Five months had passed since I had settled into the Imperial Kitchen.
By now, my hands moved without thought, my body carried the rhythm of labor like second skin. I still washed heavy pots and scrubbed cauldrons, but my main duty had shifted. The Head Chef had begun assigning me simple side dishes—vegetables, mild broths, lightly seasoned accompaniments. They were not challenging, but they were noticed. A small upgrade, a subtle acknowledgment.
It should have been a quiet day.
I carefully prepared a steamed vegetable dish, measuring each ingredient, tasting subtly, and making sure the presentation was precise. Once done, the dish was handed to the kitchen runner—a girl named Lin, small and efficient, who moved the food silently to the dining hall.
Everything seemed as it should.
But by the time the dish reached the concubine, it had been altered. Something had changed. The flavors were wrong, the texture off. The concubine's pride did not tolerate even minor mistakes, and her displeasure traveled swiftly—not by her own presence, but through a servant sent to the Head Chef.
"Who prepared this?" the servant demanded.
"I… I did," I said immediately, though my voice trembled slightly.
The Head Chef did not argue. The punishment was set. Twenty lashes. Each stroke landed with the weight of consequence, burning, bruising, leaving a memory etched into muscle and bone.
I remained silent through it all, breathing, enduring, holding my composure. The fire in the kitchen outside could not compare to the ache running through me, the sting of humiliation, the sharp realization that punishment was about appearances as much as fault.
And then I looked up.
Mei.
Her face was pale but controlled. Her eyes met mine, wide with the realization that I had been blamed for her tampering. I had not known it before, had not suspected. But now I understood. Her satisfaction, her hidden smirk during the moment of chaos, the subtle way she lingered near the plates—I saw it all in a flash.
My anger did not flare. It cooled and settled, sharp and deliberate.
I healed as the days passed, but the memory of that glance stayed. I watched Mei carefully, noting her every movement, her routes, her small gestures. And I waited.
The next time Mei was assigned a side dish, I prepared mine as usual. But quietly, subtly, I added a small ingredient—one that would not kill, but would constrict, irritate, and disrupt. I watched carefully, ensuring that my addition would not be detected by the Head Chef, who moved too swiftly to notice subtleties in seasoning.
The dish was delivered. The concubine, proud and imperious as always, took a taste.
She coughed, her airway constricting unexpectedly. A servant rushed to her side. The kitchen erupted in chaos. The incident was more than a mistake. It was nearly treated as treason—an assault on authority itself.
And Mei?
Her face went pale the instant the concubine's condition became clear. The Head Chef immediately summoned her, questioning, observing. Mei's betrayal had been revealed.
The concubine, insulted and affronted, did not come herself. She did not need to. Her command through the servant was enough. "The guilty must be punished. Severely."
Mei was dragged forward by the palace guards. Her eyes flicked to mine, and I met them without a word. My lips curved into a deliberate, tedious smile—not cruelty, not mockery, only cold acknowledgment of what had been set in motion. She understood in that moment that her fate had been sealed not just by punishment but by the inevitability of her actions.
The sentence was death by flogging. The concubine's authority demanded it. In the eyes of the inner court, her pride, her position, and her perception of absolute control were not negotiable. And Mei, who had tampered with authority itself, would pay.
I did not feel victory. Not really.
I felt survival. I felt clarity. I understood the truth of the palace: power was measured by control, by patience, and by the ability to act decisively without hesitation. Innocence, fairness, or mercy did not matter. Only results mattered.
When Mei was dragged away, her screams echoing down the stone corridors, I stayed at my station. My hands returned to the dough, the knives, the steaming cauldrons. I moved carefully, deliberately, as if nothing had happened.
But everything had happened.
I had acted. I had observed. I had survived.
The palace was watching, as always.
And I had learned that watching alone was never enough. Sometimes, to survive, one had to shape events themselves.