The banquet hall of Fang Manor glowed with the flicker of a hundred lanterns, their light dancing on silk tapestries and the polished lacquer of low tables. Shen Mei Hua sat at the edge of the gathering, her hands folded in the wide sleeves of her indigo robe, a plum blossom hairpin glinting in her coiled hair. The air was thick with the scent of osmanthus wine and the murmur of her husband's family, their voices sharp as knives.
"Mei Hua, dear, have more tea," said Madam Fang, her smile as brittle as porcelain. The matriarch's crimson robe shimmered, her eyes cold despite the warmth of her words. Beside her, Fang Lihua, Mei Hua's sister-in-law, smirked, her fan fluttering like a venomous moth.
Mei Hua lifted the jade cup, her fingers trembling. She had tried so hard to please them—reciting poetry, serving tea with grace—but their disdain was a weight she could not lift. They want the best for me, she told herself, clinging to the hope her father had instilled. They are family.
The tea burned her throat, bitter and strange. Her vision blurred, the lanterns smearing into streaks of gold. She gasped, clutching the table, her jade pendant—the key to the treasure room—slipping from her sash. Lihua's laugh cut through the haze.
"Too simple, too weak," Lihua whispered, leaning close. "You were never worthy of my brother."
Mei Hua's heart pounded, betrayal dawning too late. She reached for the pendant, her father's last gift, but Madam Fang's foot pinned it to the floor. "The map will be ours," the matriarch hissed. "And you, a forgotten mistake."
The world darkened. Mei Hua's last thought was of her father, standing sentinel at the border, believing her safe. As her body crumpled in the cold pavilion, a silent vow burned in her fading soul: I will return.