The festival flowed on as if nothing had happened, the bright current of music and laughter washing away the brief shadow by the bridge. Lanterns were lit one by one as the sun dipped lower, turning the palace gardens into a sea of soft golden glow. Guests moved toward the central pavilion where the poetry contest would soon begin—long silk scrolls unfurled on low tables, brushes and ink ready for those who wished to write.
Yelan had slipped away quietly after the incident, her left hand tucked deep inside her wide sleeve. She found refuge in the outer kitchens, a place usually busy but now half-empty as most cooks and maids watched the contest. She sat on a low stool near the back door, pretending to rest while she carefully rolled back the damp silk.
The skin on her hand and forearm had begun to redden—small angry patches spreading slowly, like ink dropped in water. Tiny blisters rose where the drops had landed most heavily. The burn was steady now, a hot pulse that made her bite the inside of her cheek.
She stared at it, thoughts racing.
Poison meant for him. Not strong enough to kill, perhaps—just to scar. To ruin that perfect face the court loves so much.
Her fingers trembled, not from pain alone.
Someone hates him enough to strike in daylight, hidden among festival smiles.
Her mission was meant for something else but now it felt farther away than ever. She had come to this world chasing whispers of a something that could free her, yet now she had taken a wound meant for another.
Not yet, she told herself firmly. It's not time to hide and heal. Not when there might be a clue—some trace of who sent that servant or where she might be hidden .
She pressed a cool damp cloth to her skin for only a moment, then rolled the sleeve down again. The pain would stay hidden. She stood, smoothed her moon-white gown, and walked back into the light.
The poetry contest had just begun.
Higher maids from each palace household stepped forward one by one, offering verses written on colored paper. The four consorts' palaces presented first.
Lady Gyokuyou's maid read a gentle poem of jade leaves and quiet rivers—elegant, soothing, earning warm applause.
Lady Lihua's maid offered lines of pearlescent dew and hidden longing—delicate, romantic.
Lady Ah-Duo's maid spoke of mountain strength and enduring storms—strong, proud.
Lady Lishu's young attendant, voice trembling, read of shy orchids blooming in secret—sweet and earnest.
Then Maomao stepped up for the apothecary office, plain green robe among all the finery. She unrolled her scroll with no ceremony.
"Herbs grow bitter to heal the sweet, Thorns guard the petal from careless feet. Medicine hides in poison's skin— Drink deep, and life begins again."
Short, sharp, almost rude in its plainness. A few nobles blinked, unsure whether to clap. But the consorts smiled—Lady Gyokuyou loudest—and applause followed, polite turning genuine.
One by one, the households finished.
A cheerful official near the front laughed. "Every palace has shared its verse! Yet we have heard nothing from the side of our famous Lord Jinshi—Gaoshun-sama's domain. Will the Master of the Inner Palace grace us with poetry today?"
Laughter rippled. All eyes turned to Jinshi and Gaoshun at the edge of the pavilion.
Gaoshun-sama bowed slightly, about to speak—likely a polite refusal or apology.
Before he could, Yelan stepped forward from the small cluster of attendants behind him. Her voice was soft but clear enough to carry.
"This humble servant works under Gaoshun-sama's direction," she said, bowing deeply. "I am new and not qualified to speak for such a great house. Please forgive my boldness… but I have written something small."
A murmur rose—surprise, curiosity. Heads turned. Jinshi's eyes found her instantly, violet and unreadable.
The official smiled indulgently. "Let the maid speak! The festival welcomes every voice."
Yelan unrolled a narrow strip of pale paper. Her left hand stayed hidden in her sleeve as she read, voice steady as moonlight.
"Pale bloom opens only in dark, No sun to force its silver spark. Guarding secrets none may claim, It waits for one who knows its name. Touch too soon—the thorn will bite; Wait too long—lost to endless night."
Silence fell for a heartbeat.
Then applause—stronger than any before. Nobles whispered in awe.
"Beautiful!"
"Like a fairy tale!"
Lady Gyokuyou clapped warmly. "Such mystery in simple words."
But three people heard more.
Maomao's eyes narrowed sharply—night bloom… thorn… waiting for one who knows its name. A hint. A message.
Gaoshun's face remained calm, but his fingers tightened at his side. The same lines echoed the legends he had heard Yelan ask about.
Jinshi felt it deepest—a quiet shock. The poem spoke straight to the moonlit girl he remembered, to something dangerous waiting in darkness. And she had spoken it under his own banner.
His gaze stayed on her as she bowed and stepped back, white silk shimmering.
The contest ended soon after. Lanterns glowed brighter; the festival's final hour arrived—the exchange of parting gifts.
Guests moved in graceful streams, offering small tokens.
Jinshi, as host, presented gifts to those closest to the inner court. He approached Maomao with a small lacquered box.
"For the apothecary who keeps us all breathing clearly," he said lightly, smile warm and teasing—the same smile that made hearts flutter across the palace.
Maomao accepted it with her usual dry nod. "Probably more work disguised as kindness."
Inside was a rare set of silver acupuncture needles—beautiful, precise, exactly what she would value.
Yelan watched from a few steps away, face calm. A small ache stirred in her chest—not sharp, just quiet. She turned away, letting the moment pass.
Moments later, young men approached her—sons of officials, minor lords, even a shy scholar. Festival custom allowed boldness.
One offered a carved jade hairpin shaped like a lotus.
Another, a silk pouch of dried osmanthus petals.
A third, a tiny painted fan with moonflowers on pale background.
She accepted each with gentle thanks and low bows, voice soft. "You honor me too much."
The gifts were small, sincere, drawn by her quiet beauty and that haunting poem.
Jinshi saw it all.
From across the lantern-lit space, his eyes followed every bow, every smile she gave. Something tightened in his expression—not spoken, not shown. Only Gaoshun, standing beside him, noticed the faint clench of his master's fingers around his sleeve.
Yelan felt the weight of that gaze but did not meet it.
The lanterns burned steady.
Music played its final soft notes.
Guests began to drift toward the gates, carrying their gifts and memories into the night.
The festival was ending.
But the words of a pale bloom waiting in darkness lingered in the air like unspoken promises.
And two pairs of eyes—one violet, one quiet gray—carried the same silent question into the coming night.