Dawn had not yet fully broken when Yelan stirred in her sleep, the first pale light filtering through the shoji like a hesitant visitor. The room held the night's hush, cool air still laced with jasmine's fading sigh, but her breathing came uneven—short pulls, as if the futon tangled her like unseen vines. Her brows drew tight, a faint crease between them, lashes trembling against her cheeks. Her fingers curled into the bedding, knuckles whitening just a touch, as if grasping for something slipping away.
"…Release me…"
The words escaped her lips, thin and strained, barely more than a breath carried on the edge of a dream. They hung in the quiet, fragile as spider silk.
"Please… it hurts…"
Her body shifted then, a subtle twist—as if pulling from an invisible grasp, shoulders hunching under the weight of memory's shadow. The futon rustled soft, the straw beneath sighing in protest, but she didn't wake. The dream held her, a veil neither dark nor bright, pulling threads from some deep, forgotten place.
Outside, in the corridor, footsteps hurried—light, quick, the pad of geta on stone muffled by the hour's early chill. A pause, then the shoji slid open with a whisper of wood on track.
"Yelan?" Hui-lan's voice called softly, laced with the quiet concern of someone who'd learned to listen for trouble in the dark.
She stepped inside, lantern in hand, its glow spilling amber across the tatami like spilled tea. The light caught the room's edges—the low table's shadow, the folded robe on its hook—but froze her mid-step.
Yelan lay twisted in her futon, breath shallow and ragged, lips parting as the same words slipped out again, fainter this time, like wind through cracked eaves.
"Release me…"
Hui-lan's face paled, the lantern trembling just enough to dance shadows on the walls. She crossed the room in two quick strides, kneeling beside the futon, her apron brushing the mat. "Mago—mago, wake up," she said urgently, voice steady but threaded with fear. "Yelan, it's me—wake up."
Her hands found Yelan's shoulders, giving a gentle shake—not rough, but firm, like coaxing a bird from a thorn bush.
Yelan gasped, eyes fluttering open—wide at first, unfocused, lashes damp with unshed tears that caught the lantern's light like dew. Her chest rose unevenly, a hand pressing to her throat as if to steady the air caught there. The dream's grip loosened slow, fading like mist under reluctant sun, leaving only the echo of ache in her bones.
"Hnn… Obāsama?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. The room swam back into focus—the tatami's weave, the window's silver edge, Hui-lan's worried face haloed in glow. "What… what happened? You look worried."
Hui-lan exhaled sharply, relief flooding her features like water breaking a dam—her hand lingering on Yelan's shoulder, thumb brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "My child, that's my question," she said, voice trembling just a little, the words catching like thorns in wool. "You were crying in your sleep. Thrashing a bit. I heard it from the hall—thought something was wrong, like the air turning heavy again."
Yelan blinked slow, sitting up with the futon's rustle, drawing her knees close as the dream's fragments scattered—pain's echo, a plea unanswered, faces blurred like ink in rain. Just a dream, she thought, the pull from last night humming faint in her chest, no longer insistent but watchful. "...I was?"
Hui-lan nodded, her round face etched with lines deeper in the lantern's flicker. "You kept saying it—'release me... please... I am in pain.' Over and over, like something had you trapped. I was frightened, mago. The palace has enough shadows without nightmares sneaking in."
Yelan's expression softened then, the tension easing from her brows like clouds parting for moon. She reached out, touching Hui-lan's hand lightly—fingers cool against warm skin. "...I'm fine," she said gently, voice steady now, the dream's ache retreating to memory's far corner. "Nothing will happen to me."
Hui-lan searched her face, eyes sharp as a mother's in the dim—looking for cracks, for hidden hurt. "Are you sure? Dreams like that... they cling sometimes."
"Yes." The word was simple, certain, like a stone skipping smooth across still water.
Still uncertain, Hui-lan smoothed Yelan's hair once more, tucking the stray strand behind her ear with fingers rough from years of linens and trays. "Then rest today. Tomorrow's the function—your first full one, with the lanterns and the consorts' eyes on every curl of smoke. You need to be well, not haunted."
Yelan blinked, surprise flickering soft in her eyes—the first real ripple since waking. "Really? That's fine? I can stay?"
"Yes, mago." Hui-lan rose, gesturing to the small tray she'd set by the futon during the shake. "No arguments. The hall can spare you one morning."
Yelan's gaze fell to the tray, and her eyes lit up—instant, unguarded, like a lantern catching sudden wick. "Sweet dumplings?"she repeated, voice lifting just a touch, the dream's shadow forgotten in the scent of steamed dough and honeyed filling wafting up.
Hui-lan chuckled, the sound warm as hearth bread. "I wasn't sure what you liked—tea for steadying, and these... well, they're a favorite around here for chasing bad nights."
Before Hui-lan could finish, Yelan had already plucked one, the dumpling soft and steaming in her fingers. She took a bite, cheeks puffing slightly as she chewed, a small, delighted hum escaping—eyes half-closing, the simple joy blooming across her face like dawn on a quiet river. For a moment, she was all child: no palace poise, no measured words, just the pure spark of something sweet on the tongue after shadow's bite.
Hui-lan stared, then let out a soft laugh, her hand covering her mouth as fondness crinkled her eyes. "So this is your taste," she murmured, voice tender as fresh dough.
Yelan paused mid-chew, swallowing with a blink. "Hnn? Did you say something?"
"No, no," Hui-lan smiled, waving it off, though her gaze lingered, warm with discovery. "Eat well. And if you don't wish to eat alone... we can share lunch later. Something from the kitchens—nothing fancy."
Yelan's eyes sparkled then, the dumpling forgotten for a beat as she nodded quick, crumbs dusting her lip. "Yes—yes, Obāsama!"
Hui-lan rose fully, smoothing her apron with a satisfied nod. "Then I'll see you at lunch, mago. Rest now—the palace waits for no one, but it can wait for you this once."
Yelan waved faintly from her futon, the motion small but bright. "See you."
As Hui-lan stepped back into the corridor, sliding the door shut with a soft rasp, her expression softened further, the lantern's glow catching the faint lines of a smile that reached deeper than skin. When I first met her, she thought, the memory surfacing like a bubble in still pond, she was wild like a deer in the underbrush, stubborn as a lion cub cornered by hounds... Now she's calm like winter snow on the hills, steady and unmelting. And yet just now, over a simple dumpling, she looked like a tiny kitten—eyes wide, tail twitching at the first taste of cream.
What kind of child are you, Yelan...
Only heaven knew, Hui-lan decided, her steps lightening as she turned toward the preparation hall. The function awaited tomorrow—lanterns to kindle, scents to balance, consorts to serve. But for now, the palace held its breath, and one small room held a moment of quiet joy.
Inside, Yelan finished the dumpling slow, savoring the honey's linger, the dream's ache faded to a dull hum. Ready, she thought again, the pull from night stirring soft, no longer a tug but a companion. She lay back, the futon cradling her like a promise.
The dawn crept closer.
And the palace, in its endless watch, waited too.