By dawn, the palace was already restless.
A tray appeared at the outer doors of the West Wing. Polished, plain, anonymous.
Atop it: a single strip of cinnabar-threaded cloth.
Folded inside—ashes, faintly scented with dried ginkgo and salt.
No message. No seal.
But everyone in the Second Prince's household understood.
Someone had seen too much.
Shen Lian returned to the weaving hall before light touched the eaves. She threaded silk like always. Smiled like always. Noticed when two familiar faces from the Second Prince's court passed by—eyes sharp, steps stiff.
She had their attention now.
Good.
By midday, a servant delivered a bowl of soup to her quarters. Inside, beneath the surface, a jade hairpin floated—one she'd lost long ago, before her fall.
A message.
She took it out, dried it, and snapped it in two.
Her answer was clear: no allegiance.
Not yet.
That night, Zhou arrived with something more useful.
"A servant girl. Low-ranked. But she heard the Second Prince's aide mention your name."
Shen Lian leaned in. "Was it a threat?"
"A curiosity," Zhou replied. "But curiosity in the palace is blood with a slow boil."
She stood and looked out at the snow. "Then let it boil. Slowly."
This wasn't just a game of secrets anymore.
It was a hunt.
And she was done playing prey.