Metallic wine slides down my throat.
My stomach screams.
Burn.
Hot and fast.
The room tilts.
Lights smear.
Laughter hits like stones.
"Sweet dreams," the Consort purrs, close and soft.
Her lips are calm.
Her eyes are a knife.
Someone clinks a cup nearby.
Mocking.
My fingers go slick.
My vision spiders, dots marching.
Air thick.
Sweat beads at my hairline.
I taste metal and old coins.
I don't have time.
"Is she pale?" a voice asks.
"Too pale," another answers.
"Give her water," a eunuch says, voice clipped.
"Not yet," the Consort smiles. "Let her sleep."
"No," I snap, words jagged.
My tongue stumbles.
My jaw fights to close.
The world slams into slow motion.
I grab for the cup — empty.
It's empty.
My hand finds cloth.
I pull.
It burns my palm dry.
A white flash slams my eyes like a broken mirror.
For one beat I am nowhere and everywhere.
Seven endings bloom in flashes, quick as knives.
Spear.
Dagger.
Ice water.
Abandonment with doors shut.
A bag over a mouth.
A grave, dirt soft and waiting.
A cage latch snapping.
"No," I croak. "No. Not again."
"Again?" the Consort tilts her head, amused. "You play at riddles now?"
Her smile glows.
Predatory.
"Who taught you to choke on your wine?" a minister laughs.
"Some people never learn," the Consort says.
I tear at my sleeve.
My pulse rockets under the skin.
Pinprick.
A tiny bite at the wrist.
Blood beads like a slow alarm.
I watch it bead and worry it into a different rhythm.
The world slows again.
Poison bites, then waits.
"Is that supposed to help?" the eunuch sneers.
"Old tricks," I whisper, fingers trembling. "Belladonna."
"Belladonna?" the Consort purrs, curious. "How quaint."
"It buys time," I gasp. "Not much."
"Time," she echoes, tasting the word. "What will you do with your time, little moth?"
Her hand lifts.
A fan snaps open with a sharp sound.
Perfect performative cruelty.
My chest clenches.
My lungs burn with each pull.
Vision slices into white edges.
I see the cup in her hand — full.
I see the cup on the table — empty.
I see the Prince Merchant lean against a pillar, expression closed.
"Prince?" the Consort asks, soft.
He doesn't answer.
He never answers.
His mouth is a line.
His fingers curl around a scroll.
My knees wobble.
My teeth chatter like loose mortar.
My throat works.
I need a move.
Instinct slaps me.
My fingers search my wrist again, desperate.
I press.
Pain blooms.
The belladonna snarls slower.
A laugh erupts in the corner — high and bright.
Someone claps.
"You're theatrics," a woman hisses. "Fake fainting. Cheap trick."
"She'll die before the moon sets," another mutters.
"Let her go," the Prince finally says, voice low.
Silence tilts the room like a blade.
"Let her go?" the Consort repeats, amused. "That's generous."
The eunuch-chief steps forward, chains jingling.
"Take her," he orders, voice used to command.
Hands catch me — not gentle.
They haul me up like a sack, wrists bending.
A collar clips for show, not for need.
I bite back a scream.
My legs fail and then find something stubborn.
I kick once.
A eunuch curses and stumbles.
"Careful," the Consort warns. "You bruise my entertainment."
They shoulder me.
Air leaves my lungs with every step.
I count nothing.
Numbers fall away.
I feel a stranger's palm on my thigh — searching.
I wrench away with a kick, teeth set.
"She bites," someone snickers.
"Such spirit," the Prince finally says, casual. "Curious."
We move down a corridor.
Torches gutter.
Shadows crawl like hands along the stone.
My vision blinks fragments of white between black.
I store those flashes like quarrels.
"What's your name?" a eunuch asks, pointless.
"Li Mingyue," I spit, voice raw.
"A pretty name," the Consort says, mock pity. "For a broken thing."
My lungs scream for air.
Breath is wet with the metallic aftertaste.
My stomach folds like paper.
I press the wound harder.
It burns less.
The belladonna hiccups inside me.
"Stop the theatrics," another voice grinds. "We have orders."
"Orders?" I manage. "From whom?"
They don't answer.
Someone hums.
A servant's whistle.
The corridor opens to a chamber for 'rest'.
A bed waits, sheets stiff with starch.
They drop me like refuse across linen.
The eunuch-chief folds his hands.
"She will not leave."
"Make sure," the Consort says, soft and satisfied.
They leave with bells in their steps.
The door shuts with a solid thunk.
I curl like a thread in a needle's eye.
The room smells of camphor and citrus.
Silence is thick and full of teeth.
I am not alone.
A shadow leans from the doorway — the Prince.
He doesn't enter.
He watches.
"You used belladonna," he says.
"You saw them serve me," I rasp.
"I watch," he says. "I watch more than you know."
"Why watch? Stop it," I spit.
He studies my wrist.
"It buys minutes. Not mercy."
"Then help me," I demand.
He considers like an account.
"I buy time. Tonight you leave. Riverside. A fisherman. Between watches. Trust no one inside."
"Why?" I ask.
"Curiosity," he says. "And profit. Both keep me alive."
"Fine," I snap. "Keep your promises."
He bows once.
"I will be outside. Go quiet. Go when the guards change."
The door clicks.
Torches hiss.
The belladonna tugs.
"Wake," a voice says from black.
"Wake."
"Remember," it says.
"Break the cycle," another voice finishes.
My hands shake as they leave.
The belladonna claws.
Sleep nibbles the edges.
I press my palm to the bruise in my wrist.
One breath.
Two.
The world tilts.
"Wake," the voice says inside the black again.
"Wake," it repeats.
My chest jerks.
I cough, lungs scraping.
The linen tastes of dust and fear.
My hand finds the hem of my gown and clamps.
The room breathes with me, slow and careful.
The Prince steps back, eyes narrow.
"You hear voices," he says, not a question.
"I hear what I need," I whisper, words like nails.
He pats the door once, a faint sound.
"I will be outside," he says. "If you go, I'll not be far."
"Promises are heavy," I mutter.
"Promises are tools," he replies.
"Then use yours," I tell him.
He bows, brief and formal.
"Don't be seen leaving," he says. "Do it between the watch changes."
"Between the watch changes," I repeat.
"And—" he adds, "Trust no one inside."
"No one," I say.
He leaves.
The door sighs shut.
I lie back, the belladonna still hissing.
I count the beats in my head like a slow metronome.
One.
Two.
Three.
The seven endings flare again, faster now.
Spear.
Dagger.
Water.
Abandonment.
Bag.
Grave.
Cage.
I taste each like a promise.
I don't have the luxury of reflection.
I have survival.
I slip from the bed with a careful motion pain forces me to use.
A sound.
A creak.
The linen whispers.
My legs burn with every inch.
My hand crawls along the floor to the door.
It is latched.
I strip the latch with shaking fingers.
Silence holds its breath.
I push the door.
Air stabs my face.
The corridor yawns empty and quiet.
Torches dip.
I move like someone folding into shadow.
Each step is a universe of effort.
Outside, the night blooms like a closed fist.
Guards walk like slow machines.
The courtyard is a field of soft moonlight and hard stone.
My breath makes small clouds.
I move toward the outer wall.
My body is a map of protest.
Every inch hurts.
Every breath chews fiber.
I taste metal and the ghost of the Consort's perfume.
A voice in the dark.
"Stop."
Hands close over my shoulders.
"Who—" I start.
"Quiet," a low voice says.
A hand clamps my mouth.
Familiar pressure.
Leather.
A merchant's knot.
"Move," the voice orders.
It's the Prince.
He hauls me under the shadow of a cart stacked high.
My heart hammers like a caged animal.
I try not to scream.
"You're reckless," he hisses.
"I'm alive," I whisper.
"Alive is messy," he says. "I'm cleaning."
He produces a small jar — tincture and bitter.
He pours a drop into my mouth.
Bitter slips past the belladonna.
I cough.
"It won't cure," he says, voice flat. "It slows."
"Then hurry," I rasp.
He nods.
"Now."
We move again, slink across stone and shadow.
Guards pass within arm's reach.
One glances our way and looks away.
Luck feels like a blade that tilts just right.
We reach the outer gate.
"Now," he breathes.
"Where?" I ask.
"Riverside. A fisherman I know," he answers. "He owes me."
"Fishermen trust merchants?" I mutter.
"Some do," he says. "Some keep secrets."
We slip through a gap in the wall.
Cold wind slaps my face.
The river is silver and hungry.
The city hums like a beast at rest.
Behind us, torches mark the palace like eyes.
"Stay low," he whispers.
"Stay low," I echo.
The river smells of fish and oil and city life.
We cross on a narrow plank.
My legs tremble.
The plank tilts.
I grip the Prince's sleeve with a desperation that feels like betrayal.
"Don't let go," I whisper.
"I won't," he replies.
We reach the far bank.
Mud sucks my shoes.
He drags me into a shadow of reed and boat.
A small man waits, crouched by oars.
He nods once to the Prince.
"A clean pass?" he asks.
"You'll get your coin," the Prince says. "And a favor."
The man eyes me like currency.
"Move," he grunts.
I climb into the boat.
The world narrows to wood and sky.
We push off.
Water claps the hull.
I watch the palace shrink like a bad dream.
Relief tastes like copper.
My skin prickles.
Legs obey out of spite.
The fisherman hums a low tune.
Oars cut the black; each stroke is a bargain.
I clutch the plank like a vow.
Moon slashes the water.
Behind us, the palace bell counts out time.
I do not plan to be easy to catch.
"Will they come after you?" the fisherman asks.
"They try," I answer, breath light.
"Then hide," the Prince says. "Until they forget you."
"Until they forget," I whisper.
The boat slips into the dark mouth of the river.
My fingers trace the water's edge, feeling the cold.
The belladonna hisses inside my veins but quiets, that tincture and time slow.
My mind hums with seven whispers, close as breath.
"Wake," they say.
"Remember."
"Break."
I close my eyes.
I refuse to fall.
I will survive.
I grit my teeth.
And then, under the pull of the current, a soft voice breaks through — seven tones folding into one.
"Wake. Remember. Break the cycle."
I know without knowing that the world tilts again.