Yelan sat by the open window, her long dark hair falling loose over her shoulders like ink spilled on midnight silk. Morning light slipped across the tatami floor, pale and tentative, gilding the edges of her futon and the low table where her teacup sat forgotten, steam long gone. The room held the night's hush, cool air stirring faint from the gardens, carrying jasmine's whisper and the crisp bite of dew on stone. But her gaze was distant, fixed on the horizon where the palace walls met the mist-shrouded hills, as if chasing a thread pulled from dreams.
She spoke softly then, voice barely more than breath, words meant for shadows and secrets.
"I know it's hurting you."
Her fingers curled lightly in her lap, knuckles brushing the robe's hem—a small anchor against the pull that hummed in her chest, wordless and old.
"I promised you that night… I will release you. Just give me a little time. I need to make my path smooth first. I'm sorry for letting you suffer."
The air stilled, as if the palace itself leaned in to listen. A faint, sweet night-orchid scent answered her words, drifting gentle through the room—cool, ethereal, like dew-kissed petals under moon, blooming where no light reached.
Yelan's lips curved into a small, tired smile, the kind that held more ache than joy, but warmth all the same. "You're here… comforting me, right?"
The fragrance deepened—soft, patient, a silent embrace weaving through the jasmine and stone.
She tucked her hair behind her shoulders with a slow hand, rising smooth from her kneel, the robe whispering against the mats. "Let's go for a walk," she murmured, more to the scent than the empty room. "Obāsama's back pain is getting worse. Maybe we can find a flower or herb for her."
The scent grew just a little stronger, a affirming curl around her like mist parting for a path.
Yelan smiled then—small, genuine, the dream's shadow lifting like fog under reluctant sun. "So that means yes."
She stepped out in her simple night robe, hair unbound and swaying like willow branches in breeze, following the faint pull of fragrance through the quiet corridors. The palace was waking slow—maids' footsteps padding distant, lanterns guttering low, the air thick with pre-dawn hush. It led her toward an older corner, one few visited: forgotten eaves where vines claimed the stone, paths overgrown with moss that cushioned her geta like velvet.
She slowed as she reached the rare garden, the scent guiding her to a hidden nook where plum trees arched graceful over dew-kissed soil. Petals clung to branches, pink and fragile against the gray dawn, a few drifting down like whispered promises.
"Wow…" she whispered to herself, breath catching soft, eyes widening just a touch—the only crack in her calm. "The plum flowers are so pretty."
Dew gleamed on leaves like scattered pearls, petals resting on dark earth in quiet surrender. The air here was purer, untouched by the hall's resins and oils—a pocket of wild amid the palace's polish. Yelan knelt slow, fingers brushing a fallen bloom, its cool petal soft against her skin. For Obāsama, she thought, the pull humming approval, the orchid scent blooming fuller, wrapping her like an old friend's arm.
Then—another scent crossed the air.
Human.
Warm, subtle—sandalwood and ink, laced with something sharper, like ambition veiled in charm.
Yelan turned, rising fluid, her expression smoothing to serene mask. Breath caught only for a moment—because in her old world, this was someone she'd admired from afar, a figure of grace and hidden depths. But here, in this life woven new, she did not let that show. No flicker of recognition, no widening eyes. Just calm, like a pond undisturbed.
A figure stood a short distance away, half-shadowed by the plum arch—robes of pale blue silk catching the light, fan tucked idle in his sleeve, hair falling just so in calculated disarray.
Her breath evened. She inclined her head gently, the bow perfect—respectful, but not servile. "Good morning, Lord Jinshi."
Jinshi paused, his usual easy smile faltering a fraction, surprise veiled quick behind charm. He stepped forward into the light, the garden's dew glinting on his hem like reluctant jewels. "Good morning."
The silence stretched a beat—comfortable for her, perhaps curious for him—the plum petals drifting lazy between them, the orchid scent curling faint, unnoticed.
After the pause, he asked, voice light but probing, like testing water's depth with a toe. "Don't you have assignments today? The hall's buzzing with rite prep—Maomao's already chasing vapors."
Yelan Hua lowered her gaze modestly, hands folding in her sleeves. "No… Obās—my apologies. Madam Hui-lan said I could rest today. My health was not well after yesterday."
"…Not well?" Jinshi repeated quietly, his fan emerging from his sleeve with a casual flick, though it didn't open. Concern flickered genuine in his eyes—brief, but there, like a lantern catching wind. "The air turning heavy? Or something else? Maomao's remedies are sharp; she could check."
Yelan shook her head once, soft. "It's passed. Rest is enough."
He studied her then—a beat longer than courtesy, his gaze tracing the loose fall of her hair, the simple robe's unadorned lines, the calm that didn't bend under scrutiny. Few wandered this forgotten corner; even fewer did so unbound, hair free as a village girl's. "Not many people wander here. The plum garden's off the main paths—eaves too old for consorts' strolls. May I ask why you're alone?"
Yelan met his eyes steady, her voice gentle but direct—no fluster, no evasion. "I could ask you the same question, Lord Jinshi."
He stilled—just slightly, the fan pausing mid-twirl. Few spoke to him that way—not with deference's veil, but plain as dawn light. A flicker crossed his face—amusement? Intrigue?—gone quick as a plum petal's fall. "You're not wrong," he said after a moment, his smile returning warmer, like sun breaking mist. "I was passing the apothecary office—Maomao's domain, you know. Saw a figure wandering the paths and thought it was her, sniffing out some new oddity. Seems I was mistaken."
Yelan inclined her head again, the motion graceful, unhurried. "It's fine.Sometimes eyes and hearts can be wrong."
Jinshi's laugh was soft, genuine—a sound like silk over stone, rare in its lack of artifice. He stepped closer, just a pace, the plums' scent mingling with his—ink and ambition, veiled in sandalwood. "Bold words for a new face. You're not the usual fluttering type. The palace suits you already, but... you suit it less like a maid, more like a guest who's seen its underbelly."
"You're new here, aren't you?" he added, eyes narrowing playful, though the question held weight. "I haven't seen you in the rare palace walks. Gaoshun-sama's shadow, perhaps?"
Yelan 's expression stayed serene, no blush or dodge. "Yes, my lord. I serve under Gaoshun-sama."
"…I see," he said, the words lingering, his gaze tracing her face like reading a scroll half-unrolled. The orchid scent curled faint around them, unnoticed by him, but deepening for her—a quiet guardian in the dew-damp air.
"…I see," he said. "Then may I ask your name?"
"This humble servant is called Yelan Hua, Lord Jinshi."
Jinshi did not reply at once.
Jinshi turned to leave then, fan flicking open at last, but paused, repeating her name softly, almost to himself—as if tasting it, letting it settle like fine tea. "Yelan Hua."
He walked away, steps light on the mossy path, the plums' petals drifting in his wake like confetti for an uninvited guest.
The garden breathed quietly again, dew gleaming, breeze stirring the branches.
Yelan watched him go, the pull in her chest humming steady, the orchid scent wrapping close. Eyes and hearts,she thought, a small smile touching her lips—tired, but true.The palace whispers to those who listen.
She knelt once more, plucking a bloom for Obāsama's tea, the petal cool in her palm.
The morning unfolded.
And the whispers grew.