Xing Hé stepped out of her room into silence.
Thick. Unfamiliar. The hallway stretched empty—no shuffle of boots, no rustle of robes. Even the air felt stagnant, as though the space itself had forgotten how to breathe.
No guards. No maids.
She sighed.
Two months inactive, and already they'd stopped doing their jobs. There was much she needed to address. If she truly intended to bring an end to all of this, she would have to start with the small things.
Restoring order to her own household.
But that could wait. Right now, she had something more urgent.
She started to call out, then paused. Faint laughter drifted from down the corridor.
She followed the sound.
Opening the door, wine hit her nose. And something else—sharp, metallic, making her skin prickle. Two bloodied guards sprawled on the floor, faces twisted into something that might generously be called smiles.
Fresh liquid flowed across their wounds.
Not red.
Golden.
Golden ichor seeped from torn flesh, and within it—runic words. The liquid pulsed faintly, alive. The symbols shifted, crawled, rearranging themselves like whispered secrets she was not meant to understand.
She remembered texts mentioning divine existences bled differently. This was more than different.
This was language made flesh.
The golden liquid was the same on both guards, yet distinctly unique to each. She could feel faint traces of concept within it—meaning hovering just beyond comprehension. Her mind reached instinctively—
Pain struck.
Something cracked behind her eyes. Agony split through her skull like a blade dragged across bone. Vision blurring, edges darkening. For a terrible moment, she thought her mind might simply unravel.
She bit down hard on her lip until she tasted her blood, failing to notice the color of her blood was golden too, though slightly less. The sting anchored her. She looked away from the golden blood and steadied her breath.
"What is going on here?"
Laughter answered.
Claps from somewhere behind the fallen guards. Maids and servants lingered at the room's edges, murmuring—amused she'd endured rather than collapsed. Some exchanged glances. A few smirked.
She wasn't having it.
"What is going on here?" Louder this time.
They deemed her insignificant because she was weaker. She needed to bring them to order.
"I believe I have a meeting with His Eminence soon."
Dead silence.
Smirks vanished. Murmurs strangled. Even the air grew heavier, pressing down on everyone present.
A guard stepped forward, offering a slight bow. "My lady, welcome back. Congratulations on your complete recovery."
Recovery?
"We have been waiting for you to recover. In the meantime, we decided to keep ourselves occupied." He gestured vaguely. "Since we haven't been properly acquainted, and no stable working order has been established, a bit of... discourse arose. So we created a working arrangement—friendly spars to determine rotations. Tonight's watch has already been decided, as you can see."
He turned toward the guards on the floor, presenting evidence.
Outwardly, respect. But Xing Hé saw through it clearly.
He didn't lower his gaze. Hands loose at his sides—not clasped, not formal. When he gestured toward the fallen guards, it was casual—pointing out spilled tea rather than bloodied comrades. His eyes held no deference. His posture carried not a single trace of genuine regard.
He hadn't even apologized.
The only reason he'd explained was fear of the name she'd invoked. Knowing she held more value than any of them in the eyes of that name, one had volunteered to answer her questions.
Nothing more.
He didn't respect her. None of them did.
But she would earn their trust in time. Not through force. If she resorted to that, she'd be no different from those she stood against.
Patience. Patience and persistence.
"Hmm." She nodded slowly. "Can someone please fetch me Yao Xian?"
Deliberate emphasis on please, voice raised just enough to carry. A small choice. A quiet statement.
She would not command like a tyrant, even if they expected it. Even if it would be easier.
Before anyone could respond, a familiar voice drifted from the back.
"I am here, little Xing Hé."
Soft, unhurried—yet it silenced the remaining whispers instantly. Yao Xian emerged from the shadows, arms folded loosely. Her steps measured, deliberate, each carrying quiet authority Xing Hé could only hope to possess someday.
Her gaze swept over the scene—bloodied guards, scattered servants, lingering tension—before settling on Xing Hé.
She didn't look angry.
She looked disappointed.
---