By the fifth day, my body had learned the palace's rhythm better than my mind had. I woke before the attendants' call, my muscles already tight, my palms already aching in expectation. Hunger no longer startled me; it waited patiently, like a shadow that followed no matter how fast I moved.
Work began before the sun reached the inner roofs. We were split into groups this time, no longer treated as one mass of children. The palace had started to sort us. I noticed it immediately. Sorting meant value. Value meant survival—or removal.
I was assigned to the storerooms near the eastern corridor, where silks, incense, and ceremonial objects were kept. The work there was quieter but more exacting. Dusting had to be done with a particular cloth, movements precise, breathing controlled so as not to disturb stacked scrolls or fragile porcelain. Mistakes here were not loud, but they were costly.
The girls beside me worked with trembling hands. One knocked a small box from a shelf. It did not break, but the sound echoed too sharply in the narrow room. The attendant's gaze snapped toward her like a blade.
She was struck—not hard, but enough to send a message. Precision was demanded here, not strength.
I adjusted my movements accordingly. Slower. Calmer. Invisible.
In the palace, I was learning, there were many kinds of labor. The heavy work broke bodies quickly. The careful work broke minds instead. One mistake here could not be blamed on weakness—it was called carelessness, disrespect, or disobedience.
By midday, sweat dampened my collar despite the cool stone floors. I had counted my breaths, my steps, my glances. The attendants moved differently depending on where we were. Near the inner quarters, their eyes sharpened, their voices lowered. Near the outer halls, they shouted more freely. Power, I realized, changed how cruelty was delivered.
During a brief pause, I saw a girl from the water-carrying group collapse near the courtyard edge. She did not cry out. She simply sank, as if her bones had decided to stop holding her. Two eunuchs approached, exchanged a glance, and lifted her away. No one asked where she was taken. We all knew enough not to ask.
Death in the palace was quiet. It did not announce itself. It slipped in between tasks, between breaths, between one day and the next.
The boys were worked harder that afternoon. I saw them hauling large bronze vessels, their faces tight with fear and effort. They moved quickly, too quickly, as if speed alone might protect them. One stumbled. The vessel tipped, clanged against the stone.
Silence fell.
The eunuch overseeing them stepped forward. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The boy was pulled aside. We were ordered to look away.
But I did not fully turn my head. I watched just enough to understand. Punishment here was not always immediate. Sometimes it was delayed, calculated, and final.
Later, one of the older girls whispered what everyone already feared. Boys who failed too often did not return as boys. They returned changed—or not at all. The palace did not need men in its inner halls. It needed tools.
That night, as we ate our small portions of rice, I noticed something else: not all bowls were equal. Some girls received slightly more. Some were given an extra ladle of broth. No explanation was offered. Favor, I realized, was already being distributed.
Favor did not come from kindness. It came from usefulness.
I began to pay closer attention. Who was spoken to softly. Who was corrected instead of struck. Who was moved from heavy labor to indoor tasks. The palace was shaping us, yes—but we were also being weighed.
The next days confirmed it. Work continued, relentless, but subtle distinctions grew clearer. Those who learned quickly, who obeyed without appearing dull, who endured without breaking too visibly—those were kept closer. Those who cried, complained, or grew slow disappeared.
I learned to let my exhaustion show just enough to seem human. I learned to lower my gaze without shrinking. I learned when to speak and, more importantly, when silence carried more weight than words.
One afternoon, while sorting linens, an attendant paused beside me. She watched my hands for a long moment.
"You're quick," she said.
Not praise. Not yet. A test.
"I try," I answered, keeping my voice even, my eyes lowered.
She moved on. But she remembered me. I knew she would.
That night, I thought of the streets. Of how hunger had taught me which market stalls were watched and which were forgotten. How danger had taught me which men to avoid and which could be approached safely. The palace was larger, colder, more structured—but the lessons were the same.
Survival was never accidental.
By the end of the week, my body felt older than it was. My hands bore small cuts. My knees ached constantly. But my mind had sharpened. I no longer saw the palace as a single monster. It was many parts—attendants, eunuchs, concubines unseen but present in whispers, rules that shifted depending on who enforced them.
Power here was layered. And layers could be climbed.
One evening, as we bathed quickly under watchful eyes, a girl beside me whispered, "Do you think any of us will leave this place?"
I did not answer immediately. Leaving was not the right question.
"I think," I said slowly, "some will stop being seen."
She fell silent.
That night, lying on my mat, I listened to the palace breathe. The distant steps. The rustle of silk somewhere far above us. The low murmur of voices that belonged to people we were not allowed to look at yet.
I understood then that this place did not reward innocence. It rewarded awareness.
The streets had taught me how to survive.
The palace was teaching me how to endure.
And somewhere between the two, I felt something new forming—not hope, not ambition exactly, but direction.
I did not know what role I would play here. I did not yet know how high one could rise from a place like this. But I knew one thing with clarity that settled deep in my bones:
I would not let the palace decide my worth without my consent.
Tomorrow, the work would continue. The sorting would continue. The weak would fall away.
And I would keep watching.
Learning.
Waiting.
Because in a place built on power, even a child could become dangerous—if she learned where to stand.