I was called again to Prince Zhen's quarters. This time, not to assist physicians.
Just to serve tea.
An easier task. One designed to keep me close without suspicion.
But I'm not the only one pretending.
He sat propped on a chaise, a book open in his lap. Not reading it holding it. The way someone does when they're listening more than looking.
His skin was pale, his posture lazy, almost loose. But his eyes dark, sharp, too focused for a man supposed to be drugged followed everything.
He watched the door as I entered. Watched my hands as I poured the chrysanthemum tea.
And when I placed the cup beside him, he spoke without looking up.
"You're not from this wing."
I paused. "I go where I'm sent, Your Highness."
A beat of silence. Then a slow, faint smile.
"Is that so?"
"Then you must see quite a lot."
He didn't drink the tea. Just held the handle, feeling the heat.
Not a sip.
As if testing it.
I bowed again. "Would you like a different blend, Your Highness?"
He finally looked up his eyes sharp, unclouded and said in a voice low enough the guards outside wouldn't hear:
"No. I'm rather fond of the bitterness today."
Then he sipped once, and turned a page in his book.
He knows.
Not everything but enough.
Enough to be pretending.
Enough to know the poison hasn't broken him.
Enough to test me, too.
And in that moment, I understood I'm not the only one quietly surviving in this palace.