Three months had passed since we first entered the inner court.
The palace had not softened its edges, nor had it changed its rules. If anything, the inner court demanded more from us now—not in the weight of tasks, but in the vigilance they required. The walls were smooth, polished, and cold. Footsteps echoed differently here; voices were softer, but every syllable carried judgment. The rooms smelled of incense, dust, and the faintest hint of perfume that belonged to someone higher than I would ever dare to approach.
For weeks, my days had been a blend of back-breaking labor and careful observation. Folding robes that would never be worn by me, polishing screens that reflected faces I was never allowed to look into, carrying water and food trays without spilling a drop. Every movement was watched, every pause measured. It was strenuous work, but subtle lessons lay hidden in the routines. How to move without being noticed, how to anticipate need before a command was given, how to survive without drawing attention.
Many children did not last. Some, exhausted, collapsed on the floor and were quietly removed. Some cried softly in the nights and vanished before dawn. Even here, in the inner court, life was a constant test, and death was only one form of selection among many.
The Head of Selection had returned to observe.
She came quietly, appearing one morning without announcement. A tall woman, eyes sharp and penetrating, with the calm assurance of someone who could weigh a life in seconds. Everyone fell into motion when she arrived: some bowed low, some froze in tense anticipation, and all of us knew better than to move incorrectly. Her gaze passed over the children as though measuring not just what they did, but who they were.
I noticed, as I had for weeks, that her eyes lingered on me slightly longer than on the others. Not with approval, but interest. She watched the way I folded linens, the precision of my movements, the way my shoulders never slumped despite exhaustion. She observed how I moved through the inner court with care—not fear, but deliberate restraint.
This observation was different from the usual scrutiny. It felt like weighing possibilities rather than noting mistakes. She did not speak to me. She did not smile. She did not even nod. But I felt her attention as tangibly as the heat of the sun on my back, and it made my movements sharper, more precise.
Weeks of observation passed. The work remained arduous. I was assigned to carry heavy baskets of water from the wells for the first half of the day, then scrub floors polished so brightly that a careless step could leave fingerprints for all to see. The food we were allowed to eat was still meager, usually a bowl of rice with some dried vegetables, sometimes only once a day if we were slow or careless. I noticed how some children, younger than me, had begun to wither under the relentless pace. Their eyes dimmed, their hands trembled. Some whispered rumors of being sent back to the outer halls—or worse—and the fear in their voices reminded me of the streets where hunger had been a constant companion.
The inner court, I realized, was a world suspended between survival and invisibility.
Then came the day of final observation.
The Head of Selection arrived, moving through the inner court as silently as a shadow. The children who had been selected for permanent placement were gathered. We lined up, our backs straight, our hands folded. The air smelled of polished wood and faint incense, the walls echoing the quiet hum of work from elsewhere in the palace.
Her gaze swept over the group, lingering briefly on each child. Then, slowly, deliberately, she paused on me.
I did not move. I did not breathe differently. But inside, a familiar tightening of anticipation and fear gripped me.
"Yin Yue," she said.
I stepped forward, head bowed. My palms were rough, scarred from months of labor, but my movements were controlled.
"Your diligence has been noted," she said. Her voice was calm, yet every word carried weight. "You will not go to the laundry bureau. You will not go to the stables."
A ripple of surprise ran through me. Laundry bureau and stables were grueling places, where even the strongest could collapse, where some children never returned from exhaustion. The thought of being spared that fate sent a quiet surge of relief through me.
Instead, she said, "You will serve in the Imperial Kitchen."
The words were heavier than they should have been. The Imperial Kitchen was a step up—not easier—but better. Work there was still grueling: carrying heavy pots, preparing meals for dozens of people, enduring heat from open flames that could blister the skin. But it was a better place than the laundry or the stables. It meant more food, better sleeping arrangements, and—most importantly—visibility to the people who truly mattered in the palace hierarchy.
She continued her distribution, sending other children to different departments: some to the outer hall cleaning, some to minor maintenance, some to help with the concubines' linens. Her eyes remained keen, taking in reactions, watching how each of us accepted our fate.
When her gaze returned to me, I bowed lower than usual. "Thank you," I whispered.
She did not answer. She simply turned and walked away. That single moment, however, told me everything: I had been noticed, not only for what I had done but for how I had carried myself. The survival that had kept me alive in the streets and the inner court had earned me a path upward—not a promise of favor, but an opportunity.
The days that followed were exhausting. The Imperial Kitchen was a furnace of heat and noise, full of servants, apprentices, and senior cooks shouting instructions. The work was back-breaking: pounding grains, washing giant pots, chopping vegetables, kneading dough, stirring thick soups over open flames. There was no room for error; one careless action could ruin a meal or provoke a shout, a strike, or dismissal. Yet despite the strain, there was a rhythm I could follow, and slowly I began to understand the order beneath the chaos.
For the first time, I felt a faint sense of pride. Not for being noticed, not for being chosen, but for proving to myself that survival, when guided by deliberate intention, could yield results. Even in this palace that seemed determined to consume us, even in a place where children still died quietly from exhaustion or hunger, I had carved a small space where I might endure—and perhaps, eventually, rise.
Still, I reminded myself constantly: this was not favor. This was observation. The Head of Selection continued to watch, her presence a shadow over every task, her attention sharp and unyielding. I learned to anticipate her return, to perform with calm precision, to speak only when necessary. I was no longer a street child, no longer just a laborer. I was a participant in the palace's careful, unspoken rules—a creature being measured for what she might endure, for how far she could be trusted.
At night, I lay on my mat in the kitchen quarters, the faint smell of herbs and cooked grain lingering in the air. My hands were blistered. My back ached. My shoulders burned. But I closed my eyes and felt something deep and unfamiliar: a sense of control, small as it was, in a place that demanded we be invisible.
I had been noticed. I had been given a path. And I had survived long enough to make it matter.
The palace did not reward innocence. It did not reward hope. It rewarded awareness, endurance, and calculation. I had learned all three.
And in that small, heat-filled kitchen, I made another vow—not of ambition, but of survival: I would endure. I would observe. I would learn. And when the time came, I would step carefully, deliberately, toward whatever place in the palace I could claim for myself without being consumed.