Night settled over the Inner Palace gently, like a silk veil drawn across the first flickers of lantern light. The vast halls and winding corridors didn't plunge into silence—no, the palace never truly slept. It softened. Footsteps along the vermilion paths turned careful, the soft pad of geta on cool stone echoing less, more like whispers than commands. Voices lowered to murmurs that wove through the open shoji screens, carrying fragments of tomorrow's frets: "The jasmine must hold its edge..." or "Consort Gyokuyou will notice if the smoke veils too thick." From distant pavilions, the faint chime of wind bells drifted in on the breeze, their silver tones fading into the warm, inky darkness like echoes of a lullaby half-sung.
Yelan sat cross-legged on the tatami of her small, assigned room, knees drawn loosely beneath the folds of her indigo robe. The space was humble—a low wooden table with faint ink stains from past occupants, a folded futon in the corner that smelled of fresh straw and faint cedar, a single shelf holding a borrowed scroll she hadn't unrolled yet. The paper window stood half-open to the night, letting cool air slip inside on quiet wings, carrying the distant tang of night-blooming jasmine from the outer gardens and the earthy whisper of dew-kissed stone. Moonlight brushed the floor in pale ribbons, silvering the edge of her bedding, the curve of an empty teacup from morning, the quiet lines of her hands resting in her lap.
For the first time since dawn's pull had dragged her into the preparation hall's whirl, she was not moving. No trays to balance, no baskets to space, no air to sift for hidden weights. Just this: the tatami's subtle give under her, the robe's soft weight on her shoulders, the night's hush wrapping around her like a familiar shawl from village days.
She breathed.
In through her nose—cool, laced with jasmine and the faint mineral of palace stone. Out through her mouth—slow, carrying the day's herbal residue, the echo of incense and bruised petals.
The palace had accepted her today. Her measured steps through the maids' bustle, her silence amid their quick chatter, her steadiness when the air grew heavy and heads turned light. It had watched her adjust vases without a word, space the racks without claim, fix what others felt but couldn't name. Gaoshun'-sama nod in the corridor, Maomao's lingering glance, Hui-lan's pat on the hand—they were threads, small but binding. Accepted, she thought, the word blooming warm in her chest, like a lantern kindled in a dim room. But not known. Not fully.
Night was when thoughts returned, though. Not loudly, crashing like waves on the river rocks back home. Just enough—a gentle tug, like a current beneath still water. A faint pull lingered in the air, subtle and wordless, threading through the open window like an unseen silk cord. It didn't frighten her; fear was for storms that broke branches, not breezes that bent them. It didn't rush her with demands or shadows of doubt. It simply existed—like a direction remembered from childhood paths through the mist-shrouded hills, half-forgotten but true, guiding without map or sign.
Soon...
The thought didn't finish itself, trailing off into the moonlight like smoke from a dying brazier. Yelan lifted her gaze to the window, where the silver ribbon danced with the breeze. Outside, the palace stirred in its own hush: a lantern swaying on a distant eave, casting orange flickers on red-tiled roofs that gleamed like embers; the low hum of crickets from the rock gardens, their song a counterpoint to the bells' chime; the occasional creak of ancient wood as the great halls settled under the stars' weight. The Fragrance Function loomed tomorrow—lanterns to bloom in ritual rows, incense to curl in precise patterns under silk canopies, the four consorts gathering like stars in their pavilions: Lady Gyokuyou's gentle caution with her princess in tow, Lady Lihua's stern affection masking fragile health, Lady Loulan's sharp beauty dissecting every blend, Lady Lishu's ambitious flutter hiding sharper edges. Maids would chatter of embroidered sashes and rare attars, MasterJinshi's teasing smiles lighting the braziers, Gaoshun's-sama watchful eyes on the shadows.
But here, in this breath, it was distant. A promise, not a pressure. The pull hummed softer, like a string tuned just shy of song.
A soft knock came at the shoji door—gentle, like a leaf tapping glass in the wind.
"Yelan ?" Hui-lan's voice called, warm and familiar, muffled by the thin paper screen.
"Yes, Obāsama," Yelan replied, unfolding her legs smooth as river silk to kneel properly, hands smoothing her robe.
The door slid open with a whisper of wood on track, spilling warm lantern light into the room like honey poured slow from a comb. Hui-lan stepped in, her round face softened by the glow, carrying a small wooden tray balanced easy on one arm like it was an extension of her thoughts. The scent preceded her: steamed rice fluffy and plain, its grains still warm from the kitchens; simmered vegetables with a whisper of ginger's bite, earthy and grounding; and tea that breathed herbal comfort—chamomile and mint, soothing without overwhelming, steam curling up in lazy spirals.
"I thought you might still be awake," Hui-lan said, setting the tray down on the low table with a soft clink of porcelain. She knelt opposite Yelan , smoothing her apron with hands roughened by years of linens and trays, but gentle in their motions. "You've been working hard all day—no breaks, no fuss. Even Maomao noticed, and that's no small thing in this place."
Yelan shoulders loosened a fraction at the words, the simple kindness settling like the tea's steam weaving through the moonlight. "Thank you,"she said softly, her voice a thread in the quiet room—no more, no less. Gratitude didn't need embroidery.
Hui-lan arranged the bowls with familiar ease—rice in plain lacquer that held the warmth, vegetables in a chipped dish worn smooth by countless shared meals, tea poured steaming into two mismatched cups that clinked like old friends. They ate in companionable silence for a moment, the clack of chopsticks on porcelain the only counterpoint to the night's hush. The rice stuck gently to the tongue, comforting in its plainness; the vegetables crunched crisp-tender, ginger sparking a quiet fire on the back of the throat; the tea warmed from lips to belly, chasing away the night's cool edge with its minty hush.
After a few bites, Hui-lan set her bowl down, her gaze drifting to the open window where moonlight played silver on the sill, mingling with the lantern's orange spill. "The palace is restless tonight," she said, voice low and confiding, like sharing a secret with the dark. "Everyone's turning it over in their heads—the function, the blends, the consorts' eyes on every curl of smoke. Gyokuyou-sama's maids are fussing over the princess's sensitivities, Lihua-sama's pavilion sent word of her lingering weakness... even Loulan's sharp tongue is previewing critiques, and Lishu's pacing like the attars hold state secrets."
Yelan nodded once, swallowing a sip of tea that lingered herbal on her tongue. "I can feel it."
Hui-lan glanced at her, curiosity lighting her eyes like the lantern's glow, warm without prying. "Feel it? Like the maids' whispers carrying down the halls?"
"The air,"Yelan said gently, her words measured, gaze on the steam rising faint from her cup. "It's busy. Full of... waiting."
Hui-lan let out a soft huff of a laugh, affectionate and without edge, leaning back on her hands as the tatami creaked faint under her. "You really are an unusual child. Most new girls would be tangled in worries over sashes or which consort's tray they draw—Gyokuyou's warmth or Loulan's edge. You? You listen to the air like it's an old friend telling tales." She paused, her smile fading to something deeper, more searching, the lantern light carving gentle lines on her laughter-etched face. "Does it ever... weigh on you? All this—the palace's pull, the function's shadow?"
Yelan considered the question, chopsticks hovering over her bowl, the room's quiet holding her thoughts like a cupped hand. Weigh?The word tasted heavy, like wet earth after rain. The palace was vast, yes—corridors like endless rivers, scents like secrets layered deep—but it didn't crush. It flowed, tugged, invited. The faint pull from earlier hummed in response, wordless but present, like a lantern's glow calling from a garden path. "No," she said at last, honest as the night's breath. "I feel... ready."
Hui-lan's brows lifted, surprise mingling with that maternal fondness, her hand pausing mid-reach for her tea. "Ready? For the lanterns and the rites? Or... something else?"
Yelan looked down at her hands then, callused palms catching the mingled light—moon-silver and lantern-gold—like faint maps of village paths etched in skin. The pull stirred again, soft as a breeze through reeds, direction without destination. "I'm not sure."
Hui-lan reached across the table, her hand covering Yelan's gently—rough from years of wrangling linens and trays, but warm, steady as an old oak. "That's alright, dear. You don't have to map every path on the first night. You're safe here—with me watching your rounds, Gaoshun-sama keeping the shadows at bay. The palace... it tests, it turns, but it keeps those who bend with it, not against."
Yelan chest eased at the touch, the words—a small bloom of warmth unfurling amid the night's cool. Safe. The pull in the air softened, just a little, like a lantern dimmed to ember-glow, no longer tugging but accompanying. She turned her hand palm-up, letting Hui-lan's rest there a beat longer, light as shared breath, then released with a quiet nod. "Thank you."
They finished the meal in that easy quiet, the tea's herbal notes lingering on the tongue like a promise of untroubled sleep. Hui-lan rose eventually, gathering the tray with a soft clatter of bowls, her movements unhurried. "Sleep soon, hm? Tomorrow's lanterns won't light themselves, and the consorts won't wait." She paused at the door, sliding it half-shut behind her, lantern light spilling one last golden pool on the tatami. "And Yelan .... you're doing well. Hold that close."
The door whispered closed, leaving the room to moonlight and silence once more.
Yelan knelt there a while longer, the futon calling from the corner like an old friend. Ready, she thought again, the word settling deeper, roots finding looser soil. For the function's bloom?For the palace's hidden currents? Or for that pull, faint but true, like a path opening underfoot in the dark?
Outside, lanterns flickered to life one by one along the corridors—small flames dancing in paper globes, preparing for a day that had not yet arrived. Their light spilled orange pools on the winding paths, chasing shadows from the eaves, illuminating the red-tiled roofs in warm halos that reached even to her window, mingling silver and gold on the sill.
And Yelan , in her quiet room, sat held between warmth and waiting—unseen by the palace's grand eyes and gilded halls, but already known to it, in the way old stones know the rain that shapes them, drop by patient drop.
She unfolded her bedding then, the straw rustling soft under her hands. Lay down, the futon yielding like a sigh. Breathed the night air deep, jasmine and stone and distant bells.
Soon...
The thought faded with her eyes closing, the pull a gentle lullaby in the dark—warm, waiting, woven into dreams.