There is a kind of pain that does not scream, does not claw, does not burn.
It simply waits, silent, wide-eyed, and patient.
That's what greeted me when i returned to the world. Not light. Not voices. Just a heat blooming gently across my back, like ripples in a pond, slow and constant.
A cloth, warm and damp, moved in small, rhythmic circles across my skin. It carried the scent of chrysanthemum oil and crushed mint leaves.
And hands.
Familiar ones.
"Elise…" My voice was a cracked whisper.
Even speaking sent a sharp tug down my spine, as though my skin had splintered beneath the surface.
She didn't answer.
Only hiccuped.
Her soft fingers continued their task, dipping the cloth in a ceramic bowl beside the bed, then dabbing it against the angry red welts and torn skin that marked my back like war calligraphy.
Each touch stung, but it was nothing compared to the memory of the rod. The thirty strikes still echoed in my bones.
I tried to shift.
To raise myself from the bed.
The second i moved, white-hot pain surged through my lower back, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I collapsed forward with a gasp, cheek pressed into the silk pillow, tears burning fresh trails down my face.
"My lady—please don't," Elise murmured quickly, dropping the cloth and placing her palm against my shoulder, trying to calm me. "You mustn't move yet. Please…"
I heard her swallow a sob.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice crumbling. "I'm so sorry. I should've done something. I should've stopped them. I should've—"
She couldn't finish.
Her breath broke, and suddenly her tears were falling on my shoulder as she leaned forward, weeping silently while her hands trembled against my skin.
"I couldn't protect you," she said, barely audible. "You suffered alone."
I turned my head, barely, until i could see her through blurred lashes.
She looked so small.
Her face was red and wet with tears, and yet she kept dabbing my wounds with care.
Her hands had never been trained for healing—but they were gentle. And right now, they were the only hands i trusted.
I didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Instead, I reached out with a shaking arm, my muscles weak, my limbs useless and cupped her face in my hand.
She startled, her crying pausing, eyes wide and searching mine.
I didn't smile.
I couldn't.
But i let her feel the weight of my touch. The only comfort i had left.
We stayed like that for a while.
Just the two of us.
Just silence and quiet sobbing and the sound of water dripping from cloth to bowl.
And i thought—
So this is what it means to be discarded.
To be flogged like an animal in the place that was supposed to be my home.
To be touched only by the hands of a servant, when every other hand has turned away.
And in that silence, the memories returned.
Of my childhood.
Of my mother's cold eyes and my father's hard fists.
Of the bruises i wore like secret flowers beneath embroidered sleeves.
Of the way i smiled in public so no one would ask.
I thought leaving that place would mean freedom.
But here i am again.
The same girl.
The same pain.
Only the walls have changed.
Only Elise has stayed.
Only Elise…
She brushed the tears from her cheeks and forced a shaky smile, then reached for the tray beside the bed.
I hadn't noticed it before.
There was congee, pale and plain, with a small dish of pickled radish on the side. Steam still curled faintly from the bowl.
"You haven't eaten since yesterday," she murmured, her voice hoarse. "Please, my lady. Just a little."
She tried to lift the spoon, but her hands were trembling so badly she had to set it down again and take a breath.
I tried to push myself up.
Just enough to sit.
The moment my muscles strained, a jolt of pain ripped through my spine.
My vision blackened at the edges.
I collapsed forward again with a strangled cry, my chest pressed against the sheets, arms trembling beneath me.
"I can't," I rasped.
The words made me feel even smaller.
Even more helpless.
Elise was beside me in a heartbeat. She tucked a pillow under my chest and whispered, "Don't force it. It's all right. Just rest. Let me help you."
She sat on the edge of the bed and brought the spoon to my lips.
My pride wanted to refuse it.
But the burn in my back reminded me that i had no pride left.
So i let her feed me.
Slowly. Quietly.
The congee was warm. Bland.
But it sat softly in my stomach, and for a moment i felt something close to comfort.
"Sorry…" she whispered again, her hand brushing the hair from my temple. "I'm sorry, my lady. I know it's not enough. I wish i could do more. I wish—"
She broke again.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and landed on the bedding near my arm. Her shoulders shook, and she tried to hide it, turning her face away.
But i saw it.
I felt it.
And for the first time since i woke, I felt something stir in my chest that wasn't pain.
I reached up again, weakly, and rested my fingertips on her cheek.
She turned to me, surprised.
I didn't say anything.
But she leaned into the touch and closed her eyes, as though that small gesture undid something inside her.
We stayed like that, quiet, tired, hurting, until footsteps echoed from the outer corridor.
Sharp. Measured.
Elise stiffened.
We both knew who it was.
The door slid open without warning.
Lucien entered.
No fanfare. No guards. Just him, dressed not in ceremonial robes but a simpler changshan of ivory and pale gold. In his hand, a small ceramic jar.
He stopped a few paces into the room.
His eyes scanned the bed.
Scanned me.
I didn't look at him.
Not even once.
"Elise," he said, voice low. "You may leave."
"No," I said before she could move.
My voice was barely there, but it was enough.
He glanced at me. "I need to speak with you."
"Then speak," I said flatly. "She stays."
A long pause.
Then he set the jar down on the side table.
"For your wounds," he said. "A rare salve from the southern provinces. It will help the skin close faster. There will be less scarring."
I didn't respond.
Didn't thank him.
Didn't curse him.
Because what was there left to say?
The man who brought this pain to my back… was now offering me a cure for it.
It was almost funny.
If i weren't so broken, I might have laughed.
He stood there for a moment longer, as if waiting for me to meet his gaze. But i didn't.
Because if i looked at him, I might scream.
I might weep.
I might beg for something i knew he no longer had.
So i turned my face away, pressed it back into the pillow, and let my tears fall quietly, unseen.
He said nothing more.
And then, without another word, he turned and left.
The door closed behind him like the ending of a chapter i never agreed to write.
Elise had returned to the jar Lucien left behind and began carefully applying the ointment.
It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and snow fungus, soothing, perhaps.
I felt the cool balm coat the raw, split skin along my back.
It burned at first. Then dulled.
Her hands trembled, but she worked with care.
He probably thought that jar would be enough.
An apology in porcelain.
A salve in place of remorse.
But i didn't want his cure.
I wanted his absence.
"You should rest," Elise whispered, as if reading my thoughts. "Please, my lady. You've done enough."
Enough.
As if i had any say in what was done to me.
I let my eyes drift closed, lashes wet against my cheeks.
The pain didn't vanish, but exhaustion wrapped around me like heavy velvet.
Elise's hand rested against my hair as she sat beside me, humming something faint, an old lullaby from our palace, one i hadn't heard since i was a child.
I felt sleep begin to tug at me again.
But i didn't fall completely.
Instead, I floated between worlds.
And in that space, half dream, half memory—i returned to places i wished i had forgotten.