Miss Mu Lian, late of a house once counted among the empire's brightest, now reduced to a whisper in scandal's shadow, stood alone in the courtyard. The stones beneath her feet bore the cracks of years and weather; so too did her posture, upright in form but straining at the edges, like lacquer chipping from wood.
The sky was beginning to pale with the coming sun, and the damp stillness of dawn clung to the walls and trees. In her hands, a training staff—simple, worn—felt at once too light and too foreign. Not a weapon, yet no longer just a pole. It existed in that awkward place between familiarity and refusal.
For close to an hour, she had practiced. Her strikes were measured but inelegant, her pivots cautious, her guard too high, too tight. This was not the rhythm of instinct but the cadence of refusal: she had not given up, and so she moved, again and again. And again.
He said nothing at first. Just watched.
Gu Yan Chen stood just beyond the gate, arms behind his back, his figure still in the half-light. Not a footstep had marked his approach. He observed her with the distant precision of a man counting heartbeats or waiting for a fault to declare itself. No greeting, no warning—just silence, until the silence itself demanded to be broken.
"You're improving," he said at last, his tone stripped of softness or irony. It was not praise. It was an audit.
Mu Lian lowered the staff, her breath steady but shallow, her body alive with fatigue she would not name. She met his gaze.
"Improvement is a low bar," she replied. "I'm still not a soldier."
"No," he said, walking toward her with deliberate steps. "You're not. And if you persist in moving like someone afraid of being seen, you won't even reach the threshold."
The words were cool, clinical. The cut of them came not from volume or venom, but from the steady hand of one who had no use for comfort.
She narrowed her eyes. "Forgive me, my lord. I wasn't raised for this."
"I'm aware." He stopped a few paces from her, his gaze fixed. "But you asked to stay. So stay as someone who means to change."
She studied him for a long moment. His stance, his manner, his voice—they were all carved from discipline, and nothing in his bearing invited sympathy.
"And how would you suggest I change?" she asked. "You speak of purpose as if it's a sword one can simply lift and wield."
"You're thinking like someone still mourning what she lost. That makes you slow. Unbalanced. Hollow."
Her jaw tensed. The staff in her hands dropped slightly, unbidden. "You speak as if I chose any of this."
"No," he said. "But you are choosing what to do with it now."
A pause.
Then she lifted the staff again, slowly, with fingers raw from practice. "Then show me."
He didn't move at first. But then, with quiet finality, he stepped into the courtyard.
When he reached her, he adjusted her grip—not gently, not cruelly. Simply correctly. Fingers here. Elbows in. Spine straight. He did not look at her face, only at the angles of her posture, the line of the strike unformed in her stance.
"The weapon is not a branch to wave about. It is a line of intent. It moves where you do. Or it doesn't move at all."
He stepped back. "Try again."
She obeyed. This time, the movement had weight. Not polish, not grace—but weight.
"Better," he said. "But your shoulders are still listening to doubt."
She struck again. Harder. Less like a performance, more like a question she dared someone to answer.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, breath sharp. "Why keep me here? I'm not useful to you. I'm not loyal. I'm not even clean."
He didn't blink.
"Because unlike most, you still know what it means to be broken and still choose to stand."
That silenced her.
And in the space between words, the early sun breached the wall behind him, and the light fell sharp across the training ground.
"I'm trying," she said.
"Then stop trying," he replied, already turning away. "Start doing."
He left her there—sweat-soaked, sore, and burning with something she dared not name.
But she did not lower the staff.
Not this time.