The village was dead before I found it.
Not burned.
Not raided.
Just…
abandoned.
No bodies.
No blood.
No signs of struggle.
Just food left on tables.
Toys in the dust.
A single swing swaying in the wind.
And in the center of the square —
a girl.
Kneeling.
Grinding herbs in a stone mortar.
Her hands were cracked, bleeding, stained black at the fingertips.
Each time the pestle struck, the air thickened — not with scent,
but with weight.
Like the world was holding its breath.
I knew that formula.
Not from books.
Not from memory.
From her.
The Dew of the Silent Tongue.
A poison that doesn't kill.
It erases.
One drop — and the victim forgets the last hour.
Two — the last day.
Three — their own name.
Only one woman ever mastered it.
And I buried her with my own hands.
So when I saw this girl —
not flinching, not trembling, but perfectly grinding the sequence,
as if she'd done it a thousand times —
I didn't ask her name.
I asked:
"Who taught you this?"
She didn't look up.
Her voice was flat.
Like someone reciting a dream.
"No one.
I just…
remember."
I stepped closer.
The scent hit me —
not just the herbs.
Underneath:
Jasmine. Iron. Ash.
The same scent that clung to her robes after the wedding.
After the betrayal.
After the death.
Impossible.
But the proof was in the girl's hands.
And in the way she whispered the next line of the formula —
a variation only the Poison Queen ever used.
I pulled my cloak around her.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't test her.
Just said:
"You're coming with me."
She finally looked up.
Her eyes were dark.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
Just…
haunted.
"Why?"
I met her gaze.
"Because if I leave you here,
someone will come to burn you.
And I've already buried one girl who didn't deserve it."
That night, she dreamed.
I heard her from the next room —
not screaming.
Whispering.
Repeating the same words, over and over:
"You were always too dangerous to live."
"You were always too dangerous to live."
"You were always too dangerous to live."
I froze.
That was the last thing she heard —
the words Prince Wei whispered as he drove the dagger into her spine.
No record.
No book.
No witness.
Only the dead knew.
And now, this girl.
At dawn, I checked her hands.
The black stains were gone.
But on her right palm —
a fresh wound.
A scar, still weeping, shaped like a star.
I closed her fingers.
And made a vow — not to the gods,
not to the sect,
but to the ghost I could still feel watching from the edge of the world.
"I'll teach you what she knew.
But I'll also teach you this:
If you're not her…
don't become her."
I looked at the star-shaped wound.
"Because the world can't survive another woman who remembers how to die."
Author Note:
They say history repeats.
But what if it's not repeating?
What if it's just waiting for the right hands to finish the job?
— Elder Lian'er