Life did not pause after the night in Cangluan Garden.
The palace did not shudder, nor did it turn its immense, indifferent gaze toward Yin Yue. Dawn arrived as it always did, announced by the low clang of the morning bell that rolled through stone corridors and courtyards like a tired breath. Servants stirred from thin mats, feet touched cold floors, and the quiet machinery of palace life resumed its endless turning.
Yin Yue woke before the second bell.
Her body had learned to do so without effort. Hunger no longer clawed at her stomach as it once had, but habit remained. She washed her face with water drawn the night before, its chill sharp enough to clear lingering sleep. Her hair was bound neatly, her clothes smoothed by hand. She checked herself once—only once—in the polished bronze basin, then turned away.
She did not linger over her reflection anymore.
Outside, the sky was pale and colorless, neither night nor day. The residence of Consort Yan Zhen loomed quietly, its tiled roofs dark against the lightening horizon. Lanterns still burned along the corridors, their flames wavering gently in the breeze.
Yin Yue took up her broom and began her work.
Sweeping was never simply sweeping. She had learned that early. The stone floors had to be cleared in a certain order, dust pushed toward corners where it could be gathered without spreading again. Leaves had to be removed before the concubine rose, water marks wiped before they dried. Every motion had a rhythm, and deviation was noticed.
She worked silently, aware of the other servants moving around her—soft footsteps, whispered instructions, the rustle of fabric. No one spoke to her unless necessary, and she did not seek conversation. It was not avoidance so much as instinct. Words could linger. Silence passed unnoticed.
After the corridors came the outer gardens.
The garden beds near Hóng Yè Táng were not ornamental in the way the central gardens were. They existed to frame the residence, to soften its lines and provide pleasant views from the windows. Yin Yue knelt in the damp earth, fingers loosening soil around roots, trimming dying leaves, pulling weeds before they could spread.
The work was steady and familiar.
She liked that.
Plants responded honestly. If they were watered, they lived. If they were neglected, they wilted. There was no hidden intent, no shifting hierarchy. The simplicity was grounding.
As she worked, she listened.
Not for gossip—she had learned better—but for patterns. Which servants moved quickly and which dragged their feet. Which senior attendants inspected thoroughly and which only glanced. Which hours were busiest and which allowed for a breath of ease.
Knowledge, she had learned, was not power.
But it was protection.
By midday, her arms ached faintly, a dull warmth rather than pain. She welcomed it. It meant she was fed, that her body could afford the sensation. Meals were simple—rice, vegetables, occasionally thin broth—but they were regular. That alone set this life apart from the years she had spent on the streets.
Sometimes, as she chewed slowly, she caught herself marveling at that.
Regular meals.
A place to sleep.
Work that did not require stealing or running.
The thought made her cautious rather than grateful.
Nothing in the palace was given freely.
In the afternoons, her duties shifted to the residence floors. She wiped railings, polished low tables, carried water where it was needed. Senior servants passed her without acknowledgment, their attention focused on matters far above her station. Consort Yan Zhen herself was never present in these moments. The concubine moved through different halls, attended by her chosen servants, her world sealed off from those who maintained its edges.
That distance was intentional.
Yin Yue understood it instinctively. To acknowledge servants was to lower oneself. Consort Yan Zhen had no reason to do that.
And Yin Yue had no desire to be acknowledged.
The days slipped by in this way, each similar to the last yet subtly distinct. A chipped cup replaced. A new plant brought in. A servant reprimanded sharply for a missed spot on the floor. Nothing dramatic. Nothing kind.
At night, when work ended, Yin Yue returned to the servants' quarters with aching legs and a quiet mind. She washed, ate, and lay down among others whose breathing soon filled the room.
Sleep came more easily than it once had.
But not without thought.
She did not think often of the Emperor.
Not in the way she once might have imagined a ruler—distant, mythic, unreachable. Now, when the memory surfaced, it was brief and contained: moonlight on water, a calm voice, a command spoken without cruelty.
It did not inspire longing.
It inspired caution.
That night had not elevated her.
It had clarified her place.
She understood now that the palace was not a place where moments were seized boldly. It was a place where moments waited patiently, watching for mistakes. Those who reached too eagerly were noticed—and removed.
Yin Yue resolved not to reach.
Instead, she refined herself quietly.
She learned to regulate her expressions, to soften her gaze, to make her presence smaller. When praised for diligence, she bowed and said nothing more. When corrected, she accepted it without defense. Her movements became efficient, her posture unremarkable.
She became, in the eyes of the residence, reliable.
Invisible.
Weeks passed.
The seasons shifted almost imperceptibly. The air warmed, then cooled again. Flowers bloomed and faded in the garden beds she tended. Yin Yue noticed these changes more than she noticed people. Nature, at least, did not pretend.
Occasionally, she overheard fragments of conversation—whispers about imperial summons, murmurs about other residences, hints of rivalries she could not yet understand. She did not linger near such talk. Knowledge without context was dangerous.
Instead, she focused on her work.
On endurance.
On remaining exactly where she was meant to be.
One evening, as lanterns were being lit and shadows stretched long across the courtyard, Yin Yue paused briefly with her broom in hand. The residence looked serene in the soft glow, its carved pillars and tiled roofs bathed in warm light.
It almost looked peaceful.
She knew better.
Peace in the palace was not absence of danger—it was simply danger waiting.
She finished her task and turned back inside, steps quiet, posture composed. No one stopped her. No one called her name.
That was success.
Later that night, lying on her mat, she listened to the breathing of the other servants. Some murmured in their sleep. Others lay awake, staring into darkness. Yin Yue closed her eyes slowly, deliberately.
I am here, she thought—not with pride, not with despair, but with acceptance.
For now, that was enough.
The palace continued to breathe around her, vast and indifferent.
And within it, Yin Yue endured—carefully, quietly, learning how to exist without leaving a trace.