4

The next morning dawned cold and colorless. Spring had not yet reached the full bloom of imperial gardens, and the mountain air around the Feng family estate held the lingering bitterness of frost. Snow no longer clung to the roofs, but it still slept in the shadowed corners of courtyards and beneath the eaves where servants dared not tread.

Feng Yan rose early. Her mother had sent word that her father wished to see her before noon. He would expect her to be composed, obedient, pliable. He had always preferred a daughter who could smile sweetly in public while remaining silent when power passed her by. In her first life, she had fulfilled that role too well. Now, she had no intention of playing it sincerely. The world would still see her as they remembered her—refined, modest, graceful—but beneath the veil, she would be sharpening her knives.

As the maid combed her hair into a simple knot and pinned it with mother-of-pearl, Feng Yan sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the garden through the open screen. The camellias outside trembled in the wind, their petals pale as mourning silk. A metaphor, she thought absently. Once, she might have admired their delicacy. Now, they looked like a weakness waiting to be crushed.

“My lady,” the maid said hesitantly, her voice breaking through the quiet. “Would you prefer the green robe today, or the blue?”

Feng Yan turned, her voice soft and certain. “The green. Simpler is better for my father.”

The girl bowed quickly and scurried to the wardrobe, returning with a robe of pale jade silk, its embroidery modest but fine. As the garment was settled over her shoulders, Feng Yan caught her reflection in the bronze mirror: a girl of seventeen, calm-eyed, lips unpainted, her features still untouched by the weight of court life. It was eerie to see herself so young again. The last time she had worn this robe, she had cried from nerves before visiting the palace.

This time, she buttoned the last loop herself and smoothed the fabric with hands as steady as stone.

The main hall of the estate was quiet when she arrived. Her father, General Feng Huai, sat near the open hearth, his face lit from beneath by coal-glow. He was a tall man, still broad in the shoulders, though age had set lines into his mouth and brow that had not yet deepened into weariness. He looked up when she entered, and his eyes flicked briefly over her figure—assessing, as he always did.

“You’re looking more like your mother every day,” he said. “Good. It will please the court.”

Feng Yan bowed deeply. “Father.”

He gestured for her to sit, and she obeyed. A servant poured tea silently between them, then vanished like mist. General Feng didn’t speak at first. He drank in silence, eyes narrowed over the rim of his cup.

“I received word yesterday,” he said finally. “The selection has been confirmed. The Emperor will summon all eligible daughters of noble blood within the month. There’s no reason your name shouldn’t be submitted.”

There it was—the beginning of everything. Her father, always thinking in moves and ranks, already placing her like a piece on the imperial board. In her former life, she had smiled and nodded, willing to serve the family cause, even at the cost of her own heart.

Now, she smiled again—but only on the surface.

“I’m honored to be considered,” she said, her voice clear. “If it brings distinction to our house, I will serve without hesitation.”

General Feng studied her. “You’ve grown quiet since your illness.”

“A fever can humble even the proudest spirit,” she replied smoothly. “Perhaps I needed to be reminded of that.”

He gave a short laugh. “A little humility will help you. But don’t mistake it for weakness, Yan’er. The palace is not a place for soft hearts. If you're chosen, your life will no longer be your own.”

She looked up at him, eyes steady. “Was it ever?”

That gave him pause. His brows drew together faintly—not in anger, but something closer to curiosity.

“You speak like someone older than seventeen.”

She met his gaze without flinching. “Perhaps I am.”

He snorted. “Riddles already? The court will love you.”

He waved her off, satisfied for now, and she rose to leave. As she passed through the doorway and into the side corridor, she allowed her expression to shift, just slightly. A corner of her mouth lifted—not in amusement, but in the satisfaction of control regained.

She had passed his first test. He believed her restored, grateful, obedient. That was good. Let him think so.

Let them all think so.

In truth, she had never been more awake.

She returned to her chambers and began a private inventory of her belongings, sending servants on small errands that, to the untrained eye, looked like girlish whims—extra ink and paper, perfumed oils, certain hair ornaments she had once given away but now specifically requested to be returned. The staff obeyed, confused but unquestioning.

Each piece, each gesture, was a seed.

She wrote letters in her old script, mimicking the calligraphy of her younger self, sending notes to distant cousins and family friends, rekindling relationships she knew would become valuable later. She asked for gossip, for recommendations of tutors, for stories about palace etiquette. No one questioned her curiosity. After all, a girl summoned to the Spring Selection was expected to be eager.

By evening, she had mapped out a network of likely allies and potential threats, re-confirmed names she remembered from her first life—who would rise, who would fall—and begun plotting ways to divert the coming disaster.

A knock came again after sunset, more urgent than before. Her maid announced that a guest had arrived—an old friend of the family, back from an overseas post. Unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“Who is it?” Feng Yan asked, already rising.

“A young lord. His surname is Li.”

The name struck her heart like a thrown stone.

Li.

There were many Lis in the empire, but only one who mattered.

“Did he give his courtesy name?” she asked.

The maid paused. “He called himself Zhen.”

Feng Yan’s hand fell to her side slowly.

So it begins, she thought.

She had not expected to see him this early. Not yet. In her first life, they had barely spoken until her second year in the palace—when he returned to court under suspicion of treason. Now he was here, visiting her family estate as a polite guest?

Something had changed.

Or someone had remembered.

She turned to the mirror, smoothed her sleeve, and allowed a delicate smile to rise on her lips.

“Invite him to tea,” she said. “Tell him the general’s daughter would be honored to welcome Prince Li Zhen.”

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