For the next week, Shen Lian was left untouched. Not ignored—observed.
Servants carried messages slowly when it came to her, then too quickly. Some bowed too deeply. Others watched with too much stillness.
She knew what it meant: the Empress had not merely protected her—she had marked her.
To the other girls, Shen Lian had become untouchable.
And nothing is more dangerous than a girl who cannot be touched.
She found herself summoned to a different part of the palace, deeper than any she had seen before: the Weaving Hall.
Here, silks for the imperial family were dyed and embroidered. Here, mistakes meant waste—and waste meant punishment.
"You will work here," the head artisan said, not kindly. "It teaches humility."
Shen Lian curtsied. "Or silence."
The woman paused, then chuckled darkly. "Perhaps both."
She worked quietly, listening. Threads carried whispers. One servant muttered about a noble's son wounded in the training grounds. Another swore a concubine had gone missing in the garden pools.
All of it was important.
She began storing silk scraps in a hidden pouch. Red for warnings. Blue for lies. White for weakness. A coded ledger of court chaos.
One night, Zhou appeared in the rear courtyard, cloaked in the shadows.
"You haven't been seen," she said.
"I'm not meant to be."
"You bring something?"
He handed her a ribbon.
It was golden, frayed at one end, the emblem of the Inner Guards barely visible.
"A token from the Crown Prince's tent," he whispered. "Someone's framing a guard for something they didn't do."
Shen Lian's fingers tightened.
"Then let's find out who benefits from his fall," she said.
"And give them a better push."