3. The Pavillion Where No One Returns

On the fourth morning after her death, Helian Qingyin opened her eyes.

But the soul inside them was no longer hers.

_____

The morning sky above Tianxu Palace was sealed in a blanket of iron-gray clouds, refusing to yield even a sliver of light.

Mist hung low over the gardens, collecting on the edges of flower buds too timid to bloom, curling around the stone tiles like the shed skin of a serpent long dead.

Tucked away at the farthest edge of the palace grounds stood Lianyu Pavilion—severed from the main halls by a narrow stone corridor and a thicket of bamboo so dense, even sound dared not pass through. No footsteps echoed here. No voices lingered. Even birds, who nested without care atop the most rickety roofs, gave this place a wide berth.

The maids called it Heaven's Dead Wing.

Inside, Zhenyu opened her eyes.

The breath she drew in felt too shallow for lungs that were hers. Or perhaps it was the soul within them that didn't quite belong. She sat up slowly from a straw pillow, her limbs aching like they remembered pain that hadn't been hers to begin with.

A damp blanket clung to her frame, soaked through with the sweat of fevered dreams. The taste of Rongxu Jing still lingered in her mouth—rippling waters, two shadows standing side by side, and the hollow rhythm of a heartbeat in a world without time.

She pressed a palm to her forehead. This body... was unfamiliar. A borrowed skin stretched over her bones. But her thoughts were sharp now. Clearer than they had been in days.

Her gaze swept the room—peeling walls of warped wood, a torn curtain barely clinging to a rusted frame, a chipped table bearing a bronze mirror, and a medicine shelf long emptied of use. The floor beneath was cracked stone, cold to the touch, colder still in memory.

This room wasn't just chilled by air.

It was frozen by grief.

By the absence of healing.

By the silence that followed the sound of something precious breaking.

Her voice, when it came, was barely more than breath.

"This pavilion... is where people wait to die."

Outside, footsteps approached—soft, uncertain. The kind made by someone unsure if they should come closer at all.

Zhenyu lay back down, letting her eyes half-close. One learned far more from silence than from any question spoken aloud.

The door creaked open.

A young maid stepped inside, no older than seventeen. Round face, skin like porcelain left too long in the snow, and eyes far too honest for the games this palace played.

"Lady Qingyin..." she murmured. "Your morning porridge."

She set the bowl on the table with quiet care.

Zhenyu said nothing. Just watched her from behind a veil of unbrushed hair.

"You haven't eaten in three days," the maid added, voice barely above a whisper. "We were getting worried."

Zhenyu pushed herself upright, movements slow but steady. She took the wooden spoon in one hand, tasting the porridge.

Thin. Bland.

But warm.

"Thank you," she said, her voice raspy but unmistakably clear.

The girl froze. Her fingers trembled where they clasped her sleeves.

"Y-you spoke...?"

Zhenyu offered a faint, unreadable smile.

It wasn't confirmation. But it wasn't denial either.

Tears welled in the maid's eyes.

"I knew it—I knew you'd recover. I prayed to the gods of Jingzhao Temple every night. I knew they'd hear me!"

"You prayed... for me?" Zhenyu asked, voice growing steadier.

The girl nodded, her face pinkening with earnestness. "I saw you once, my first year in the kitchens. You never spoke, but your eyes… they held so much. Like they had stories no one else could read. I thought—maybe you were terribly lonely."

Zhenyu didn't respond right away.

Not because she didn't have words.

But because she didn't know how to accept sincerity that didn't come with a price.

Not here.

Not in this frozen palace.

The girl lowered her voice, glancing toward the bamboo grove.

"But please be careful," she whispered. "This pavilion is... often watched."

Zhenyu's brows rose slightly. "Watched? By whom?"

The maid hesitated. "Sometimes we hear sounds. From Princess Ji's quarters. And sometimes... a red cloth appears, tied to the bamboo fence. When it does—it means an order is coming. That night."

Princess Ji.

Ji Suling.

The name sparked in the blurred remnants of Helian Qingyin's fragmented memory. The second consort. Beautiful, ambitious, rumored to have been next in line for the empress title—had Qingyin not conceived first.

Jealousy. Favor. Rank.

And then... poison.

A miscarriage without a trace. No one to accuse. No one to blame.

Zhenyu's grip tightened on the spoon.

She glanced at the bronze mirror across the room. In its faint reflection, she saw two figures—herself, and another.

Helian Qingyin.

But today, the other soul did not speak. Did not whisper. Did not rage.

She merely stood in the mirror's edge, watching.

Listening.

Outside, the mist began to lift. Red crept into the sky like ink spilled across silk. And there, fluttering gently against the bamboo, was a scrap of crimson cloth.

Zhenyu turned her head toward it.

"So," she whispered, "that's the sign."

The maid looked up from sweeping and paled at the sight.

"T-that's... earlier than usual," she stammered. "I—I'll go check the kitchens!"

She bowed quickly and fled.

Zhenyu watched her go without moving.

She already knew she wouldn't get answers tonight.

But she didn't need answers.

She needed time.

Time to watch.

Time to listen.

Time to strike.

She stepped closer to the window. Beyond the fog-kissed courtyard, the palace rose like a painting—exquisite and lifeless. The silhouette of the main hall loomed like a sleeping beast, jaws half-open in warning.

Her footsteps were quiet.

But the storm inside her had begun.

Back at the low table, the Rongxu Jing sat untouched. Its surface, though still, pulsed faintly—waiting.

She placed a hand atop it.

"Qingyin," she murmured. "We'll survive. But we won't remain silent."

The mirror glowed—soft and violet, like a breath drawn in after grief.

Far across the palace, behind the embroidered veils of Ji Pavilion, a woman combed her ink-black hair with methodical grace.

Ji Suling's gaze was fixed on the window, her attention turned to the distant silhouette of Lianyu Pavilion.

"Three days... and she's still alive?"

Her maid said nothing.

Ji Suling arched a brow.

"Send the usual tea this afternoon. But add the fifth blend from the southern apothecary. The bitter one."

She turned back to her mirror with a smile colder than any frost.

"And make sure no one sees."

The maid bowed and left.

Ji Suling stared at her reflection for a long moment.

"If you truly intend to rise again, Helian Qingyin," she whispered, "then allow me the grace of giving you a better death."

Back in Lianyu Pavilion, Zhenyu sat in stillness.

Her eyes closed.

Not to rest.

But to begin counting.

Who would fall first.

_____________

Far away, in a pavilion where power wore perfume and poison, Ji Suling smiled.

The dead girl had risen.

But some ghosts were meant to be put down twice.