The Lantern Festival marked the end of winter and the return of warmth, and in the capital, it was more than a celebration—it was spectacle, tradition, and politics wrapped in silk and firelight. The Gu Estate, perched like a silent sentinel near the river's curve, stirred with rare levity. For once, even the stone-faced guards at the gates were permitted a smile.
Lanterns bloomed like fireflowers along every roof beam, branch, and balustrade. Scarlet, gold, and pale jade, they danced in the wind like spirits summoned for one night only. Children squealed and chased after drifting paper charms, chasing luck and sugar. Music threaded through the courtyards—lutes, reed pipes, and flutes weaving layers of joy. The kitchens smelled of honeyed yam cakes, sesame buns, and spiced rice dumplings that made even the outer guards grumble with hunger.
In the west garden, artisans were setting up the floating lantern pool, filling basins with lotus-shaped lights that would soon drift like stars across the water's surface. Meanwhile, nobles and officials from allied families began arriving in embroidered robes, bringing wine and gossip and a dozen sharp eyes.
For Mu Lian, it felt like an illusion.
She stood just inside the threshold of her borrowed room, the silk robe they'd given her hanging stiff around her shoulders. Pale pink, embroidered with plum blossoms—too delicate for someone with calluses on her palms and the memory of blood under her fingernails. The celebration around her buzzed like bees behind glass, loud and distant. She felt unmoored.
It had been nearly a month since she'd first picked up a training staff in the courtyard, under Gu Yan Chen's cold-eyed scrutiny. Since then, days had passed in sweat and bruises. Her body remembered things she hadn't realized it knew. Not just how to fall without injury, or strike from a blind angle—but how to listen. To anticipate. To survive.
Tonight, though, there was no room for survival. Only appearances.
A knock came at the door.
She turned. A servant girl—one of the younger ones who'd taken a shine to her—peeked in.
"Miss Mu Lian, the Master requests your presence in the main hall for the lantern-lighting ceremony."
"My presence?" she echoed, unsure.
"Yes," the girl said, eyes bright. "He said you should be seen. That's a good thing."
Mu Lian wasn't so sure.
Still, she followed. Down the winding corridors that smelled of incense and cedar, through gardens aglow with lantern-light, into the main courtyard—already filling with guests.
The Gu family stood at the summit of the assembly, not merely present but presiding. Gu Yan Chen, austere and inscrutable, conversed with two visiting prefects in the clipped tones of men accustomed to diplomacy sharpened by expectation.
Just beyond him, his younger sister, Gu Xue, stood in delicate repose beside the bureaucrat's son, her smile poised and pleasant, the perfect veneer of gracious nobility. She was the only daughter of the late Lord Gu—a title now spoken with both reverence and finality—and she wore the remnants of his legacy like silk: soft to the eye, but impossible to tear.
He was dressed plainly, compared to the others—navy with silver trim, a soldier's simplicity hiding in noble tailoring. His hair was pulled back with a clasp of black jade. His posture—always straight—seemed even more alert tonight, like a bow held just short of tension.
He saw her before she approached. His eyes flicked to her and paused.
She bowed lightly. "Young Master."
"You're late," he said, though his voice lacked its usual edge.
"They dressed me up," she replied, gesturing vaguely to her sleeves. "Took longer than training with a staff."
A rare flicker crossed his face—something like humor—but it vanished too quickly to grasp. He nodded toward the eastern pavilion. "You'll stand with me during the lantern lighting."
Mu Lian blinked. "Is that... permitted?"
He didn't answer. Just turned and walked. She followed.
The pavilion faced the courtyard's central altar, where a large, unlit lantern in the shape of a phoenix rested. It was custom—one lantern from each household, blessed and released to the sky. Symbol of harmony. Of hopes for peace. Of political theater dressed in poetry.
Gu Yan Chen stepped forward with the torch.
"Let your wishes rise with flame," intoned a silver-haired priest, bowing.
As the fire touched the base of the lantern, golden light flared, casting long shadows. The crowd murmured appreciation, some clapping lightly. The phoenix lifted slowly, carried by the warm updrafts of dozens of smaller lanterns rising with it.
Mu Lian watched, caught by the surreal beauty of it. Above them, the sky became a river of fireflies, drifting upward, carrying names, secrets, dreams.
"It's... beautiful," she murmured.
Gu Yan Chen said nothing at first.
Then: "It's a veil."
She looked at him.
He gestured toward the lights. "Pretty enough to distract. Safe enough to lower one's guard. And under it—ambitions, alliances, envy. All waiting."
Her gaze returned to the lanterns, but now she saw something different. Not peace. Not wishes. But movement. Angles. Cover.
"You sound like a man expecting trouble," she said.
"I've lived long enough to know trouble doesn't need an invitation," he replied.
The musicians struck up again, a song of spring renewal and young love. Couples began to pair off for the moonlit dances...