My hands shake over the inkstone.
"Ready?" Xiao Mei says, voice thin.
"Ready," I answer.
They lead me to the small room with calligraphy brushes and stacked scrolls.
A maid closes the door behind me.
Light from the lattice slices the floor.
I sit at a low table.
My wrist aches where I bit it.
The antidote hums at my tongue.
"Do it," the Consort's eunuch orders through the door. "Show us skill."
I dip the brush.
Ink drinks the bristles.
My hand finds the stroke from another life.
It comes like muscle memory, a blade I can still hold.
Pain spikes in my temple as the memory claws through.
I breathe into the rhythm of the line.
"Lower," Xiao Mei whispers. "Breathe."
I pull the brush.
The first stroke lands like a footstep.
The paper drinks black like a mouth.
The room smells of ink and boiled lotus.
Part of me flips through a memory book—another hand shaping a character, another voice praising.
Three breaths.
I steady the brush again.
"Keep the wrist," the maiden trainer snaps.
"I know," I say.
I nod once, slowly.
Short.
My fingers tremble.
The brush moves.
A feather of black unfurls across silk.
I paint slowly, each stroke a debt paid.
A sharp flash punctures my head.
A hand squeezes my neck—memories of being loved and strangled jump raw.
I flare.
I do not break the line.
"She hesitates," the trainer murmurs.
"Hesitation is a flaw," the Consort says, outside, voice smooth and certain.
"Enough talk," the eunuch says. "Finish."
I work the stain on the scroll.
The phoenix shape grows, wing by wing.
My wrist hurts, a hot wire.
I taste iron at the back of my throat.
A thought, short: Hold.
"Li Mingyue," the Consort says, stepping into the doorway.
Her robe whispers.
She studies my hand, then the scroll.
"More grace," she orders, faint smile.
"Grace," I echo.
The brush sweeps, a thin arc forms.
Ink pools like a small shadow.
"Good," the Consort allows, soft. "Keep it precise."
Sweat dots my hairline.
The memory pushes—someone's praise, someone pressing a hand to my cheek, then a knife.
I do not let the flash slow the brush.
I make the phoenix's eye with one tiny motion.
The room holds its breath.
"It looks like...a phoenix," a maid whispers.
"A phoenix?" another repeats.
"She restored what is damaged," Xiao Mei says under her breath.
The Consort steps closer.
Her fingers ghost near the scroll but do not touch.
"Impressive," she says, not a compliment.
"Thank you," I say, head low.
"Why does she work like an artisan?" the trainer asks.
"Because she learned craft," someone mutters.
The Consort smooths her sleeve and watches my palm.
She says, 'She is not only clumsy.'
"Then what?" the eunuch asks.
"She is a layered thing," the Consort answers. "Keep an eye."
My heart hammers in a narrow rhythm.
I finish the final stroke.
The phoenix lifts, black wings trimmed with careful white.
The stain is no longer a wound; it is a picture.
Gasps move through the room like quick wind.
"Well done," the Consort says aloud.
"Penitence accepted," the eunuch repeats.
I fold the brush with slow hands.
My fingers shake.
"Rest," the trainer orders.
"Rest," Xiao Mei echoes as she guides me out.
They escort me past corridors that smell of camphor and old paper.
Guards glance but do not stop us.
A folded note slips into my palm as we pass the archives door.
Xiao Mei tucks it away like a coin.
"What is it?" I whisper.
"A summons," she says. "To the minor archive. The Emperor requested a copyist."
"An honor or a trap?" I ask.
"Either," she says. "But it gets you out of the inner rooms for hours."
"Hours," I repeat, tasting the word.
Shock away.
"Are you well?" the clerk asks, not unkindly.
"Fine," I say.
I nod once, slowly.
Short.
I force my hand to keep copying.
Numbers crawl across the page.
Every line is monotone, a march of names.
The symbol sits in the margin.
"Careful with that folio," the clerk warns. "It is brittle."
I turn a page and my breath catches.
In the margin of a ledger, a tiny symbol crouches—like a mark someone scratched for a ledger they kept in secret.
My hand freezes.
The symbol is wrong in a way that hits like cold iron.
I touch the paper.
The ink is faded but deliberate.
The symbol is the same as the one I remember from the altar in a memory that is not mine but also is.
Blink.
I tell myself.
Shock away.
"Are you well?" the clerk asks, not unkindly.
"Fine," I say.
I nod once, slowly.
Short.
I force my hand to keep copying.
Numbers crawl across the page.
Every line is monotone, a march of names.
The symbol sits in the margin like a nail.
Another clerk leans over.
"Find something interesting?" he asks, curiosity more hunger.
"Nothing," I lie. "Just the old counts."
He nods and goes back to his ink.
My fingers tremble but continue to copy.
The symbol repeats on another page.
My breath stops.
Someone catalogs the empire.
Someone tags things with that sigil.
The sigil is a record of more than taxes.
It is a pattern.
"Who keeps this ledger?" I whisper to myself.
"No one will tell you," the paper seems to answer.
I fold the copied folio and hide the original in plain view, replacing it with my careful copy.
My palms sweat.
Xiao Mei watches from the doorway, eyes bright.
"Did you see it?" she mouths.
"Yes," I whisper back. "We need proof."
"Proof?" she mouths again.
I wrap the copy in oiled cloth and slide it into a seam of my robe.
The paper cools against my skin.
The word 'why' hammers in my bones.
Footsteps approach.
A eunuch appears at the door, face like smooth stone.
"Consort Li requests your presence," he says. "Prepare to show your hand."
The blood drains slow from my cheeks.
"Hand?" I echo.
"Her fans," he says. "Display; the Prince Merchant will attend."
"Prince Merchant."
The name tastes like mercury.
"They will watch you," the eunuch warns, neutral.
I fold my hands once, slow.
"Very well," I say.
"Go," he orders.
I stand, copy hidden.
My joints note the night's work.
I step toward the door and the next move in a game I didn't want to play.
Outside, the corridor keeps its breath.
Tonight, everything leans toward a trap.
The corridor smells of lacquer and spice.
Footsteps rap closer.
Lantern light spills gold.
The Prince Merchant arrives with slow steps.
Silk skirt, travel-worn boots.
He bows once to the Consort.
"Consort," he says. "Your grace."
"Prince," she replies, smile tight. "Your trade routes prosper?" she asks.
"They do," he answers. "And they bring news."
He looks at the assembled girls.
His gaze lands on me and lingers like a question.
"You saved the scroll," he says, casual.
"Yes," I answer, voice small.
He studies the phoenix.
"A clever hand," he offers. "Skill sells."
"Words are cheap," the Consort snaps.
"They are," the Prince agrees. "But skill buys influence."
He steps closer, too close.
"Who taught you?" he asks, not soft.
"Silk shops," I say, flat.
He snorts softly.
"Silk shops teach many things," he says.
"Not all true," I counter.
A servant brushes past and drops something in my sleeve—quick, practiced.
I feel a cold coin against my palm.
I keep my face steady.
The Prince tips his chin to the Consort.
"Play for my audience this evening," he suggests. "I travel with men who like art."
The Consort agrees with one slow nod.
"Bring the favored girls," she says. "Let them sing their tongues and show their hands."
The Prince smiles and leaves as if he owns the air.
The servant who dropped the coin moves away into the crowd, face unreadable.
I open my palm under the table.
The coin bears a faint symbol pressed into the metal.
My breath snags.
The symbol is small and crooked—the same mark from the ledger, the altar.
Xiao Mei's hand hovers over mine.
"Where did you get that?" she whispers, eyes wide.
"A gift," I reply, voice clipped.
"From whom?" she asks.
"From luck," I say.
She does not buy it.
She stares at the coin as if it might burn.
The Consort watches us both with a thin smile.
"Prepare yourselves for the evening," she says. "And Li Mingyue—do not disappoint."
"Yes," everyone says, voices lacquered.
They file out, leaving a hush like a curtain.
I press the coin to my breast.
It is heavier than it should be.
The symbol digs under my skin.
Outside, lanterns blink like patient eyes.
Footsteps fade.
The coin sits on my palm, cold and real.
Someone inside the empire writes this sign into ledgers, into altars, into coins.
Someone marks things—or people.
My mouth goes dry.
Xiao Mei catches my eye.
"We are marked," she breathes.
"Marked," I repeat.
The door clicks shut behind the last guard.
The ink in my veins cools.
The copy under my robe scratches like a hidden insect.
I fold my hand over the coin.
The last thing I hear is the Consort's fan closing—soft, certain.
Tonight the archives hold a secret.
Tonight the coin holds a promise.
And tonight, the ledger's margin waits for a hand to trace it again.