two of them — prominent lords from Qi's central provinces. One had petitioned for her banishment. The other had voted to strip her family's last title.
"Each of these men," Rulan said smoothly, "owes me something. Gold, favors, lives. I could end them with a signature."
Ziyan stared. "Why haven't you?"
Rulan poured herself a second cup of tea.
"Because I'm not in the business of revenge," she said. "I trade in opportunity. And if I give you something, I must know what kind of return to expect."
Ziyan straightened.
"I can reshape people. Decisions. I don't need power to burn them all down. Just enough to change what comes after."
Rulan studied her carefully.
"Then here is your test."
She handed Ziyan a scroll.
It contained a list — minor court officials, some wealthy merchants, a mid-tier censor. All of them rumored to be loyal to the Empress's cousin — a shadow lord whose influence stretched deep into the court's wine-soaked veins.
"They're hosting a closed garden banquet tomorrow. I've arranged your invitation — as one of my protégés. Your job is simple: get inside, learn something valuable, and don't let them know who you really are."
Ziyan frowned. "Why?"
"Because," Rulan said, smiling again, "if you can walk through fire without the room noticing the smoke — then you're worth investing in."
The banquet was a nest of silk and knives.
Servants floated between tables with trays of rare fruit and wine so expensive it could fund armies. The guests wore jade pins and perfume that smelled of camellias and crushed amber.
Ziyan wore simple robes dyed in Rulan's colors. She bowed when introduced. She smiled when spoken to. She spoke when expected.
And she listened.
One lord bragged about land acquisitions in the eastern prefectures — territories quietly seized from widowed landowners through forged documents. Another laughed about a magistrate's son bought into the military through a silent auction of favors.
No one noticed the girl in the corner listening.
Until someone did.
He was younger than the others. Tall, thin. Pale, with silver-threaded hair bound in a tight knot. His robe bore the sigil of the House of Silver Pines — a northern clan allied with the court's shadowy cousin.
"You're not like the rest of them," he said, voice low. "You watch more than you drink."
Ziyan smiled. "Someone has to remember what's said after the wine is gone."
He studied her — and his gaze flicked, briefly, to the edge of her sleeve where the faint shimmer of the lotus mark peeked out.
"The mark suits you," he said, barely audible.
"You don't know what you've stepped into, but you're not the first to wear it."
Then, he turned to leave — but just before vanishing into the crowd, he tapped his fan once on a nearby pillar.
Ziyan paused, watching him go. Then walked over and pressed her hand lightly to where the fan had touched the wood.
It pulsed — warm beneath her fingers.
And then the stone shifted.
A tiny slit opened — not visible to the naked eye — revealing a hidden compartment sealed behind the panel.
Ziyan reached in.
A folded letter.
Back at the estate, she opened it.
It contained a list — coded, but clear enough to her eyes. Shipments. Payments. Names of officials. One of the men from the banquet. Smuggling weapons into the interior — possibly to arm a rebellion, or crush one.
Feiyan's eyes widened. "You didn't even say ten words to him."
Ziyan's expression was unreadable. "I didn't need to."
Because she was starting to understand — not just people, but the world they lived in. Structures. Pressure points. The invisible gears turning behind every conversation.
She hadn't burned anyone.
She had seen through them.
But it was exhausting. The banquet had shown her a new battlefield — one where words were sharper than swords and smiling was more dangerous than scowling.
She hadn't expected it to drain her like this.
Duan Rulan found her the next morning in the garden, watching koi circle endlessly in the pond.
"You did better than I expected," the merchant said, voice neutral.
Ziyan didn't look up. "I did what I had to."
"Good," Rulan replied. "Because this is only the beginning."
She dropped another scroll onto the bench beside Ziyan.
"No more tests. This one's real. I hope you're ready."