The Scent of Blood on Silk

Night had fallen over the imperial palace, yet the silence it brought felt unnatural—too sharp, too deliberate. The moon, a pale sentinel behind drifting clouds, cast a wan light over the snow-blanketed courtyards. Trees stood like frozen sentries, their skeletal branches unmoving in the still air. Not even the faint rustle of silk from a passing maid disturbed the quiet. It was as if the darkness itself had taken a deep breath—and held it.

Behind the reception hall of Princess Bai Yue Ning, hidden in the shadowed corridor where the lanterns had long been extinguished, a lone figure moved with quiet urgency. Each footstep was a study in control—fluid, precise, deliberate.

Jiang Xinluo—clothed in the modest garb of a palace maid—walked swiftly but without sound. Her usual grace had taken on a sharper edge, honed by purpose and danger. Her right hand clutched tightly at a small, worn leather pouch pressed close to her chest. Inside it was something no one should possess, not here, not within the heart of the enemy's court.

"A list of covert informants and hidden supporters of the Allied Kingdom—embedded deep within the imperial court."

She had memorized every name, every coded phrase, every faltering stroke of ink on that brittle parchment. Her mind, disciplined and precise, recited the contents like scripture. She knew what this meant. If she was caught, she would not be granted the mercy of a swift death. There would be no clean blade, no quiet poison. It would be slow—drawn out through shackles, questioning, blood, and bone. And they would not stop with her. Every whisper she had trusted, every shadow she had confided in, would be dragged into the light and broken.

Yet, oddly, her mind was calm.

The further she walked, the quieter her heartbeat became. A stillness she hadn't known she possessed settled deep within her bones—like walking into the eye of a storm. Time stretched thin, like the fragile tension of a bowstring drawn taut.

But then—

"Xinluo! Stop right there!"

A voice rang out, sharp and commanding, slicing through the stillness like a dagger. The words echoed off the cold stone walls of the inner court. It was unmistakable—Lin Mei, Bai Yue Ning's most trusted guard, a woman known for her lethal precision in both words and weapons.

Jiang Xinluo did not look back.

She ran.

Her legs exploded into motion, skirts snapping as she shot through the narrow path between courtyards. The icy wind slapped against her cheeks. She darted past a row of snow-dusted peonies, the faint crunch of gravel beneath her feet masked by the thundering of her own pulse. The cold air bit into her lungs, but she pushed forward, driven not by fear, but by the will to complete her mission.

Don't stop. Not yet. Not now.

Just ahead—an opening in the hedge. If she could reach it, she could cut through the rock garden, cross the koi pond's stone bridge, and vanish into the servant tunnels beneath the northern corridor.

But fate, cruel as ever, whispered otherwise.

A high-pitched hiss split the air.

Swish—THUD!

The dart missed her heart by a whisper, slicing clean through the hem of her silk robe. Pain bloomed across her side as warm blood trickled down her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stumbled.

The scent of blood was sharp—coppery and alive—mingling with the soft floral fragrance of the silk she wore. Somehow, that contrast made the wound feel crueler, more intimate. Like even the fabric mourned what it had been forced to bear.

"…Just a little further," she whispered to herself.

But fate struck again.

Her foot caught on a gnarled root of an old pine, hidden beneath the snow. The world tilted. Her body pitched forward, crashing into the cold earth with a muffled cry. Snow puffed into the air around her, clinging to her lashes, her hair, her wound.

Footsteps—fast and many—approached from behind. The guard was closing in. She had seconds, perhaps less.

She rolled to her side, biting back a cry of pain, and pushed herself up with trembling hands—

Whoosh!

A blur of black swept over the courtyard wall.

From the shadows, a figure emerged—clad head to toe in dark robes, his face obscured by a mask of silk, but his intent unmistakable. One hand seized Jiang Xinluo's wrist, pulling her upright with effortless strength. The other hand moved like lightning.

Thunk.

A blade flew from his fingers with unerring precision.

A cry of pain rang out behind them, followed by a heavy thud. Lin Mei had fallen, her weapon still half-raised, her body sprawled in the snow like a broken doll.

"…A gift," the man in black said coldly, his voice low and clipped, "From my lady's main residence."

Before Jiang Xinluo could ask who he was, he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. She felt the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath layers of black silk—steady, unwavering. No questions. No hesitations. Only the cold recision of a man who had done this before.

Within seconds, they had vanished—melting into the night like shadows returning home.

—

When Jiang Xinluo next opened her eyes, the world was warm and still.

She lay on a bed layered with embroidered blankets, their weight like a gentle hand holding her in place. The air smelled of sandalwood, ink, and faint rose oil. A soft light flickered from a nearby lantern, casting golden shadows that danced across the painted ceiling—clouds edged in gold, drifting across a field of lapis blue.

"This place…"

Her voice came out hoarse, dry as old parchment.

A pause, then a soft answer came—measured and calm.

"The Lan Hua Residence. I had a chamber built beneath the main quarters. Deep enough that no one dares enter uninvited."

From across the room, a familiar figure sat at a low table, hands working steadily on a piece of embroidery. The delicate outline of willow blossoms grew with every movement of the needle, the thread trailing like veins across the fine silk.

Xianlan.

Her expression was serene—too serene—but her eyes… her eyes burned with quiet fire.

Jiang Xinluo tried to sit, but a sharp pain lanced through her side. She winced, her face draining of color.

"You won't die so easily," Xianlan remarked, her tone even as always. She didn't look up, didn't rise. "Though I'll admit—your escape was messier than I would have liked."

"I didn't plan to get caught," Jiang Xinluo said through gritted teeth, forcing herself into a half-sitting position.

"No one ever does," Xianlan replied, threading another length of crimson silk through the cloth.

"But now they know something's missing. And they will begin looking inward. Trust will crumble. Suspicion will spread."

Jiang Xinluo stared down at her hands—stained faintly with blood, crusted now, but still betraying the violence of what had passed.

"…I don't regret it."

Xianlan didn't smile.

She reached toward a nearby cushion and gently lifted a bundle—a piece of silk robe, pale pink once, now marred with streaks of red. The blood hadn't dried evenly. It had soaked through the embroidery. A pattern of phoenix feathers—blurred now, as if crying tears of crimson.

She placed it beside Jiang Xinluo's pillow without a word.

Then, she spoke quietly.

"Each of us… must stain our own silk."

Her fingers hovered over the embroidery frame.

"Whether to protect—" her eyes flicked toward Xinluo, "—or to destroy."

For a brief, breathless second, their eyes met.

Not as mistress and spy. Not as ruler and pawn.

But as women—standing on a precipice, each holding secrets too heavy for one soul.

In that silence, an unspoken agreement formed.

One forged not in ink or oath, but in the scent of blood on silk.

A war was coming. And they would fight it together—from the shadows.

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