Yelan's room lay wrapped in night's hush. The far end of the maids' wing, where corridors narrowed and lantern light thinned to whispers of gold. Her space was spare: a futon unrolled on the tatami mat, its thin blanket folded neat at one end. A low wooden chest held her few things—herbs in small pouches, a worn comb, the silk scarf from distant markets. The single lamp on the wall burned low, flame steady but faint, casting long shadows that pooled like ink across the floor. Air cool and still, laced with the dry tang of mint from her pouch and the faint, sweet pull of jasmine drifting through the cracked lattice window. Outside, the palace gardens slept under the moon, leaves rustling soft like held breaths.
Yelan sat on the floor beside her futon. Legs folded under her, gray robe pooling loose around her hips. She leaned forward slightly, right hand extended on a clean cloth laid over her knee. The bandage from earlier hung undone, linen damp and spotted red. Blood had welled slow during the rush to the apothecary—old burn reopening, skin splitting like dry earth under too much strain. She dipped a fresh piece of cloth into a shallow bowl of water at her side. Cool liquid soaked through fast. She wrung it out deliberate, drops pattering back into the bowl like quiet rain. Then pressed it to the wound. Gentle at first. Steady pressure. The sting bloomed sharp—hot threads pulling under her skin. But her mind did not stay there. It drifted. Farther. To silver lines frozen under pale flesh. To a scent that clung like frost on glass.
The cloth in her hand vibrated the wound then again. Warmth seeped back into her palm, chasing the chill she had pulled from Xiao Mei. But Yelan's dark brown eyes stared unfocused at the floor. Shadows danced faint from the lamp. Her thoughts turned inward, soft but insistent. The silver lines. The scent. Is this really you?The words formed silent, heavy in her chest.If yes… then I won't let them do this with you.A pull deep inside. Like thread tugged from afar. The poison had been sweet. Empty. Northern cold woven into something alive. But beneath it… that other trace. Faint. Floral. Trapped. She had felt it stronger today. Closer. As if it reached for her through the air itself.
But how? Her brows creased just a little. The damp cloth cooled now against her skin. She lifted it away. Water trailed thin down her wrist, mixing with dried blood in faint pink lines. The burn looked clearer under the lamp's glow—red center fading to angry pink, edges pale and puckered. Okay. She exhaled slow. Reached for the small jar on the chest. Aloe paste inside. Lid unscrewed easy, cool clay under her fingers. She scooped a dollop with her left hand—thick, green-tinged, smelling sharp and earthy like crushed leaves after storm. Spread it over the wound in slow circles. The balm sank in cool. Soothed the throb. But her mind wandered again while she worked. How do I know who? How to find him—or her? I don't even know if it's male or female. Just… the wrongness. The binding. Thoughts tangled. The palace held too many shadows. Too many hands that slipped vials into sleeves. Too many eyes that watched without blinking.
She set the jar aside. Took a clean strip of linen from her pouch. White cloth soft, edges frayed from use. Wrapped it around her palm. Tight. Firmer than needed. Her fingers pressed the knot hard—almost angry. The salve squished beneath. A spark flared in her chest. I haven't thought how powerful she could be. People in and out… they're misusing it. Using her. The words burned silent. How piece of shit are they?Her grip tightened. Linen bit into skin. The burn pulsed once, sharp reminder. But she did not loosen it. Let it hold. Let it mark the resolve.
Then suddenly, her eyes turned to her shoulder. A pull there. New. Unseen until now. She shifted her robe's sleeve down slow. Cool air touched bare skin. What the hell is this now? Bluish bruise bloomed faint across her collarbone—irregular edges, like a handprint pressed too hard. But dotted with silver flecks. Tiny. Sharp. Like frost pricks on glass. They stung when she breathed. Alive. Yelan reached up. Fingers hovering. Then touched it light. Ouch. Pain lanced quick—hot needle through cool flesh. She pulled back. Stared. When did I get this new mark? Did it form earlier? Her mind raced back. The apothecary rush. Towels steaming. Herbs grinding under Maomao's pestle. Xiao Mei's weak sigh as color returned. Before that—the corridor run, bandage spotting red. The festival yesterday? No. Nothing fit. No fall. No brush against thorns. Just… the healing. The pull.
And then again, the scent. It rose faint in the room. Not from the air. From inside. Floral. Deep. Like night petals crushed under stone. You again. Yelan whispered it aloud this time. Voice barely breath. Her hand fell from her shoulder. Back to her lap. The bandaged palm throbbed in rhythm with the bruise.I know what happened today. You said I would get equal pain from things I do. And I got the same pain from Xiao Mei's. But…
A whisper answered. Not sound. Not voice. Something softer. Like wind through sealed roots.But from where did you get this bruise on your shoulder, right?
Yelan nodded to the empty room. Slow. "Yes. Right. I was thinking the same." Her words stayed low. Intimate. As if the shadows listened close.
The whisper stirred again. Warmer now. Closer. I told you. You will feel half the pain from the things your smelling ability is used for.
"Yes." Her eyes closed brief. Memory flashed—the first time it spoke. Fifteen days ago. The certainty settling like dew. The purpose. The cost.
But I haven't told you one more thing.
Yelan's breath caught. "What?"
The whisper unfolded slow. Like petals in dark. Each time you use your ability to heal or help… you will get a cut. A bruise. A burn mark. It depends on the thing you're using it for. According to that, your scar would be given.
She did not say anything. Just listened. The words sank in deep. The silver-dotted bruise on her shoulder pulsed. Echo of the chill she had drawn out. Northern ice made manifest. Half-pain. Mark left behind. Her fingers traced the bandage on her hand absently. The old burn from the festival—oil and fire. Now this. New. For Xiao Mei. For the scent she chased.
And then Yelan's voice came. Steady. Quiet fire beneath. "Even if it's pain or scar… I won't take my steps back. If I feel this pain, then how much? Or from how many years has she been suffering it?"
The whisper paused. Like breath held.I think it can be related to her.
"Yes." Yelan's eyes opened. Fixed on the lamp flame. "I was thinking the same. But from whe—"
Before finishing her words, a knock came from her door. Soft. Careful. But clear in the hush. Wood tapping wood. Once. Twice.
Yelan stilled. The scent faded. The whisper gone. Her shoulder stung sharper now. A warning. Or a promise. She rose slow. Robe falling smooth. Hand pressing the new bruise through cloth. Who at this hour? The palace slept. Or should.
She stepped to the screen. Heart steady. But mind alert. Scents already shifting in the air beyond.