The palace settled into night like a great beast folding its wings. Lanterns glowed softly along the corridors, casting long golden pools on the stone floors. The air was thick with anticipation—the Seasonal Flowering Festival would begin at dawn, and every garden, every hall, every hidden corner carried the heavy sweetness of blooming flowers.
Yelan sat alone on the narrow veranda outside the maids' quarters, knees drawn to her chest, a thin shawl around her shoulders. Moonlight spilled over her, turning her loose dark hair silver at the edges. She stared at the distant silhouette of the rare garden, her mind turning over Hui-lan's words from lunch like smooth stones in a river.
"Legends say some do… to those who need it most—offering guidance or relief from worries. But they're fleeting, like a dream at dawn."
Obasama had spoken lightly, as though sharing a harmless bedtime tale. Yet every word had landed inside Yelan with quiet weight. Spirits in flowers. Guidance. Relief. Fleeting.
She pressed her lips together. It was too close—too perfectly close—to the fragments she carried in her heart. The reason she had woken here, in this body, in this world she had once watched from afar. Something bound her. Something needed release. And the answer felt tied to flowers that bloomed only in darkness, to guardians no one quite believed in anymore.
More questions crowded her thoughts.
If such a spirit existed, where would it hide during a festival when every bloom was forced open by daylight and lanterns? Would it appear to someone like her—someone who did not truly belong? Did it require an offering? A name spoken aloud? A heart laid bare?
Yelan closed her eyes. The night breeze carried a hundred mingled scents—peony, lotus, jasmine, rose—but beneath them all, she searched for something cooler, cleaner. Something that had no source in any garden bed.
She found nothing tonight.
But tomorrow the palace would be drenched in fragrance. Perhaps then.
In a small side chamber lit by a single lamp, Gaoshun stood with his arms folded, listening as Hui-lan spoke in a low, careful voice.
"She knew about my back pain, Gaoshun-sama. Not from watching me wince or favor one side—she said she knew by my scent." Hui-lan's fingers worried the edge of her sleeve. "This is the fifth time. Three days ago in the storage room, she named spoiled dried chrysanthemum before opening the jar. Yesterday in the Preparation Hall, she pointed out an uneven incense blend from ten paces away. And today… my pain."
Gaoshun's expression remained calm, but his eyes sharpened. "You are certain she never asked anyone else? Never overheard complaints?"
Hui-lan shook her head. "I have never spoken of it openly. Only you and the physician know. Yet she described the strain exactly—lower back, left side, worse after long hours standing."
A pause stretched between them.
Gao-shun exhaled slowly. "A nose that keen is rare. Dangerous, perhaps, in the wrong hands. Or useful, in the right ones." He glanced toward the darkened window. "My lord has taken notice of her already. More than notice, I think."
Hui-lan's brows lifted. "You believe she is connected to… that night he sometimes dreams of?"
"I believe,"Gaoshun said quietly, "that we should watch closely, but gently. She calls you obasama. She brings you remedies. She harms no one. For now, let her feel safe. But tomorrow, during the festival, stay near her. Note who approaches her. Note what she seeks among the flowers."
Hui-lan bowed slightly. "As you say, Gaoshun-sama."
When she left, Gaoshun remained in the lamplight a moment longer, his thoughts heavy. A girl who read the world through scent. A girl who had appeared without record. A girl whose quiet presence tugged at his master's carefully guarded heart.
The palace was full of secrets.
This one smelled faintly of moonlight.
In her small room within the inner palace, Maomao sat cross-legged on her bed, grinding a small batch of dried mugwort under the light of a single candle. Tomorrow's festival meant crowds, noise, and far too many nobles complaining of headaches from over-scented air. She was preparing preventive sachets—nothing fancy, just something to tuck into sleeves.
Her pestle moved in steady circles.
Festivals were troublesome. Too many people pretending to enjoy poetry while actually scheming. Too many "accidental" spills of wine on rivals' robes. Too many requests for hangover cures the morning after.
And yet…
A faint smile tugged at her lips.
Jin-shi would be there, beautiful and untouchable under strings of lanterns, smiling that perfect smile while his eyes searched the crowds for threats. Or for her.
She paused in her grinding.
He had been strange today in the Preparation Hall. Distracted. Quick to change the subject when Gao-shun mentioned the garden. And then that frozen moment when she said the palace air felt thinner.
Maomao resumed her work, brow furrowing.
Something was shifting. She could almost taste it—like the air before distant thunder.
Tomorrow the flowers would open all at once. Scents would tangle and overwhelm.
If something—or someone—was hiding among them, the festival might force it into the light.
She tied off another sachet.
Let it come, then. She would be watching.
Far across the palace, in chambers bathed in cool moonlight, Jin-shi stood at his open window. His outer robe hung loose on his shoulders; his hair, freed from its usual ornaments, fell in dark waves against white silk.
Below, the gardens slept under silver light. Lanterns had not yet been fully hung; only a few early ones glowed like scattered stars.
He inhaled slowly.
The air was rich tonight—peonies heavy and sweet, jasmine climbing the walls, lotus drifting from the ponds. But beneath it all, threading through like a single cool strand, he searched for something else.
Something without incense.
Something like mountain rain on bare skin.
His fingers tightened on the windowsill.
"…Yelan Hua."
The name settled in his chest again, heavier than before.
He had seen her five times now. Each time, the memory of that moonlit night grew sharper—the girl who had stood so still, pale robe fluttering, bare feet on cold stone, vanishing the instant he blinked.
And every time he saw Yelan, the two images drew closer together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
Tomorrow the festival would fill the palace with color and noise. Everyone would be watching him. He would smile, bow, speak flawless words.
But his eyes would search the crowds.
For loose dark hair.
For quiet steps.
For a scent that belonged to no garden.
Jin-shi closed his eyes.
The moonlight touched his face like a cool hand.
Somewhere in the vast palace, she was awake too—he felt it the way one feels approaching rain.
Tomorrow, the flowers would bloom.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the moonlit girl would step fully into daylight.
He did not know whether that thought brought relief or fear.
Only that he could no longer look away.