The next morning arrived without ceremony.
Xin Ying rose before the clapper sounded, her body already accustomed to the Palace's rhythm. The quarters assigned to inner Palace servants were smaller, cleaner, and far quieter than those of the outer court. The air smelled faintly of incense rather than damp stone.
She dressed carefully in the new robes laid out for her—still plain, but softer in fabric and lighter in color. Her hair was tied back neatly, every strand secured. She did not rush.
When she stepped outside, the sky was just beginning to pale.
A woman waited in the courtyard.
She was older, her posture straight, her expression stern. Her robes bore a small embroidered mark near the collar—a symbol of authority among servants.
"I am Supervisor Qian," the woman said. "You will follow me and do exactly as instructed. The inner Palace does not forgive mistakes."
"Yes," Xin Ying replied calmly.
Supervisor Qian turned and began walking without another word.
Xin Ying followed.
The inner Palace was different from anywhere she had worked before. The stone floors gleamed, reflecting the delicate carvings above. Silk curtains stirred gently in the breeze, and the sound of footsteps was hushed, controlled.
"Your duties will change daily," Supervisor Qian said as they walked. "Today, you will assist with cleaning the southern wing and preparing the outer reception hall."
She paused sharply. "You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not look where you are not permitted. And you do not draw attention to yourself."
"I understand."
As they worked, other servants passed by—those who had served the inner Palace for years. Their gazes lingered on Xin Ying, measuring, cold.
"So she's the one," a voice murmured.
"A former outer servant," another scoffed. "How amusing."
Xin Ying knelt to polish the floor, her movements steady.
One servant brushed past her deliberately, knocking her cloth from her hand.
"Careful," the woman said with false sweetness. "You don't belong everywhere just because someone favors you."
Xin Ying retrieved the cloth without comment and continued scrubbing.
Laughter followed her.
"Look at her hands," someone whispered. "Too rough for silk halls."
Xin Ying heard every word.
She chose to let them pass through her like wind.
Their insults do not change my purpose, she reminded herself. Nor my path.
Supervisor Qian observed from a distance, her expression unreadable.
As the hours passed, Xin Ying completed each task precisely. She folded robes evenly. She cleaned without leaving a single streak. She moved with quiet efficiency, never rushing, never hesitating.
At midday, one servant deliberately handed her an overfilled basin.
"Don't spill," the woman said coldly.
Xin Ying accepted it with a nod, adjusted her grip, and carried it steadily across the hall without a single drop falling.
Silence followed.
By late afternoon, the whispers had dulled.
Not because they had vanished—but because Xin Ying had given them nothing to feed on.
When the sun dipped low, Supervisor Qian finally spoke again.
"You endure well," she said curtly. "Continue like this."
Xin Ying bowed her head. "Yes."
As she returned to her quarters, exhaustion weighed on her limbs, but her spirit remained steady.
This is only the beginning, she thought.
The inner Palace tested not strength, but patience.
And Xin Ying intended to pass.
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