It must be said, and plainly, that no house—be it grand or humble—is ever quite the same after an attempt at murder has been made upon its heir. There lingers in the draperies a stiffness; in the footsteps of the servants, a hush; and in the glances between kin, a certain flicker too quick to name. Such was the case with the Gu Estate, that stately and venerable seat of a once-martial family, where even the breeze seemed to tread with caution now, as though fearing to disturb something best left undisturbed.
And in the centre of this wary silence, like a flame caught in a crystal lamp, stood Mu Lian.
She who had drawn blood where others had drawn breath. She who had taken no title, but whom all now addressed with an awkward mix of deference and curiosity—as one might greet a tiger who had, most inexplicably, taken up residence in the parlour.
Yet not all eyes that watched her did so with awe. Some observed with calculation, with narrowing lids and careful smiles, as if gauging the depth of water in a dark well. Chief among these was Madam Lin, wife of Gu Jian Heng, mistress of the second branch, whose gloved hand ruled her husband's household with a firmness softened only by the scent of sandalwood and courtly phrases.
It was she who sent the summons.
"An invitation," said the steward, bowing low, though his tone made clear it was no such thing. "Madam requests your presence for tea."
Mu Lian, though neither bred in the politics of great houses nor schooled in their etiquette, had lived long enough to understand the meaning behind silk scrolls and perfumed paper. An invitation, in such circles, was often but a prelude to a demand. And a cup of tea could, on occasion, weigh heavier than a drawn sword.
She dressed simply and arrived punctually.
The chamber to which she was brought was not ostentatious, but carefully curated—a room designed to imply wealth without vulgarity, and warmth without sincerity. There, Madam Lin reclined upon a lacquered bench, her face a study in painted serenity. A single servant poured the tea, and withdrew. Silence fell with the weight of an unsheathed blade.
"You are younger than I expected," the lady began, her voice smooth, like velvet stretched over iron. "And quieter. It is a rare quality, nowadays."
Mu Lian inclined her head. "I speak only when it is necessary."
"Ah," said Madam Lin, sipping delicately. "A habit my husband would say is best suited to wives. And spies."
The remark passed as casually as a breeze, yet it hung between them like smoke. The smile that followed was practiced—refined and cold.
"We are a family of many histories, Miss Mu," she continued. "Some proud. Some... less so. My son has often remarked how quickly newcomers rise, and how easily the heir forgets blood when distracted by beauty."
This was not accusation, not precisely. It was an insinuation polished with civility.
"I saved his life," Mu Lian said, evenly.
"Yes," the lady replied, setting down her cup. "And in doing so, you have become... inconvenient to those who rely on his death."
She rose then, her motion graceful and slow, like a dancer's final bow.
"Loyalty is such a fragile thing," Madam Lin murmured. "Easily bent. Easily bought. Should you ever find this house less hospitable—should the heir's favour grow fickle—you may remember that the second branch never forgets those who serve its interests."
With that, she turned, leaving Mu Lian to finish her tea in a silence now tinged with something colder than fear: recognition.
She was no longer a bystander.
She was a piece upon the board—whether she had agreed to play or not.