Eight months had passed since Yin Yue's reassignment, and the Imperial Kitchen had become a place her body no longer fought against.
She moved through it with the ease of familiarity—between flour-dusted tables, simmering vats, and ovens whose temper she understood by sound alone. Her labor was no longer measured by brute endurance, but by precision.
Each day unfolded with quiet discipline, her tasks divided carefully between her assignments.
Mornings were for pastries.
She kneaded dough until it softened beneath her palms, folded fillings with deliberate restraint, and watched sugar melt into clarity rather than burn into bitterness. By midday, she rotated to her second duty—assisting Senior Chef Liang, whose domain was sauces.
Sauce-making required patience more than speed. Yin Yue ground spices, skimmed broths, and tended reductions beneath Liang's supervision. Over time, her responsibilities grew.
She was allowed to finish sauces on her own. Then, quietly, she was entrusted with a few sauce-based side dishes—small, controlled tasks that carried weight beyond their size.
It was not a promotion.
It was expectation.
She no longer scrubbed pots or hauled water. The ache that once lived in her shoulders faded. Proper food restored her slowly—softening the sharp edges hunger had carved into her youth. Her calves rounded faintly, her strength returned without excess. She was still slender, still restrained, but no longer fragile.
Yet for all that had changed, one truth remained unchanged.
The kitchen was still a ceiling.
She had seen women grow old here—skilled, indispensable, and utterly replaceable. The Imperial Kitchen did not elevate people. It consumed them.
Her thoughts began drifting beyond smoke and fire.
Serving under a concubine was dangerous. Inner court favor was fickle, and servants paid for their mistress's displeasure as often as for their own mistakes. But it was also the only path that led away from endless labor.
And now, the inner court stirred.
The name spoken more often than usual that season was Consort Yan Zhen.
She was the emperor's most favored consort at present—proud, assured, and conscious of her position. To show off her power at this season Consort Yan Zhen requested more servants as a way of telling them she was growing.
Her residence had expanded. Ceremonial duties increased. Her household required reinforcement, and when such a woman asked, the palace listened.
Requests began filtering through the Imperial Kitchen—not excessive, not frantic, but deliberate. Certain pastries were requested again. Certain sauces returned empty.
Yin Yue noticed without reacting.
She refined quietly.
She balanced sweetness so it lingered rather than overwhelmed, layered sauces so flavors unfolded slowly. Nothing ostentatious. Nothing bold.
Only dishes that invited return.
Head Chef Huai had overseen the Imperial Kitchen long enough to recognize when circumstance aligned with opportunity.
He noticed the pastries first.
Then the sauces.
Not because they dazzled—but because they endured scrutiny. Consistency was rarer than brilliance, and far more valuable.
Tracing the work back led him to Yin Yue.
He remembered her clearly—thin, silent, eyes too steady for a girl who had nothing. Reassigning her months ago had not been strategic. It had been instinctive. Even now, he did not understand why he had done it.
Yet he found himself watching her more closely than others.
She assisted two chefs without complaint. She absorbed instruction and returned it refined. Her red hair—rare, unmistakable—was always tied back neatly. Nourishment had softened her frame, but restraint still defined her.
She was not striking.
But she endured.
When word reached him that Consort Yan Zhen required additional servants for her residence, Huai felt an unexpected certainty settle in his chest.
The kitchen would keep Yin Yue alive.
But it would also bury her.
"She would be better off out of here," he thought quietly.
Not because she was ambitious.
But because she was careful.
He waited a week.
Observed.
Ensured there were no cracks, no signs of impatience or hunger for notice.
Then he spoke to the eunuch overseeing servant assignments—briefly, carefully.
"There is a girl in my kitchen," he said. "Disciplined. Trained. No attachments."
"A cook?" the eunuch asked.
"A servant," Huai corrected. "But she understands restraint."
Nothing more was said.
One week later, Yin Yue was summoned.
Not by name shouted across the kitchen, but by the eunuch in charge assistant , who appeared beside her station and spoke quietly.
"Follow me."
She wiped her hands, lowered her head, and obeyed.
Three other girls were already waiting—faces drawn tight with uncertainty. They did not speak to one another.
The eunuch in charge of assignments arrived shortly after.
His voice was calm, detached.
"You four have been selected," he said, unrolling a narrow scroll, "for reassignment to Consort Yan Zhen's residence."
No congratulations followed.
No explanation.
Only instruction.
Yin Yue bowed with the others, her expression unchanged. Inside, something shifted—not hope, not relief, but readiness.
She did not know what awaited her.
She only knew she was leaving the kitchen.
And that was enough