The air in the ancestral hall was thick with incense, the smoke curling like ghosts around the lacquered tablets. Candles flickered, casting long shadows that stretched across the faces of the gathered kin.
Lan Yue stood dazed, her gaze wandering, never settling. The chants, the whispered condolences, the rustle of silks—they pressed against her ears but never truly reached her.
Her father stood at the center of it all, draped in mourning robes, his posture bowed in just the right measure. His face was carved with sorrow, lips pressed tight, eyes brimming with restrained grief. To outsiders, he was the very image of a grieving widower—noble, dignified, enduring. But Yue could see the act for what it was: a performance polished to perfection. Not too little, not too much. Enough to stir pity, without slipping into the wailing of a cheap street actor.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. They let her die, she thought, bitterness burning through her throat. They all watched, and they did nothing.
She had come here prepared, ready to speak, to cast a stone into the stagnant pool of hypocrisy. Yet to the eyes of those present, she was not a grieving daughter but the willful, wild girl who had always defied her parents. A stain on her father's carefully painted image of filial harmony.
The women of the family stood together in a cluster, their whispers weaving a net of judgment. At their head was Grandmother, a stern matriarch whose silence carried more weight than words. Flanking her were her father's three concubines, faces schooled into piety. Among them stood the new mistress of the house—her mother's replacement—Madam Hua. With her delicate posture and serene smile, she looked every inch the proper wife. Beside her, clinging sweetly to her sleeve, was Lan Xue—the "precious" daughter, with eyes lowered just enough to appear modest, yet gleaming with self-satisfaction.
Yue's heart twisted at the sight. Her mother's place had been stolen while the body was still warm. Hua had given birth to both a son and daughter, securing her hold over the household, her influence now heavier than her late mother's ever was.
All told, Yue had three sisters and a brother. But tonight, only she and Lan Xue were old enough to stand among the mourners. The others were kept away, too young, too untouched by grief to be paraded before the ancestors.
Yue's breath came shallow. The smoke choked her, the faces blurred. Memories from another life pressed against the present, cutting sharp as blades. She remembered futures that had already happened. Betrayals yet to come. Friends she had lost. Enemies she had trusted. Past and future interwove, the weight of new knowledge grinding against old wounds.
Her knees threatened to give, but she held her ground.
Not here. Not now.
She could not unravel the knots in her heart within these suffocating walls. She needed time—to think, to watch, to learn. To mark who among these smiling faces were enemies and who, if any, could still be trusted.
But first, she had to survive this nightmarish scene. This charade of grief.
So she bowed her head, swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and waited.
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Hours had passed before Lan Yue was finally able to retreat to her little courtyard.
The moment she stepped inside, a wave of nostalgia crashed over her. Every piece of furniture, every faint mark on the walls, was steeped in memories of the happy childhood she thought she had known. Or perhaps it had been nothing more than a lie. Her mother's presence had been a shield, and only now—when that shield was gone—did she realize how much protection she had truly lived under.
From this day onward, life would only grow harsher.
Tears welled up and slipped down her cheeks as she sank onto the bench. Her eyes fixed on nothing, staring through the shadows as memories spiraled and grief gnawed at her chest.
A soft knock at the door tore her from her thoughts.
The door creaked open, and a girl about her own age stepped in. She carried a small tray of tea and pastries, her steps careful, her expression gentle.
"Young Lady," she said softly, "you should eat something. You'll need your strength."
Lan Yue's throat tightened. Mei Ling.
Her childhood companion. Her only true friend. The one person she could still trust after her mother's passing. The rest of the servants belonged to Madam Hua's faction, tongues sharp and loyalty sold. But Mei Ling had always been different—bright, loyal, steadfast.
And yet… Yue remembered too well. In her past life, Mei Ling had been framed for theft and sold like chattel. Yue had been powerless to save her. Powerless to do anything but watch her last comfort torn away.
Her hands clenched. Not this time. Never again. They will take nothing more from me.
Overcome, Yue rose swiftly and pulled the maid into her arms. Tears spilled freely down her face, soaking into Mei Ling's shoulder.
The little maid froze, startled by the sudden embrace. But after a heartbeat, she returned it, her arms tightening around Yue with quiet, steady warmth.
And for the first time since her mother's death, Yue allowed herself to cry without restraint.
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Lan Yue sat at her desk, the brush steady in her hand despite the storm in her chest. Ink spread across the paper in dark, deliberate strokes. Names filled the page, each one a blade etched into memory.
Madam Hua.
Lan Xue.
Lan Rui.
The list went on, longer than she would have ever imagined in her childhood innocence. Each name was an enemy who had wronged her, who would one day pay the price.
She leaned back, staring at the paper. Two years remained before her marriage. Five before her death. Time was a blade at her throat, but now she knew its edge, and she would not stumble blindly toward it again.
On the surface, everyone still saw her as the same girl—cheerful, unrestrained, a little wild, even uncivilized. A tomboy, they whispered behind fans and folded sleeves. Yue let them whisper. That mask would serve her better than tears or dignity ever had.
But first things first.
Her gaze drifted toward the window, where shadows stretched across the courtyard. Spies and insects lurked in every corner—servants with loose tongues, concubine's lackeys dressed as helpers, every step watched, every word carried back to Madam Hua's ears.
She could not build her plans with so many eyes crawling over her walls.
Her lips curled into the faintest smile.
The courtyard must be cleared.
Every cockroach crushed.
Only then could she begin.