Three months.
That was how long Yin Yue had lived under the roof of Consort Yan Zhen's residence.
In the palace, three months was neither long nor short. It was enough time for habits to form, for the body to adjust, for illusions to fade. Enough time to learn which corridors were safest, which servants spoke too freely, which silences were heavier than words.
Yin Yue had learned all of this.
Her days were no longer measured by fear alone, but by rhythm.
She rose before dawn, when the palace bells had not yet rung. She swept stone paths still damp with night dew, wiped the carved railings, tended to the outer plants of the residence courtyard. Her hands were rougher now, her shoulders stronger, her movements efficient. She spoke little. She listened much.
She did not dream openly.
But sometimes, when her back ached and her fingers numbed from cold water, her thoughts drifted beyond walls and rules.
Beyond kitchens.
Beyond service.
Beyond the narrow sky framed by tiled roofs.
In those three months, Yin Yue had noticed something else as well.
The Emperor favored Consort Yan Zhen.
No one said it directly. No one needed to.
Imperial eunuchs passed through Hóng Yè Táng more often than before. The lanterns outside the main hall were replaced frequently. Fresh incense was burned at irregular hours. The concubine's attire grew more elaborate, her posture more assured.
Most telling were the name tablets.
Five times in one month.
Sometimes more.
When the Emperor called for Consort Yan Zhen, the entire residence shifted. Servants moved faster, spoke less. Every mistake felt heavier. Every silence stretched longer.
Yin Yue never saw the Emperor.
But she felt his presence—like a distant tide shaping the shore.
That evening, her work ended earlier than usual.
It was not luck.
It was familiarity.
She had learned how to anticipate Madam Lian's inspections, how to arrange tools before being asked, how to complete tasks before they were noticed. Efficiency was survival.
When the final bell rang, Yin Yue did not return immediately to the servants' quarters.
Instead, she walked.
Not aimlessly—but quietly.
There was a place she had discovered weeks ago.
A garden.
Cangluan Garden
Cangluan Garden lay near the heart of the palace.
It was not attached to any single residence. Instead, it stood apart—vast, open, and dignified. A place where pavilions rested beside winding paths, where old trees cast long shadows, and where water flowed softly through stone channels.
Concubines came here during the day, escorted and adorned.
At night, it belonged to no one.
That was why Yin Yue liked it.
The distance from Hóng Yè Táng was not insignificant. She walked carefully, avoiding well-lit paths, keeping her head lowered whenever footsteps approached. When she finally reached the edge of Cangluan Garden, her breath eased.
Moonlight spilled freely here.
The moon was full—high and pale, reflecting against the water of a broad pond at the garden's center. The surface shimmered like silver silk. Stone lanterns lined the paths, their carvings worn smooth by time.
Yin Yue stood still for a long moment.
She was not supposed to be here.
But she was not stealing.
She was only breathing.
The Emperor POV
He dismissed his attendants before entering Cangluan Garden.
They bowed deeply, retreating without question.
The Emperor walked alone.
He did this rarely.
His days were crowded with voices—ministers, generals, concubines, petitions layered with ambition and fear. Even silence around him was calculated.
Here, in Cangluan Garden, he could walk without being watched.
Or so he thought.
His steps were measured, his hands folded behind his back. The moonlight illuminated the sharp lines of his face—straight nose, defined jaw, brows drawn naturally into an expression of contemplation. His eyes were dark, calm, and unfathomable.
He stopped near the pond.
The reflection of the moon wavered in the water.
For a moment, he simply observed.
Then—
He felt it.
A presence.
Not loud. Not careless.
But deliberate.
Yin Yue
I knew immediately that he was not a noble.
Not a minister.
Not even a prince.
He stood too easily in the garden. The air itself seemed to settle around him, as though the world had already agreed to make space.
The Emperor.
The thought struck with such clarity that my breath caught.
His robe was understated for someone of his status, but the fabric spoke of quality. His posture was straight without stiffness, relaxed without indulgence. Moonlight traced the edges of his profile, lending him a distant, untouchable elegance.
He was handsome.
Not in a way that invited closeness—but in a way that commanded attention.
So this is him.
I watched from behind a stone lantern, unmoving, afraid that even my breath might betray me.
I should leave.
I knew that.
But something held me there.
"Come out."
The voice was calm.
Controlled.
Certain.
My heart plunged.
"Come forward," he said again, turning slightly. "You are not hidden as well as you think."
There was no anger in his tone.
No surprise either.
I stepped out.
Immediately, I dropped to my knees, pressing my forehead to the stone path.
"Your Majesty," I said, voice low but clear. "Please forgive this servant. I did not intend to intrude. I was merely admiring the moon and lost my way."
The ground was cold against my skin.
I did not move.
The Emperor POV
she knelt correctly.
Too correctly.
When he looked down, he noticed her hair first.
Red.
Rare.
Muted, but unmistakable beneath moonlight.
Her posture was composed. No trembling. No frantic excuses. Only restraint.
"You are a servant?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"From which residence?"
"Hóng Yè Táng, Your Majesty. I serve under Consort Yan Zhen."
That explained her presence in this part of the palace.
He studied her a moment longer.
Her face was youthful, but not naïve. Her features were fine—eyes lowered, lashes dark, skin pale under the moon. There was nothing exaggerated about her beauty.
But it lingered.
"How long have you served there?"
"Three months."
Concise.
Truthful.
No attempt to impress.
Interesting.
Yin Yue
I felt his gaze like weight.
Not pressing.
Measuring.
I answered only what was asked. Anything more would be foolish.
I was aware of myself in a way I had never been before—my hair, my face, my breathing. Not because I wanted to be seen, but because I did not want to be remembered.
"Return to your duties," the Emperor said at last.
No rebuke.
No encouragement.
Just command.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I bowed again, lower than before.
He turned away, already losing interest.
Just like that, the moment ended.
I waited until his footsteps faded into silence.
Only then did I rise.
The garden felt different now.
Not dangerous.
But exposed.
Yin Yue
I did not feel fortunate.
I felt aware.
Aware that power moves quietly. That even accidents can echo. That survival here was not about being seen—but about knowing when not to be.
I returned the way I came, steps light, thoughts heavy.
Tomorrow, I would wake before dawn.
I would sweep stone paths and water plants.
And I would remember this—
Even the moon belongs to the Emperor.
And those who stand beneath it must know when to kneel.