The Palace did not reveal its cruelty all at once.
Instead, it wore Xin Ying down gently, day by day.
Her mornings began before the sky brightened. A wooden clapper echoed through the servants' quarters, sharp and unyielding. She rose with the others, folding her thin bedding neatly before lining up in silence.
There was no breakfast—only warm water and instructions.
Xin Ying was assigned to the eastern corridors that week. The work was repetitive but demanding: polishing stone floors until they reflected the ceiling beams, carrying bundles of clean robes, wiping dust from pillars that seemed untouched by time.
Her arms ached constantly.
Her hands were rough, skin splitting beneath her nails.
Still, she endured.
She learned quickly which routes were watched, which corners were quiet, where one could breathe for a moment longer without punishment. She memorized the rhythm of the Palace as she once memorized lesson plans.
Observe. Adapt. Survive.
By the third day, someone spoke to her.
"You're new, aren't you?"
Xin Ying glanced sideways. The girl beside her was sweeping carefully, her movements practiced. She looked about Xin Ying's age, her eyes bright despite the exhaustion.
"My name is Yun Qiao," the girl whispered. "You work neatly."
Xin Ying hesitated, then nodded. "Xin Ying."
Yun Qiao smiled. "Stay close to me. The overseers favor quiet efficiency."
From then on, they worked side by side when possible.
Yun Qiao knew the Palace well. She spoke softly while they scrubbed steps or folded linens, her words blending with the sound of work.
"The inner halls are off-limits unless summoned," she explained. "And never look directly at nobles unless permitted."
Xin Ying listened carefully.
"And the Empress?" she asked quietly.
Yun Qiao's movements slowed.
"She is… different," she said after a moment. "Cold, they say. Distant. But fair. She has ruled longer than anyone expected."
Xin Ying lowered her gaze.
So she exists behind these walls, she thought. Waiting.
At night, the servants returned to their quarters, exhausted bodies sinking onto thin bedding. Whispers filled the darkness.
Xin Ying learned more than that during the day.
"The Wang Clan visited again last month."
"They say Lord Wang Tianhua donates grain every winter."
"Too kind for politics."
"The Li Clan controls the northern armies."
"I heard their leader is a woman."
"A general who bows only to the Empress."
"And the Zhang Clan?"
"Loyalists. Always loyalists."
Someone scoffed softly.
"And the Ling Clan?" another voice murmured.
Silence followed.
"They want the throne," someone finally said. "Everyone knows it."
Xin Ying stared at the ceiling beams, the words settling deep in her chest.
So the currents are already moving, she thought. Even before I matter.
Days passed.
Xin Ying became used to the weight of her robes, the scent of incense drifting through halls, the echo of footsteps that never truly stopped. She learned which bells signaled meetings, which banners marked forbidden zones.
She also learned kindness still existed.
An older servant slipped her extra water once.
Yun Qiao shared dried fruit, smiling conspiratorially.
"These walls don't swallow everyone," Yun Qiao whispered one night. "Some survive."
Xin Ying smiled faintly.
I intend to do more than survive.
Sometimes, as she worked near the inner courtyard, she caught glimpses.
A noble passing behind screens.
Guards straightening suddenly.
Once—only once—she felt the air change. The courtyard stilled. Every servant lowered their head instinctively.
A presence moved through the space like winter.
Xin Ying did not look up.
But she knew.
The Empress.
That night, she could not sleep.
She thought of the novel's ending. Of blood on marble. Of a scream echoing through halls.
She pressed her hand to her chest.
Not yet, she told herself. This story isn't ready to turn.
Outside, lanterns swayed gently in the wind.
The Palace remained vast and silent.
And Xin Ying continued to work—quietly learning the shape of her fate.
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