The peach orchard rustled with a hush of wind, like an old friend exhaling secrets. Under its blushing canopy, Xue Lian opened the red-threaded letter with steady hands. No seal, no name. Yet the brushstrokes danced with familiarity—an unmistakable curve in the tail of the character for "shadow," a tiny dot misplaced as always. Her heart gave a quiet lurch.
Yue Zhen.
Once her closest confidant in the last life, Yue Zhen had been more than a maidservant. She had been Xue Lian's shadow—her protector, her spy, her last loyal soul in a world that had devoured her from within. They had whispered secrets by candlelight, traced poison trails through royal kitchens, and dreamed of escape beyond palace walls. But Yue Zhen had vanished near the end. Some had whispered betrayal. Xue Lian never believed it. And now, this letter.
"Find the stone with the crimson bloom. Not all of us ."
The message was short, almost cryptic, but it carried the weight of years. She read it again by the soft lantern light in her chambers, the flicker of flame casting shadows across her walls and her thoughts. If Yue Zhen was alive—if she had survived the bloodied end of that life—what did she know? And why surface now?
She waited until the courtyard grew quiet, until even the watchful servants dozed on their feet. Donning a cloak dark enough to swallow moonlight, she slipped out of her chambers with the silence of a ghost.
The path to the old lotus pond lay far behind the estate gardens, overgrown with moss and memory. It had once been a private place—a sanctuary hidden from courtly gazes and poisonous gossip. She used to sit there, watching lotus blossoms break the surface like shy smiles. Now, nature had reclaimed it.
She found the stone after searching the northern edge. It was cracked with age and hugged by roots, but unmistakable. A single crimson lotus bloomed beside it—out of season, out of place. A warning. Or a marker.
Xue Lian dropped to her knees, brushed away leaves and dirt. Her fingers found a groove beneath the stone. She pried it open. A hollow pocket inside. And within, wrapped in oilcloth and time, a diary no larger than her palm.
It smelled faintly of ink, earth, and rain.
The moment she held it, her breath caught. She remembered Yue Zhen's writing—sharp strokes, urgent margins, entire pages scrawled in code. If this was her final testimony, it could unravel everything about the betrayal, the death, the fall.
She stood and pressed the diary to her chest, hiding it inside her inner sleeve. The wind shifted. Leaves rustled louder.
A twig snapped.
She whirled.
From between the drooping willows emerged a tall figure in indigo robes, moonlight etching silver across his sleeves.
"Lady Xue."
Her breath stilled. Shen Jingyuan.
His gaze lingered on her cloak, her hands. His presence here, of all places, was too sudden. Too precise.
"You walk dangerous paths alone," he said.
"And you guard them without invitation," she countered, calm despite the storm flickering in her chest.
He didn't smile. For once, there was no teasing in his expression—only something unreadable, like he was solving a riddle with her name etched into it.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the scent of lotus and unspoken truths.
"Did you follow me?" she asked.
"I was passing by," he replied smoothly, but they both knew it was a lie. The lotus pond was far from any path of convenience.
She shifted subtly, tucking the diary deeper into her sleeve. "What brings you to such a lonely part of the estate? Surely not the moonlight."
"Perhaps I was drawn by curiosity."
"Or suspicion."
He tilted his head slightly. "Should I be suspicious, Lady Xue?"
Her lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "That depends. Do you believe a woman can walk alone without plotting treason?"
Shen Jingyuan didn't answer. His gaze fell momentarily to the edge of her sleeve. She saw it. He had noticed. But he said nothing.
The air between them grew thick with unsaid things.
In her past life, men like him had offered smiles with knives hidden beneath. She had learned to read them. But Shen Jingyuan—this version of him—was an enigma. He watched her too closely, spoke too carefully, stood too near yet revealed so little. She didn't trust him. But she didn't entirely fear him either.
"If you'll excuse me," she said finally, stepping past him.
He didn't stop her. But as she walked away, she felt his gaze trailing her, heavy as a chain.
Back in her quarters, Xue Lian locked the door and lit a small lamp. She waited until the house fell silent again, then unwrapped the diary.
The first page bore Yue Zhen's familiar handwriting:
"To my lady, should this ever find her. I failed to save you. But I did not betray you. And I did not die easily."
Xue Lian pressed a hand to her mouth.
The next pages were filled with entries—some simple, some coded. Warnings about court schemes. Descriptions of bribes made to eunuchs. A list of ingredients smuggled into the royal kitchen the week Xue Lian fell ill.
Then, a final entry:
"He knew. The one you feared. He was the blade behind the curtain. I tried to warn you. But I was caught. Be careful of the one who smiles too easily and speaks too little. His name begins with Shen."
The words made her blood run cold.
She closed the book with trembling fingers. Shen Jingyuan. Could it be him? Or someone connected to his name?
A knock rattled the door suddenly. Not a servant's tap. Firmer. Intentional.
She hid the diary beneath a floorboard before answering.
But no one was there.
Only a strip of paper pinned to the frame with a small silver pin.
You weren't supposed to survive this long.
The message was unsigned. Again.
Xue Lian stared at it, heart hammering.
Yue Zhen had left her a thread—but someone else was already tugging at it.
The game had begun again.
And this time, she would not die quietly.