The afternoon sunlight filtered gently into the Empress's courtyard, warm and golden, but Lian An felt none of its comfort.
She sat near the window, back straight, shoulders tense, a half-finished crochet scarf pooled in her lap like an accusation. The yarn was soft—too soft—slipping between her fingers no matter how tightly she tried to control it. Her hands ached. Her fingers felt stiff, unfamiliar, clumsy.
She stared at the uneven stitches.
They were bad.
No—worse than bad.
They were obvious.
"This loop is wrong," Fen Yu said, hovering far too close. "If you pull it tighter, it'll look less crooked."
Wei Rong snorted. "Tighter? She already pulled it too tight. Look, it's curling."
Li Shen adjusted his robes and spoke in his calm, scholarly tone—the worst kind. "Technically, both of you are correct. The tension is inconsistent. The pattern lacks harmony."
Lian An's hand froze.
"Can you all… please stop talking?"
Fen Yu tilted her head. "But we're helping."
