"In the palace, a name is not given. It is earned — or stolen."
The Palace of Lingrui stood in silence before dawn, cloaked in mist that curled like restless spirits along the red lacquered walls. The eastern gate had yet to be opened, but already, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and the distant clatter of pearl-slippered feet. The court had not awakened — but the unseen gears of the inner palace had begun to turn.
Mo Lianyin knelt beside a frost-kissed chrysanthemum bush in the Southern Garden, trimming the leaves with careful precision. Her robes were plain gray, the color worn by nameless servants. No rank pin gleamed on her chest. She was one of the hundreds—unnoticed, unimportant, unrecorded.
And yet, even among the lowliest, she was strange.
She never spoke unless spoken to. She ate only what she was given, and never more. No one had seen her cry, laugh, or raise her voice. Her skin was pale, but unmarred. Her hands were too smooth for a girl who claimed to have worked the fields. And most of all—she arrived with no surname. Just Lianyin.
The Head Matron had once asked, coldly, "Where is your household registry?"
Lianyin had bowed. "Lost in the fire," she replied.
No one asked further.
The only thing more dangerous than a secret in the palace... was someone who knew how to keep one.
By the ninth chime of the morning bell, the Emperor's concubines would pass through the Southern Garden on their way to offer prayers at the Ancestral Hall. Lianyin knew this. She kept her eyes low, hands steady, though her chest tightened when the echo of silk skirts and giggling voices reached her ears.
As they passed, their perfumes stung her throat—floral, cloying, and sharp. Lady Yan Zhenluo, the most favored of the concubines, walked at the front. Her expression was serene, almost saintly. She was known for never raising her voice, never requesting favors, and never losing the Emperor's favor.
Lianyin felt the woman's gaze pass over her like a breeze. Or was it more than that?
"Hold," Lady Zhenluo said suddenly.
Lianyin froze.
The rest of the procession paused, unsure.
Zhenluo stepped forward, her fingers trailing along a branch of winter chrysanthemums. She tilted her head. "This bush was not blooming yesterday."
"It blooms late," Lianyin said, almost too quietly.
Zhenluo looked at her. "And you are?"
Lianyin dipped her head. "Just a gardener, Lady."
"A clever gardener." Her tone was soft. "What is your name?"
"…Mo Lianyin."
Zhenluo's gaze lingered a beat too long. "Mo?" she repeated.
There was silence.
Then a smile. "A rare surname. But a beautiful one."
Lianyin bowed deeper, unsure whether she had been praised… or warned.
That night, in a tower room high above the Southern Courtyard, Prince Ruiyan stood with his back to the wind, reading scrolls by candlelight.
At twenty-three, he was neither the oldest nor the most powerful of the Emperor's sons. But he was the most watched — not because he vied for the throne, but because he did not.
He was too quiet, too polite, too careful — and those traits made the court whisper about what he was hiding.
A soft knock broke his silence.
It was Commander Ji Fenglin, dressed in plain robes, as if disguising his station.
"A report," Fenglin said, placing a scroll down. "From the Inner Court."
Ruiyan didn't glance up. "Is it urgent?"
"Depends." The commander paused. "There's a maid. Mo Lianyin. No background. No registry. Assigned to the Chrysanthemum Garden three months ago. Never once requested a transfer. She avoids all contact except with Lady Zhenluo."
At that, the prince lifted his eyes.
Fenglin continued. "There's more. She has a burn scar hidden beneath her left shoulder. Patterned… like the brand given to traitors of the Southern Rebellion."
Ruiyan's fingers stilled.
The Southern Rebellion — crushed thirteen years ago. Its leader was executed. His wife and child… disappeared.
"If she's who I think she is," Fenglin said quietly, "she shouldn't be alive."
Ruiyan stood and walked to the open window. Below, the garden glowed silver under moonlight. He spotted a lone figure walking between the chrysanthemums, gray robes rustling softly in the wind.
"Do not touch her," he ordered.
Fenglin blinked. "But if she is—"
"If she is," Ruiyan interrupted, "then someone else already knows. And if she isn't... then someone wants us to believe she is."
His eyes narrowed.
"Either way... she's a message. And the palace is waiting for us to answer."