The door opened with a chime of silver bells.
Yue flinched at the sound.
Two attendants in pale plum robes stood just outside, eyes lowered, hands clasped. Neither spoke.
But the meaning was clear:
You are permitted. For now.
She stepped through.
Behind her, the Eye glided silently from the ceiling, following like a second moon.
They walked in silence down a corridor of smooth white stone, the walls etched with phrases she didn't recognize—mantras, prayers, maybe warnings.
At the far end, a pair of ornate wooden doors opened without touch.
Beyond them: the garden.
Yue stopped.
It wasn't large—perhaps the size of a training yard—but it was lush, sculpted, and nauseatingly pristine.
Crimson roses climbed carved trellises. Pale blue willows bent toward an ornamental pond. Statues lined the stone paths: mothers, saints, mythical queens, all rendered in glowing jade. Some held infants. Some bore weapons. Most looked like they were praying for something long gone.
The air smelled of lavender and powder.
And blood.
Not fresh—but old.
Ritualized. Preserved.
A soft wind stirred her robe. It was the first real breeze she'd felt in days. She didn't trust it.
Servants moved through the garden in silence, tending plants, lighting incense bowls, sweeping paths already clean. None looked at her. All of them knew she wasn't one of them.
She was something else.
Yue stepped onto the path.
The stones were warm.
The Eye floated behind her, never touching, always pulsing.
She passed a cluster of carved fertility idols—women with four arms and open palms, bellies rounded, breasts exposed, faces serene.
One of the servants had placed red powder at their feet in a perfect spiral.
Yue paused.
She stared at the powder. Then at the statue.
"Not a goddess," she whispered. "Just a prison they dressed in flowers."
The wind didn't answer.
But somewhere behind her, a bell rang.
Footsteps approached, soft and deliberate.
Someone was coming.
The woman who approached was walking art.
Nine layers of gauze-thin silk floated around her like mist, each dyed a different shade of ivory, ash, or rose. Her hair was arranged with so many pins it looked like a crown made of bone and glass. A trail of rosewater followed her like perfume with purpose.
Yue didn't move.
The woman stopped just short of touching distance. She bowed shallowly — more gesture than respect.
"Lady Yue," she said, her voice like cooled honey. "You're even lovelier than the whispers say."
Yue tilted her head. "And you are?"
"Wen Zhenyi," she said with a smile, "of the Seventh Wing. Childless. Untouched. Unwatched. But never uninformed."
Yue didn't blink. "That's a lot to say about yourself in two breaths."
Zhenyi's smile widened. "I economize."
She gestured to the bench nearby, shaded by a weeping willow carved with marriage blessings.
"Would you share a moment?"
"I wasn't given much choice about being here."
Zhenyi sat anyway.
She waved a hand, and a servant appeared almost instantly, kneeling with a tray.
Two cups.
One steaming.
Yue sat, slowly, but didn't touch the cup.
Zhenyi lifted hers and sipped. "It's only chrysanthemum."
Yue stared at it. "If it was poison, I'd know."
Zhenyi chuckled softly. "Oh, no. Not poison."
She leaned in, voice gentle.
"Incense, Lady Yue. In the steam. Gentle Vein-fragrance — clears the thoughts, opens the pulses. Helps reveal one's… harmony."
Yue raised an eyebrow. "Your way of saying it breaks people open."
Zhenyi smiled sweetly. "Not break.Blooms. That's what the Eye said, didn't it?"
Yue's spine stiffened.
The Eye. It had followed her. It was watching them now, high above the garden path. Glowing. Silent.
Zhenyi didn't touch her tea again. She didn't have to.
The air around Yue began to shift. Thicken. A warmth slid over her skin — subtle at first, like embarrassment. Then hotter. Tingling.
Her heart thudded faster.
Zhenyi's lashes lowered.
"It's such a rare thing," she said softly, "to see someone with a Glass Vein blossom. I hope you let us witness it fully."
Yue stood.
Her balance tipped slightly. The warmth was rising fast now, curling up her spine. The scent of chrysanthemum was too sharp. The flowers in the garden looked too bright. The path seemed to ripple.
Zhenyi's voice followed like a thread of silk.
"You won't bleed the way we do.
That's why they fear you.
That's why they'll keep testing.
You'll shatter, darling. Eventually. We all do."
Yue turned and walked away, one step too fast to be graceful.
The warmth in her blood was turning sharp. The pulse in her neck screamed.
And above her, the Eye watched.
And did nothing.
By the time Yue reached the far side of the garden, her skin was on fire.
Not with heat.
With pressure.
Like something underneath her surface was swelling—stretching too far, too fast. Her breath came in short, tight bursts. Her robe clung to her spine. Her hands shook.
She reached a pillar, leaned on it, and nearly collapsed.
The veins in her arms were glowing. Faint at first—then stronger.
Not red. Not blue.
White.
Like light through frosted glass.
She tried to speak, but her voice broke on her tongue. Her knees buckled again. The world blurred, doubled, spun.
She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a silver basin: her eyes glowing faintly, the mark on her neck pulsing.
Then her reflection—moved.
It blinked… wrong. Delayed. Off-beat.
Yue reeled back.
Her body pulsed again—this time with pain. A new, deeper ache under her skin, like thorns pushing from within.
She looked at her arms.
Tiny, hair-thin fractures were forming just beneath the surface, glowing along her veins.
Vein Thorns.
A bloom reaction.
An unstable Vein, forced open too early, too violently.
She stumbled to her knees beside a marble bench.
The pain was growing. Her thoughts were splitting.
She turned toward the Eye — still floating, still silent.
"Help me," she tried to say.
It didn't answer.
She coughed—once, then again.
Blood on her lips.
But it wasn't red.
It shimmered.
She wasn't bleeding. She was crystallizing.
A part of her understood this was designed.
A test. A trigger. A trap.
Zhenyi knew.
The Eye knew.
But no one would stop it.
And Rin—Rin wasn't here. Couldn't be. They'd barred him. Locked him out when they brought her to the garden. She realized it now.
Her pulse thundered.
Her vision blurred again.
She was going to—
Then—
She saw it.
A decorative mirror—tall, silver-backed, leaned against a stone wall.
She crawled to it.
Her limbs barely moved. Her breath rasped.
She reached it.
Pulled herself upright by the edge.
And slammed her hand into the glass.
Hard.
The pain shot through her arm like a blade.
The mirror cracked down the center.
And her blood hit the surface.
A single smear of glowing silver-blue.
Everything stopped.
Her pulse slowed.
The Vein thorns withdrew—slightly.
The heat ebbed. Not vanished—contained.
The Eye pulsed behind her. Slowly.
She turned, still shaking.
And whispered, "I'm not yours."
Then she collapsed to her knees beside the mirror.
Behind her, the cracked glass caught her reflection.
It was still glowing.
But it was hers.
The basin rippled even though there was no wind.
Yue leaned against the cracked mirror, her breath ragged, one hand braced against the stone wall for balance.
She could feel it — her blood settling.
Not calming.
Coiling.
Whatever had tried to force its way out had been pushed back, but not erased. Her Vein had flared wide. Too wide. Too early. And now it wasn't going back quietly.
She looked down at her palm.
A lattice of fine silver cuts ran across the skin. Her blood had already begun to dry — but instead of flaking, it hardened into delicate lines like threads of glass.
Not natural.
Not court Vein.
Not imperial.
The incense had failed to destroy her.
But it had left her different.
She turned to the stone wall beside the mirror and pressed her bloodied palm against it.
The impact wasn't hard.
But the result was unmistakable.
The wall — smooth black slate — now bore a handprint. Faintly glowing. Etched in.
A sigil of herself.
Of defiance.
She pulled her hand back and stared at it.
The print would fade soon. The energy wouldn't hold.
But she didn't care.
She wanted them to see.
Let the next servant who came by whisper to another:
"She left a mark."
Let Zhenyi see the smear and know it wasn't surrender. It was survival.
And the Eye?
Still hovering behind her.
Still watching.
She turned slowly to face it.
Her voice was hoarse, dry, but steady.
"I'm not a vessel," she said. "I'm not a bloom. And I'm not your experiment."
The Eye made no sound.
She walked past it. Slowly.
And this time—it backed away.
The door to her quarters was already open.
Not wide — just a sliver, like someone had left it ajar on instinct.
She stepped through and saw him immediately.
Rin sat at the far wall, back against stone, legs bent, his arms resting loosely over his knees. His robe was dusted with faint travel ash. His claws were visible at the tips of his fingers. He hadn't moved in hours.
He looked up the moment she entered.
His eyes scanned her — not greedily. Not possessively.
Checking.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
She crossed the room in silence and lowered herself onto the edge of her sleeping platform. Her limbs still trembled. Her spine ached. Her skin felt too tight.
But her eyes were sharp.
The brand on her neck pulsed once — light, not hot.
Rin didn't approach.
He didn't need to.
She finally looked at him, and her voice — though quiet — cut clean.
"Zhenyi poisoned the tea."
"I know."
"She said I'd shatter."
He was silent.
"She's wrong."
He tilted his head.
She looked down at her bloodied palm. The lattice of crystal lines was beginning to fade. But her skin still tingled with Vein tension.
"I saw my reflection move," she said. "I saw myself bloom. I didn't like it."
Rin didn't respond right away.
Then, softly, like he hadn't said it since waking in the dark:
"Lian."
Her name.
Not like a command. Not like a memory.
Like a fact.
Yue's eyes closed.
And when she opened them, her voice was steady:
"If they want me broken," she said, "they'll have to stop treating me like glass."
Rin's jaw flexed.
She didn't reach for him.
But she leaned back slightly — just enough that her shoulder brushed the wall beside his.
Not touch.
Not surrender.
Permission.
And when he breathed her name again — barely more than a whisper — she didn't stop him.