The dream came again.
Not of the dagger.
Not of the wedding.
Of a child.
Small. Barefoot. Standing in a garden of black lotuses.
He called my name — not "Xiyue," but the name I had as a girl: "Sister… don't go."
And when I turned, his face was gone.
Only a mask of ash remained.
I woke with my hand clenched.
Dawn had not yet broken.
The room was cold.
Outside, the world was still wrapped in silence.
But I was not alone.
I felt it before I saw it — the faintest pressure on the floorboards near the door.
A breath held too long.
A shadow that didn't belong.
I didn't move.
Didn't open my eyes.
Just listened.
Then — the scrape of a heel.
A retreat.
Gone.
I sat up slowly.
The door was closed.
No mark.
No sound.
But the air carried a scent.
Camphor and iron.
The same oil used in the training hall.
The same oil my younger brother, Lin Tao, rubbed into his hands every morning before practice.
I stared at the door.
Not with fear.
With recognition.
Because last night, I had hidden the Book of Ash beneath a loose floorboard.
No one knew.
No one could know.
Unless they had been watching.
Unless they had been waiting.
Unless they had always been.
Lin Tao was seventeen.
Young.
Strong.
The pride of the Lin family's next generation.
He had reached Qi Condensation Level 4 at thirteen — a minor prodigy.
He trained daily with the sect's visiting masters.
He smiled easily.
Laughed loudly.
Called me "Second Sister" with a warmth that used to make my chest ache.
In my past life, he had died at sixteen — caught in a sect war, crushed by a collapsing tower.
I hadn't known him well.
But I had mourned him.
Now?
Now I wasn't sure if I should mourn —
or kill him first.
Because blood does not prove loyalty.
And kindness can be the sharpest lie.
I found him in the training yard at sunrise.
Sword in hand.
Sweat on his brow.
Swinging with precision — too much precision.
Each strike ended with a flick of the wrist, like a signal.
I watched from the veranda.
He didn't see me.
Or he pretended not to.
After his final form, he wiped his face, then turned — not toward the barracks, but toward Elder Mo's study.
They spoke in low voices.
Too far to hear.
But I didn't need to.
I saw the way Tao bowed — not deeply, not respectfully.
Just enough.
Like a servant acknowledging a master.
And I saw the way Elder Mo placed a hand on his shoulder.
Not a fatherly touch.
A handler's grip.
Then Tao looked up.
And for a heartbeat —
his eyes met mine.
No warmth.
No brotherly affection.
Just calculation.
Like I was a lock.
And he was waiting for the right key.
I smiled.
And walked away.
Because the worst betrayals don't come with screams.
They come with silence.
With a shared meal.
With a hand on your shoulder.
And I would not make the mistake of underestimating him.
Not again.
That afternoon, I tested him.
I didn't confront.
I didn't accuse.
I invited.
"Brother," I said, bowing slightly as he passed, "I've prepared tea. Would you… join me?"
His eyes flickered.
Surprise.
Then caution.
"You?" he said, voice light, mocking. "You burn boiled water."
"I've been practicing," I said, smiling. "For you."
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Five minutes. I have training."
I led him to the small pavilion by the koi pond — a place of peace, of family.
I poured the tea with steady hands.
One cup for him.
One for me.
But I didn't drink.
I watched.
He picked up the cup.
Sniffed.
Then set it down.
"You're nervous," he said. "Why?"
"Because you're the only one who's ever been kind to me," I said, voice soft.
"And I'm afraid… that one day, you'll stop."
He stared at me.
Then laughed — short, sharp.
"Sentimental. Weak. Just like always."
He picked up the cup again.
Brought it to his lips.
I held my breath.
Then — he set it down.
"You think I'm a fool?" he said, standing. "You think I don't know what you are?"
My heart didn't race.
My hands didn't tremble.
I just looked up.
And said, "What am I?"
He leaned in.
Close enough to smell the camphor on his skin.
Close enough to kill him with a needle in the throat.
"You're her," he whispered.
"The one they erase.
The one who returns.
The one who burns."
He smiled.
"And I've been trained to kill you before you remember."
Then he left.
The tea sat untouched.
I picked up his cup.
Sniffed.
No poison.
No trap.
He hadn't drunk because he suspected me.
He hadn't drunk because he knew.
And he didn't need to taste the tea.
Because the test wasn't for me.
It was for him.
And I had failed.
He wanted me to poison him.
So he could expose me.
So he could be the hero who stopped the Poison Queen.
But I hadn't played his game.
And that…
had made him afraid.
That night, I dreamed of the child again.
But this time, the mask of ash fell away.
It was Lin Tao.
And he said, "You were never my sister.
You were the disease.
And I am the cure."
I woke with tears on my face.
Not from sorrow.
From rage.
Because now I understood.
This wasn't just about me.
It wasn't just about rebirth or revenge.
The Lin family had been complicit for generations.
They weren't just erasing the Poison Queen.
They were raising hunters to kill her.
And Lin Tao wasn't my brother.
He was my warden.
I went to the library again at midnight.
Not to read.
To prepare.
I took a small vial from my sleeve — Dew of the Silent Tongue, refined further.
Now, it didn't paralyze.
It delayed.
One drop, and the victim wouldn't feel the effects for three days.
I dipped a needle into it.
Then, using a scrap of cloth, I stitched a tiny pouch — no bigger than a fingernail.
Inside, I placed a single seed: Black Thorn Blossom — a plant that blooms only in poisoned soil.
Harmless.
But if crushed near the nose, it releases a scent that triggers violent memories.
A truth serum, of sorts.
Then I sewed the pouch into the hem of Tao's favorite training robe — the one he wore every morning.
I didn't do it to hurt him.
I did it to test him.
Because if he was just a pawn, he'd ignore it.
If he was a hunter, he'd find it.
If he was still human…
he might feel something when the scent hit.
And I needed to know.
Not for mercy.
For strategy.
Three days passed.
Tao avoided me.
Elder Mo increased his training.
Whispers grew louder — The Weak One is cursed. She poisons with a glance.
Then, on the fourth morning, I saw it.
Tao ripped the hem of his robe during practice.
He frowned.
Pulled at the thread.
And then — he froze.
In his fingers: the tiny pouch.
He stared at it.
Then crushed it.
The scent bloomed — faint, like rotting lilies.
He staggered.
His sword fell.
And for a moment — just a moment — his face changed.
Not with rage.
Not with fear.
With grief.
His lips moved.
No sound.
But I read them.
"Sister… I'm sorry."
Then his eyes hardened.
He burned the pouch with a spark of Qi.
Looked straight at me.
And smiled.
Cold.
Empty.
Final.
The moment had passed.
The hunter had won.
But I had seen it.
The human beneath the mask.
And that…
was more dangerous than any victory.
Because now, I didn't just want to destroy him.
I wanted to save him.
And that was the most foolish thing a Poison Queen could ever feel.
Author Note:
They say blood is thicker than water.
But poison is thicker than blood.
And sometimes, the ones who raise the knife
were once the ones who held your hand in the dark.
— Gopalakrishna