From Zhuge Mei Lan's Perspective
My life had always been quiet.
Quiet enough that time itself seemed to move more slowly.
Days repeated with a delicate predictability — morning sunlight filtering through white silk curtains, the distant rustle of leaves swaying in the wind, the sweet aroma of tea my mother brewed so carefully.
It was a gentle routine, almost silent — and I liked it that way.
Our castle was vast, but empty of voices.
The wide halls echoed only with the sound of our footsteps and, at times, the timid song of birds nesting beneath the eaves.
My mother used to say that silence was a gift — that living in peace, far from the court's disputes and the family's intrigues, was a rare privilege.
And I believed her.
She was the center of my small world —
her calm voice, her ever-careful hands, her gaze that seemed to understand everything without needing to ask.
Almost everything I knew, I learned from her — how to tend to flowers, how to recognize the perfect moment for tea, how to listen to the wind and understand what it carried.
Beyond that, my life was made of small things.
The garden was my favorite place.
The flowers in the courtyard changed color with the seasons, and I remembered each one's name — not because someone had taught me, but because they were my only constant companions.
I liked watering them slowly, feeling the water slide over my fingers, watching the droplets glisten in the sunlight before sinking back into the earth.
Sometimes I would sit beneath the great plum tree and simply watch.
The clouds, the leaves, the passing of time.
There was peace in that — the feeling that the world could keep existing perfectly even if I stayed still.
We rarely received visitors.
And when someone did come, it was almost always to speak with my mother — never with me.
Men and women in elegant robes would enter, bow, exchange quiet words I didn't understand, and leave before I could memorize their faces.
Some brought gifts, others requests, but all spoke softly, as though the air inside our castle was too sacred for ordinary conversation.
When I was younger, that made me curious.
But with time, I learned that not asking questions was also a way to stay at peace.
Occasionally, during larger festivities, I saw some of my sisters — girls with confident gazes and commanding presences, always surrounded by people.
They came, smiled, called me sister with ease, and I responded with the same timid smile as always.
But after they left, the silence returned — and with it, forgetfulness.
Between one meeting and the next, I forgot their names, their voices, even their faces.
And honestly…
it didn't bother me.
I liked my routine.
I liked not being noticed — being allowed to exist quietly.
I liked seeing the steam rise from my morning tea, hearing the rain on the roof at night.
If someone had asked me whether I was happy, I would have said yes.
That nothing was missing.
But I was wrong.
Because we don't always miss what we've never had.
And back then — serene, content, and silent as I was — I didn't realize there was an empty space inside me.
A space waiting for something I didn't yet know how to name.
And fate, with its patient cruelty, was already preparing to fill it.
I remember the day I found him as clearly as if it had just happened.
The air that afternoon was warm, perfumed by the flowers blooming near the window of my mother's study.
She was seated at her dark wooden desk, her face serene, eyes moving over a long scroll of parchment.
I, as usual, waited in silence near the window, watching the golden dust dancing in the beams of light.
I was used to the soft sounds — the slide of her quill across the paper, the faint rustle of pages turning.
At that age, I didn't yet understand what exactly my mother did.
I only knew that the documents she read were important — that somehow they protected our castle, our small corner of the island.
But to me, they were just colorless words.
What truly fascinated me were the shelves.
They covered the entire wall of the study, filled with books and scrolls organized by color and size.
Some bore titles on spiritual medicine, others on botany, and one whole row was dedicated to plants that grew in frozen regions — one of my mother's greatest prides.
That was where my eyes found it.
Among so many familiar volumes, there was one that stood out.
Its cover was pale, almost silver, and the material looked older than anything else on those shelves.
There was no title, no markings.
But there was something about it — something alive.
For reasons I couldn't explain, I felt I needed to open it.
So I approached, hesitant.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the cover — the leather cool beneath my skin — and pulled it free.
The book opened with a soft sound, as if it were breathing.
The pages were thick and yellowed, smelling faintly of old incense.
At first, I thought it was just another treatise on herbs or flowers — the first pages described plants, roots, and leaves.
But soon, I noticed something hidden among the drawings.
The illustrations weren't simple.
They were made of curved lines, symbols, and interwoven patterns that spiraled gracefully.
At a glance, they looked decorative — but there was an order, a secret logic within them.
Each design seemed to pulse, as if it held movement within.
My heart began to race.
Something in that book was calling to me — a new curiosity, unlike anything I had ever felt.
Without realizing it, I sat on the floor, the book resting on my lap, my hair falling over my shoulders as my eyes devoured page after page.
The light outside changed, and I didn't notice.
Time simply dissolved.
By the time I looked up, my mother had finished her reading.
I heard the gentle sound of her sandals approaching and then her voice — soft as always:
"Mei Lan, it's time for tea, dear."
It took me a moment to understand she was speaking to me.
I looked up, still lost in the maze of symbols before me.
"Mother," I murmured, turning the book toward her, "what are these… runes?"
She leaned over my shoulder, her eyes scanning the pages I held open.
For a moment, she said nothing — one of those silences that seem to weigh upon the air.
Then, with a faint smile, she answered:
"Ah… those are formations, my dear."
Formations.
The word echoed inside me in a strange way — beautiful and mysterious all at once.
At that moment, I had no idea what it truly meant.
But I felt something shift within me.
It was as if the air in that room had suddenly come alive —
as if the world I knew had quietly opened a door before me.
I didn't yet know it, but that single word — formations —
would change my life completely.