From the perspective of Zhuge Yui Lan
Princess.
It had been so long… so unbearably long since I'd lost that title, that when the word crossed the air for the first time in years, it didn't sound like a voice — it sounded like something shattering.
For a moment, I thought I was imagining it.
Or that it was just a dream.
A good dream.
A dream I didn't want to wake from.
But the voice persisted.
The same insistent, almost pleading voice, repeating: "Princess… Princess…"
I had no choice but to open my eyes.
And what I found wasn't the damp, suffocating darkness of the cave where I'd been trapped for who knows how many days. It wasn't the rough stone walls, nor the stench of moisture pressing from every side like a weight.
No.
What I found before me was a room.
A room that should have existed only in the memories I had buried as deep as possible in my mind.
It was the room of a past that no longer belonged to me.
The room of a life I had erased.
Light curtains hung in layers of translucent green and ivory silk; the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea mingled with the scent of pine incense my maid used to light. The polished spiritual wood floor reflected the morning light that entered through the windows at an angle I knew too well — that precise point where the sun seemed to hesitate before crossing the glass.
Every detail was a blade pulled from the bottom of a sealed chest.
Walls painted with water-flower motifs.
A bamboo screen painted with cranes separating the sleeping space from the dressing area.
The embroidered cushion that always rested at the foot of the bed.
Everything was there.
Exactly as I had left it.
Including her.
Xuer.
My maid.
My silent shadow.
The one who had died along with everyone else I had once called family.
She was there, kneeling beside the bed, hands resting on her lap, her face calm. Her dark brown hair was tied in a simple bun, the jade ribbon I'd given her swaying gently as she moved to call me again.
My first thought was that I was still dreaming.
Perhaps a dream meant to test me.
Calmly, I reached out and touched her face.
The skin beneath my fingers was warm.
Warm — like that of someone alive.
That detail froze me.
Because in my real world, Xuer was dead.
They were all dead.
And yet the warmth under my hand felt too real.
Too real to doubt.
Too real to be just a dream.
My lips parted, but no words came out.
My mind was muddled, heavy — like water trapped behind a dam.
Then, almost unintentionally, my eyes drifted toward the mirror not far from my bed — the same mirror I had placed there myself years ago, after my father told me a childhood story.
It was still in the same place.
And within it… was me.
But not the woman I had become.
Not the spiritual physician respected by countless people, nor the shadow wandering through ruins.
What the mirror reflected was a past — dead and forgotten.
On my face, it was still there — the grotesque black stain that created the most hideous contrast against my pale skin.
The mark I had already removed.
The mark I had hidden.
There.
Present.
Impossible to ignore.
As if the mirror whispered without words:
"You never stopped being that girl."
The moment I saw the mark on my face, certainty struck me like cracking ice.
I wasn't dreaming.
And that certainty didn't come from logic, but from something older than reason — a memory buried deep within me.
All my life, even before I managed to erase that grotesque blemish from my face, my unconscious mind had always refused to accept it.
It was a silent agreement:
in every dream I'd ever had, my skin was flawless, untouched, unmarked.
Never — not once — had that mark appeared in any of my dreams.
Not in childhood.
Not in adulthood.
Not even in nightmares.
But now, before the mirror, it was there.
Black.
Irregular.
Like a shadow spilled over porcelain.
And suddenly, everything else lost its clarity.
The room.
The soft scent of incense.
The warmth of Xuer beneath my hand.
Everything collapsed into a single point:
If this wasn't a dream… then what was it?
My heart beat strangely — too steady for fear, too heavy for calm.
Questions gathered like cold drops against my skin:
Why did everything look so perfectly identical to how it once was?
Why was my maid — dead for so long — standing before me, calm and composed?
Why did the room, long taken from me, appear untouched, as if the years had never passed?
Why did the title that no longer belonged to me slip so easily from Xuer's lips, sweet and natural, as she bent to help me dress — just as she had before the ceremonies?
Nothing made sense.
Nothing.
I could feel the warmth of her hands holding the fabric, the precise touch as she lifted the collar of my robe, the quiet rhythm of her breathing close to my shoulder.
I could feel the texture of the silk against my skin, the light weight of the ornament on my forehead, the faint scent of herbal tea she had prepared.
Every detail screamed reality.
And yet, every detail also whispered:
"This cannot be."
Then the door opened.
Not with a crash — with the soft sound of a brush touching paper.
And someone entered.
A silhouette I knew.
A presence that struck the air from my lungs like a blow to the stomach.
My mother.
A mother who no longer belonged to me.
Who had been torn away when I needed her most.
Her hair fell in soft golden waves, still carrying that pale gleam of sunlight; her blue eyes — so familiar, so unreal — reflected a tenderness I thought had vanished forever. She walked slowly, with the same grace as always, her hands reaching out as if to touch my face.
And in that instant, my mind plunged into utter chaos.
It was her.
It was impossible.
She was warm, alive, and real.
The entire room spun around that moment, and all I could think was:
If this isn't a dream… then what is it?