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Chapter Text

The air in the rear courtyard of the Crystal Pavilion tasted of impending rain and stagnant water. It was a thick, cloying humidity that made robes stick to skin and turned the simple act of breathing into a labor. Maomao wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve, her expression pinching into a frown as she crouched near the drainage grate.

It wasn't the weather that annoyed her. It was the smell.

To the untrained nose, the courtyard smelled of damp earth and the heavy sweetness of rotting gardenias. To Maomao, it smelled of something far more interesting, and consequently, far more dangerous. Beneath the floral decay, there was a sharp, acrid undercurrent—like vinegar boiled in a copper pot.

Zhen poison? No, too metallic. Monkshood? Lacks the numbness in the nostrils.

She pulled a pair of iron tongs from her satchel, the metal cool against her palm. The Emperor’s inner garden was supposed to be a sanctuary, a manicured cage for the beautiful birds he collected. But cages were prone to rust, and rust bred tetanus, and where there were people desperate for favor, there were poisons.

"You look like a cat about to pounce on a particularly fat mouse," a voice drawled from the shadow of the portico.

Maomao didn't flinch, though her internal monologue let out a weary sigh. She recognized the voice—silky, melodic, and currently dripping with the sort of leisurely boredom that usually meant trouble for her.

She turned, keeping her crouch, and offered a perfunctory nod. "Jinshi-sama. I wasn't aware the Master of the Rear Palace had time to watch servants inspect drainage ditches."

Jinshi stepped into the light, and as always, the atmosphere seemed to shift around him. He was dressed in robes of deep indigo embroidered with silver thread, a contrast to the grey overcast sky. His face, a weapon of mass destruction aimed at the hearts of the court, was composed into that celestial smile that made Maomao want to check her skin for hives.

"I have time for many things, Maomao," he said, stepping closer, ignoring the mud that threatened his pristine hem. "Especially when Gaoshun tells me our resident apothecary has been lurking near the condemned storage wing for three nights in a row."

"Inspection," Maomao corrected, turning back to the grate. "And it's not lurking if I have a permit."

"A permit you forged?"

"A permit I acquired." She finally clamped the tongs around something lodged deep in the muck of the drain. With a wet squelch, she pulled it free.

It was a rag, heavy and sodden, stained a violent, unnatural purple.

Jinshi’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity. He leaned over her shoulder, a waft of expensive incense—sandalwood and rose—invading Maomao’s personal space. "That is a hideous color. Did a consort fail at dyeing her silks?"

"If she did, she likely won't be doing it again," Maomao muttered. She dropped the rag onto a clean cloth she had laid out on the stones. "Don't touch it. Unless you want your skin to blister and your throat to close up within the hour."

Jinshi recoiled instantly, taking a very un-celestial hop backward. "You could have led with that!"

"I just did." Maomao leaned in, sniffing the rag carefully, waving the air toward her nose rather than inhaling directly. The acrid scent was stronger now. Wolf’s Bane mixed with... crushed blister beetles? No, this is foreign. Southern.

"This was used to wipe down a blade," she analyzed, her voice dropping into the flat, professional monotone she used when discussing toxins. "Or a mixing bowl. See the discoloration at the edges? The fibers are dissolving. This is caustic. If this had entered the water supply..."

"It was in the drain," Jinshi said, his voice dropping an octave, the playfulness evaporating. He was no longer the celestial nymph; he was the administrator who kept the Inner Palace from eating itself alive. "Who put it there?"

"That is the question." Maomao wrapped the rag carefully in the cloth, securing it with twine. "Someone tried to dispose of evidence. But they were sloppy. Or perhaps..." She paused, looking at the dark clouds gathering above the palace walls. "Perhaps they were interrupted."

She stood up, her knees popping. "I need to analyze this. It’s not a standard poison. It feels... ceremonial."

Jinshi looked at the bundled rag, then at Maomao. His gaze lingered on a smudge of dirt on her cheek, his expression softening in a way that made Maomao instinctively guard her emotions.

"Take it to the medical office," he ordered, but his tone was gentle. "Gaoshun will escort you. And Maomao?"

She paused, clutching the bundle. "Yes?"

"Do not test it on yourself."

Maomao blinked, her face blank. "I make no promises regarding the pursuit of knowledge, Jinshi-sama."

"Maomao."

"I hear you." She bowed, turning on her heel. "But hearing and obeying are two different medical conditions."

She walked away quickly, missing the way Jinshi reached out as if to grab her sleeve, his hand hovering in empty air before falling back to his side, his fist clenched tight.

The Medical Office was quiet, save for the rhythmic grinding of the mortar and pestle. The quack doctor was asleep at his desk, a string of drool connecting his lip to a scroll on herbal teas. Maomao ignored him, her entire world narrowed down to the ceramic bowl in front of her.

She had extracted a residue from the rag. Under the light of a flickering oil lamp, the liquid shimmered with an iridescent sheen.

Beautiful, she thought, a shiver of delight running up her spine. Deadly, but beautiful.

She dipped a silver needle into the solution. The silver turned black instantly. Sulfides, high concentration. But there was something else. She wafted the steam from a heated sample toward her nose.

Almond. Bitter almond. And... rot.

Cyanide derived from stone fruits, stabilized with... what is that?

She reached for a small vial of reagent—vinegar and salt solution—and added a drop. The mixture hissed, releasing a puff of purple smoke.

Maomao’s eyes widened. She knew this reaction. She had read about it in a text her father, Luomen, had brought back from the West years ago. It was a binding agent used by the tribes of the Western arid lands. It allowed poisons to remain potent even when dried on a surface for weeks.

"A sleeper poison," she whispered.

The door to the medical office slid open with a snap. Maomao didn't look up, assuming it was a servant or perhaps Xiaolan looking for snacks.

"If you're looking for the dried persimmons, the doctor ate them all," Maomao said, reaching for her notebook to record the reaction.

"I am not looking for persimmons."

The voice was rough, unfamiliar. Maomao spun around, her hand instinctively going to the small knife she kept in her sleeve for cutting roots.

A eunuch stood in the doorway. He was tall, broad-shouldered in a way that suggested he hadn't been a eunuch for long, or perhaps hadn't lost the muscle mass of a soldier. His face was shadowed by a hood, but Maomao saw the glint of metal in his hand.

He wasn't holding a tray. He was holding a dagger.

"You found the rag," the man said. It wasn't a question.

Maomao assessed the situation in a heartbeat. The quack doctor was uselessly asleep. The exit was blocked. Her weapons were a small knife and a bowl of experimental poison.

"I find a lot of trash," Maomao said, keeping her voice steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "The palace is full of it."

"You analyzed it." The man took a step forward. He moved with a scary kind of grace—silent, predatory. "The Master said no loose ends."

The Master?

"If you kill me," Maomao said, inching backward toward the prep table, "the poison on this table will vaporize. In this enclosed space, we’ll both be dead before you hit the floor."

It was a bluff. Mostly. The vapor would be nasty, likely blinding, but probably not instantly fatal. But the assassin didn't know that.

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking to the smoking bowl.

That hesitation was all she needed. Maomao grabbed a jar of dried chili powder—intended for a poultice for rheumatic pain—and hurled the contents into his face.

The man roared, clawing at his eyes. Maomao lunged, not for the door, but for him. She needed to disarm him. It was a stupid, reckless move, the kind Luomen would have scolded her for, the kind that would have made Jinshi turn pale.

She slammed her shoulder into his gut, knocking him back. He flailed, his dagger slashing wildly.

Maomao felt a sudden, icy sting across her upper arm. It wasn't pain, not yet. Just a cold shock, followed by a wet warmth.

She didn't stop. She kicked his knee, hard, hearing a satisfying crunch, and scrambled past him as he fell. She burst out into the corridor, the cool night air hitting her face.

"Guards!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Intruder!"

She heard stumbling behind her. The man was still coming.

She ran. The corridors of the medical wing were a maze of wood and paper screens. She turned a corner, her boots slipping on the polished floor. Her left arm felt heavy, numb. She glanced down.

The sleeve of her robe was soaked in dark red. The slash was deep.

The dagger, she realized with a detached horror. It wasn't just steel.

The edges of her vision began to blur. The metallic smell of her own blood was mixing with the scent of the poison that still lingered in her olfactory memory. The floor seemed to tilt.

The blade was coated. Same poison. That’s why he didn't care about the vapor.

She stumbled, her shoulder slamming into a pillar. She needed to find Gaoshun. Or Jinshi.

"Maomao?"

She looked up. Down the long, lantern-lit corridor, a figure was walking toward her. Tall, elegant, followed by the hulking shadow of Gaoshun.

Jinshi.

She tried to call out to him, to warn him that there was an assassin, but her tongue felt like it was made of lead. Her legs gave way.

The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was Jinshi’s face—his beautiful, composed mask shattering into absolute terror as he broke into a run.

Pain was a fascinating thing. Maomao had often categorized pain: the dull throb of a bruise, the sharp sting of a burn, the cramping agony of ingestion poisons.

This pain was different. It was cold. It felt as though ice water was being injected directly into her marrow, freezing her blood while her skin burned with fever.

She floated in a gray haze. She could hear voices, but they sounded underwater.

"...get the physician! The Imperial Physician!" That was Jinshi. He sounded angry. Why was he angry?

"...pulse is thready. The toxin is fast-acting." That sounded like Luomen. Dad? Why is Dad here? He’s in the outer court.

"Hold her still. I need to excise the tissue."

A spike of agony, white-hot and blinding, tore through the gray haze. Maomao tried to scream, but only a ragged gasp escaped her throat. She felt hands holding her down—strong, gentle hands.

"I've got you," a voice whispered near her ear. It was trembling. "I've got you, Maomao. Don't look. Just look at me."

She forced her eyes open. The world was blurry, a smear of gold and candlelight. But directly above her, filling her vision, was Jinshi.

He wasn't wearing his usual perfect mask. His hair was loose, falling in messy curtains around his face. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide and wet, burning with a frantic intensity she had never seen before. He was holding her uninjured hand, gripping it so tight she thought her bones might crack.

"Jin...shi..." she rasped.

"Shh. Don't speak." He pressed her hand to his cheek. His skin was hot. "Luomen is working. You were poisoned. The blade..."

Maomao tried to nod. She knew. She could feel the poison fighting the antidote in her veins, a war of attrition being fought on the battlefield of her body.

"Assassin..." she managed to whisper. "Western... binder..."

"We know," Jinshi said, his voice hardening into something jagged. "Gaoshun caught him. He won't hurt anyone ever again."

Another wave of pain washed over her as Luomen did something to her arm. Her back arched off the bed, a high-pitched keen escaping her lips.

Jinshi didn't look away. He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. "Breathe. Breathe with me. I'm here."

He was an anchor in the storm. The scent of his incense—usually so annoying—was now the only thing tethering her to reality. She focused on it. Sandalwood. Rose. And underneath, the salty scent of tears.

Is he crying? Maomao wondered vaguely as the darkness encroached again. Over a servant? How wasteful.

She squeezed his hand back, or thought she did, before the abyss pulled her under once more.

When Maomao woke again, the world was still.

The pain had receded to a dull, throbbing ache in her left arm. She felt heavy, her limbs filled with sand. She blinked, staring up at a ceiling she didn't recognize.

It was high, painted with intricate clouds and dragons in soft lacquers. The silk sheets covering her were impossibly soft, smoother than anything she had ever touched.

She turned her head.

The room was dim, lit by a single lantern covered with a silk shade. The furniture was ebony, carved with exquisite detail. This was not the servants' quarters. This was not the medical office.

This was the master bedroom of the Jade Palace. No, grander. This was Jinshi's private residence within the inner court.

She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness slammed her back down.

"Idiot," she scolded herself, her voice a dry croak.

Movement in the corner. A figure rose from a chair pulled uncomfortably close to the bed.

"You're awake."

Jinshi stepped into the pool of light. He looked wrecked. He was still wearing the indigo robes from the garden, but they were wrinkled now. There were dark circles bruised under his eyes, and a shadow of stubble on his chin—something Maomao had never seen. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

He poured a cup of water from a pitcher and brought it to her. He didn't hand it to her; he slid an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her weight effortlessly, and held the cup to her lips.

"Drink. Slowly."

Maomao drank greedily. The water was cool and tasted of lemon and honey. When she finished, she leaned back against the pillows, feeling slightly more human.

"How long?" she asked.

"Three days," Jinshi said. He sat on the edge of the bed, violating about twelve different protocols of distance between master and servant. He didn't seem to care. "The fever broke this morning."

"Three days," Maomao repeated. She looked at her left arm. It was bandaged heavily, immobilized in a sling. "The poison?"

"Luomen said your... unique constitution... likely saved you." Jinshi’s face twisted in a mix of relief and distaste. "All those self-experiments you do. For once, I can't even scold you for them. If you were anyone else, you would be dead."

"Lucky me," Maomao deadpanned. She tried to shift, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches.

"Stop moving." Jinshi’s hands hovered, ready to restrain her. "You lost a lot of blood. The wound was deep."

"The assassin?"

"Dead," Jinshi said flatly. "He took a pill before Gaoshun could secure him. But we found the seal of the Verdigris Clan on his belongings. Not the house... a rogue faction from the North."

"North..." Maomao frowned. "The poison had Western binders. It’s a trade route connection."

"Stop," Jinshi commanded. He reached out and placed a hand over her eyes, effectively shutting off her train of thought. His palm was cool. "Stop solving mysteries. You are relieved of duty. You are a patient."

"I am a servant," Maomao mumbled from under his hand. "I should not be in your bed, Jinshi-sama. People will talk."

"Let them talk." He moved his hand, his gaze intense. "Let them say I favor the apothecary. Let them say I am bewitched. I do not care."

There was a raw vibration in his voice that made Maomao pause. She looked at him—really looked at him. The facade was completely gone. This wasn't the Moon Prince or the Eunuch. This was just a man who had been terrified.

"You're acting strange," she noted.

Jinshi let out a short, incredulous laugh. He ran a hand through his hair. "Strange? You nearly died in my hallway, Maomao. You bled out on my floor. Do you have any idea what that felt like?"

"Messy?"

Jinshi glared at her, but there was no heat in it. "You are infuriating. Absolutely impossible."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face inches from hers. "When I saw you fall... I felt like my heart stopped. I have spent my life playing games, maneuvering pieces on a board. But you... you are not a piece, Maomao. You are..."

He trailed off, struggling for the words.

Maomao watched him, feeling a strange tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the poison. She wasn't used to this. She was used to being useful, to being an observer. She wasn't used to being precious.

"I am just an apothecary," she said quietly.

"You are more than that," Jinshi whispered. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, a touch so feather-light it made her breath hitch. "You are the only one who sees me. Not the title, not the face. Just me."

He pulled back slightly, as if realizing he had gone too far. He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter, trying to reassemble some of his dignity.

"Anyway. Luomen is preparing a restorative draught. He will be here shortly. Until then, you are to rest. If you need anything—anything at all—you tell me."

Maomao looked at him. She saw the fatigue etched into his bones, the fear that still lingered in his eyes. She realized, with a start, that he had probably been sitting in that chair for three days straight.

"Jinshi-sama," she said.

"Yes?"

"You look terrible."

Jinshi blinked, then let out a genuine laugh—a sound of pure release. "And you look like a dried plum that’s been stepped on. We make a fine pair."

"Go sleep," Maomao said, closing her eyes. "I won't die while you nap. I promise."

There was a pause. She felt him shift, felt the mattress dip as he leaned over her one last time. She felt his lips press against her forehead—a lingering, desperate kiss that burned hotter than the fever.

"You better not," he whispered into her hair. "Because if you die, I will drag you back from the Underworld myself."

Maomao listened to his footsteps retreat to the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. She heard the rustle of silk as he lay down, and moments later, the slow, rhythmic breathing of sleep.

She lay in the dark, the taste of honey and lemon on her tongue, the ghost of his kiss on her forehead. Her arm throbbed, a reminder of the violence of the world. But as she drifted back into sleep, protected by the walls of the man who would burn the world down for her, Maomao thought that perhaps, just this once, being a "piece" on the board wasn't such a bad thing. Provided the player knew her worth.

She would investigate the Northern connection later. She would analyze the poison's chemical breakdown tomorrow.

For now, she would just sleep.

Two Days Later

Recovery was boring.

Maomao had decided this by the second hour of being conscious and lucid. By the second day, she was climbing the walls. Metaphorically, of course. Physically, she could barely lift a spoon without her shoulder protesting with a sharp, tearing sensation.

She was confined to Jinshi’s quarters. This was apparently for her "protection," though Maomao suspected it was mostly for Jinshi’s peace of mind. He hovered. He fretted. He was, frankly, more annoying than a mosquito in a summer tent.

"Eat this," Jinshi said, thrusting a bowl of porridge at her.

Maomao looked at the gruel. It was high-quality rice, cooked with chicken stock and ginseng. Expensive. Nutritious. Bland.

"I’m not an invalid," she grumbled, taking the bowl with her good hand.

"You were stabbed with a poisoned dagger. You are the definition of an invalid." Jinshi sat opposite her at the low table. He had cleaned up since her awakening—shaved, hair perfectly pinned, robes immaculate. But his eyes still tracked her every movement with a hawk-like intensity.

"Where is Gaoshun?" Maomao asked, looking around. The capable attendant was usually Jinshi’s shadow, but she hadn't seen him all morning.

"Interrogating the supplier of the dagger," Jinshi said, his tone turning chilly. "He is... very thorough."

Maomao flinched slightly. She knew what "thorough" meant in the context of the inner palace. She almost felt sorry for the supplier. Almost.

"I want to see the medical reports," Maomao said, changing the subject. "Luomen took notes on my blood toxicity levels, didn't he? I want to see the degradation rate of the Western binder."

Jinshi sighed, rubbing his temples. "Maomao. Can you not think about poisons for five minutes?"

"It’s my job."

"Your job is to get better."

"Understanding the poison helps me get better. Psychosomatic healing through intellectual satisfaction."

Jinshi stared at her. Then, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small stack of papers. He slid them across the table.

"I knew you’d ask," he admitted, looking defeated. "Luomen left them for you."

Maomao’s eyes lit up. She snatched the papers (carefully) and began to read. Her frown deepened as she scanned the characters.

"Fascinating," she muttered. "The toxin causes rapid coagulation, but the antidote Luomen used—a blend of snake bile and... is that thunder god vine?—reversed it. But the dosage..." She looked up. "He used a dosage that would kill a horse."

"He said your tolerance was high," Jinshi said dryly. "He also said you were an idiot for building up that tolerance by eating trash."

"It’s not trash, it’s research." Maomao put the papers down. "Jinshi-sama."

"What?"

"Thank you."

Jinshi paused, his teacup halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, surprised by the sudden sincerity.

"For what?"

"For saving me. For getting Luomen." She picked at the edge of the blanket. "I know it was... inconvenient. Bringing a servant to your private chambers. Using imperial resources."

Jinshi set the cup down with a sharp clack. The sound made Maomao jump.

"Inconvenient?" He stood up, towering over her. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. "Is that what you think this is? An inconvenience?"

Maomao blinked, confused by his sudden anger. "I am merely stating facts. My status—"

"To hell with status!" Jinshi exploded.

He paced away from the table, his robes swishing violently. He spun back to face her, his face flushed.

"You nearly died, Maomao. Do you understand? When Gaoshun carried you in, you were gray. You weren't breathing. I didn't care about status. I didn't care about the Emperor or the court or the rules. I would have torn this palace apart brick by brick if it meant saving you."

He stopped, his chest heaving. He looked wild again, the mask slipping.

"You are not an inconvenience," he said, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "You are... necessary."

Maomao sat frozen. Her heart was doing that strange hammering thing again. She wasn't used to being shouted at with affection. She was used to indifference, or transactional relationships. This raw, unfiltered emotion was terrifying.

She looked down at her hands. "I... I apologize for worrying you."

Jinshi let out a long breath, deflating. He walked back to the table and knelt down, bringing himself to her eye level.

"I don't want your apology," he said softly. "I want you to value your life. Just a fraction of how much I value it."

He reached out and took her hand—the uninjured one. He turned it over, tracing the calluses on her palm, the stains of herbs on her fingertips.

"You have scars," he murmured. "From your experiments. From your work."

"They are part of the trade," Maomao said defensively.

"I know." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. It was an intimate gesture, shocking in its tenderness. Maomao felt the heat of his breath against her skin, and a jolt of electricity shot up her arm.

"No more scars," Jinshi murmured against her skin. "Not if I can help it."

Maomao pulled her hand back, her face burning. "Jinshi-sama! You are... you are being strange again."

Jinshi looked up, a faint, sad smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I am just tired of pretending."

He stood up, smoothing his robes. The mask slid back into place, though it looked thinner than before.

"Finish your porridge," he commanded, but his voice was warm. "And then, I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" Maomao looked suspicious. "Is it a rare bezoar?"

Jinshi laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "No. Better."

The surprise was not a bezoar. It was a visitor.

An hour later, the door slid open, and a small, frantic figure burst in.

"Maomao!"

Xiaolan flew across the room, stopping just short of tackling Maomao on the bed. The young servant girl’s eyes were red and puffy.

"Xiaolan?" Maomao blinked. "What are you doing here? This is the inner sanctum."

"Jinshi-sama sent for me!" Xiaolan sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "He said you were hurt and bored and needed someone to gossip with. Oh, Maomao, I heard you fought a ninja! And you blew poison fire in his face!"

Maomao sighed. "It was chili powder. And he wasn't a ninja."

"Same thing!" Xiaolan sat on the floor by the bed, her face eager. "Everyone is talking about it. They say the Master of the Rear Palace carried you in his arms all the way from the medical wing. They say he threatened to execute the entire guard if you didn't live."

Maomao groaned, covering her face with her good hand. "Please tell me you’re exaggerating."

"Nope! Consort Gyokuyou even sent a basket of peaches. And Consort Lihua sent ginseng." Xiaolan leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. "But the real gossip is about him."

"Him?"

"Jinshi-sama. The maids say he hasn't left your side. They say he’s in love." Xiaolan wiggled her eyebrows.

Maomao felt a flush rise up her neck. "They are idiots. He just doesn't want to lose a useful tool."

"A useful tool doesn't get the Imperial Physician and the Master's own bed," Xiaolan countered shrewdly. She looked at Maomao, her expression softening. "He really was scared, Maomao. I saw him in the hallway that first night. He looked... broken."

Maomao fell silent. She looked at the door where Jinshi had exited earlier.

Broken.

She touched the spot on her palm where he had kissed her.

Maybe, just maybe, she needed to re-evaluate her hypothesis regarding the eunuch.

"Tell me the other gossip," Maomao said, distracting herself. "Has the Lady of the Garnet Palace thrown another tantrum?"

Xiaolan launched into a vivid description of a wardrobe malfunction involving a cat and a silk sash, and Maomao listened, letting the familiar chatter wash over her. But her mind was elsewhere.

She was thinking about the Northern assassin. She was thinking about the Western binder.

And she was thinking about Jinshi, who had looked at a poisoned, bloody apothecary and seen something necessary.

I need to get better fast, she resolved, her eyes narrowing. Someone tried to kill me. Someone tried to hurt him. And if there is one thing I hate more than wasted medicine, it’s an unsolved puzzle.

The game was afoot. And this time, Maomao wasn't just a pawn. She was the Queen’s guard dog, and she had a very nasty bite.

That Evening

The candles had burned low. Xiaolan had been sent back to the servants' quarters with a pocket full of sweets Jinshi had provided. The room was quiet again.

Maomao sat on the edge of the bed, testing the range of motion in her shoulder. It was stiff, painful, but manageable.

The door slid open softly. Jinshi entered. He was carrying a tray with two cups and a ceramic jar.

"You should be sleeping," he said, setting the tray down.

"I slept all afternoon thanks to Xiaolan’s chatter," Maomao said. "What is that?"

"Medicine for you. Wine for me." Jinshi poured a dark, pungent liquid into one cup and a clear, fragrant liquid into the other. He handed her the dark one.

Maomao sniffed it. "Willow bark, turmeric, and... honey?"

"To make it palatable." He sat down, nursing his wine. "Gaoshun returned."

Maomao stiffened. "And?"

"The assassin talked. Before the poison took him completely." Jinshi’s eyes were dark, reflecting the candle flame. "He was hired by a merchant guild with ties to the former dynasty. They believe..." He hesitated.

"They believe what?"

"They believe I am vulnerable," Jinshi said carefully. "They think that because I manage the rear palace, I am soft. They wanted to send a message by striking at the people close to me."

"They failed," Maomao said.

"They hurt you." Jinshi’s grip on his cup tightened. "That is not a failure in my eyes. That is a transgression."

He looked at her, his gaze piercing. "I am going to crush them, Maomao. I am going to root them out, every single one of them. And I am going to make them regret the day they looked in your direction."

There was a cold ruthlessness in his voice that sent a shiver down Maomao’s spine. It was the voice of the Emperor's brother, the voice of a ruler.

"Good," Maomao said simply. She raised her cup of bitter medicine. "I’ll help."

Jinshi looked at her, surprised. Then, a slow smile spread across his face—not the celestial mask, but a dangerous, wolfish grin.

"I hoped you would say that." He clinked his cup against hers. "To hunting vipers."

"To hunting vipers," Maomao agreed.

She drank the medicine. It was bitter, foul, and left a terrible aftertaste. But as she watched Jinshi, who was watching her with a look of terrifying devotion, she thought that perhaps the bitterness was worth it.

Because for the first time, she wasn't drinking it alone.

The storm outside had broken, leaving the air clean and cold. But inside the Jade Palace, a different kind of storm was brewing. Maomao and Jinshi, the apothecary and the noble, the poison-eater and the moon.

They were a dangerous combination. And the world was about to find out just how deadly they could be.

Maomao set the cup down. "Jinshi-sama."

"Yes?"

"Next time, use less honey. It ruins the profile of the turmeric."

Jinshi laughed, loud and long, the sound chasing away the last of the shadows in the room.

"As you wish, Maomao. As you wish."

Chapter Text

f there was one thing Maomao despised more than a poorly brewed decoction, it was idleness.

Idleness was a poison of a different sort. It didn't blister the skin or seize the lungs; instead, it rotted the mind, turning sharp thoughts into sludge. And Maomao, currently trapped in the silken cage of Jinshi’s private chambers, felt her brain turning to mush. She felt like a specimen herself, preserved in an expensive jar, all function replaced by display. The room was too quiet, the lighting too subdued, and the constant perfume of sandalwood and refinement was beginning to make her feel nauseous, a stark contrast to the familiar, honest stench of herbs, earth, and the back alleys she preferred.

It had been five days since the attack. Five days of high-thread-count sheets, meals that cost more than her father’s monthly earnings, and the constant, hovering presence of the Master of the Rear Palace. She had begun to catalog the faint geometric patterns in the lacquered screen just to keep her mind from deteriorating into boredom.

She sat on the edge of the sprawling bed, her legs dangling over the side. Her left arm was still bound tight against her chest in a sling of pristine white silk—likely cut from a bolt intended for an emperor’s robe. The throbbing in her shoulder had dulled to a persistent, rhythmic ache, like a drum beaten underwater, yet every now and then, a sharp, icy spike of pain reminded her that the wound, and the threat it represented, was very real.

"You are out of bed."

The voice came from the doorway, accompanied by the soft shhh of sliding wood.

Maomao didn't look up. She was busy examining a small, decorative vase on the bedside table, tracing the blue glaze with her good hand, analyzing the cobalt oxide used in the pigment. "My legs are not broken, Jinshi-sama. Only my arm. And according to Luomen’s treatise on circulation, prolonged bed rest can lead to blood stagnation and qi blockage. I am an apothecary, not a peony blossom awaiting pollination."

Jinshi stepped into the room. He brought with him the scent of the outer court—ink, old paper, and the crisp, cold air of the autumn morning. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes stark against his pale skin, but his movements were fluid as he crossed the room. He seemed to have given up entirely on his celestial composure when in her presence, retaining only the raw intensity of a person perpetually running on adrenaline and worry.

"Luomen also said that if you tore your stitches, he would hold me personally responsible," Jinshi countered, his voice flat with exhaustion. He placed a lacquered tray on the table. It held a steaming bowl of broth and a small plate of steamed buns. "Eat. You need the caloric intake to support tissue regeneration. It is a biological imperative, not a request."

Maomao eyed the food. The broth smelled rich, probably simmered for twelve hours with turtle meat and medicinal roots. "I’m not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I told you to eat." He sat on the stool beside the bed, his robes settling around him like a dark pool. His exhaustion only seemed to sharpen his authoritarian nature. "Unless you want me to feed you? I am told I have excellent technique."

The threat hung in the air, sweet and terrifying. The thought of his perfect fingers brushing her lips was enough to override her stubbornness. Maomao snatched a bun with her right hand. "I can feed myself."

Jinshi watched her chew, his chin resting on his hand. The intense, frantic energy from the night of the attack had settled into something quieter but no less heavy. It was a watchful weight, like the atmospheric pressure before a thunderstorm. He didn't speak again until she had finished the first bun, his silence a palpable demand for her compliance.

"Gaoshun brought the items," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet with a low tone.

Maomao stopped chewing. She swallowed the bite of bun with a grimace—it was too sweet, filled with lotus paste, an overly decadent flavor for her palate. "The assassin’s belongings?"

"Yes. They are in the solar. I thought..." He hesitated, looking at her bandaged arm, then meeting her gaze. "I thought you might want to look at them. I know that looking is healing for you. But you will look at them from a distance. Without touching anything dangerous."

Maomao was off the bed before he could finish the sentence. The abrupt movement caused a wave of vertigo to hit her, the room tilting dangerously to the left, but she locked her knees and waited for the black spots to clear, relying purely on willpower and shame to keep her upright.

"Maomao!" Jinshi was on his feet instantly, his hands hovering around her waist, afraid to touch but ready to catch. He looked genuinely afraid she would crumble.

"I am fine," she gritted out, breathing through her nose. "Just... orthostatic hypotension. Low blood volume. I need to move."

"You are stubborn," Jinshi hissed, but he didn't push her back down. His face was a mask of strained patience. Instead, he moved his arm, offering it to her. "Lean on me. If you fall, I’m the one who has to explain it to the physician. And if Luomen smiles at me while he does it, I will lose my temper."

Maomao looked at the arm. The indigo silk was smooth, the muscle beneath it rigid with tension. To accept the support was to acknowledge a level of intimacy that made her skin prickle. It was a trade-off: her dignity for stability.

She slipped her good hand through the crook of his elbow. "Lead the way, Jinshi-sama."

He was warm. That was the first thing she noticed. He radiated a steady, furnace-like heat that seeped through his layers of silk and into her cold fingers. He adjusted his stride to match hers, moving with a careful, deliberate slowness that she found both annoying and oddly touching. Her hip bumped his with every few steps, a steady, intimate connection that was entirely inappropriate. She focused on the smell of formaldehyde and dust, anything to ignore the proximity of the divine.

The solar was a bright, airy room adjoining the bedroom, usually reserved for reading or private audiences. Now, it looked like a crime scene investigation unit.

Gaoshun stood by a long table, his face as impassive as carved granite, guarding the collection of evidence. Upon seeing them, he bowed low, his gaze resting on Maomao with genuine concern.

"Xiaomao," he greeted, using the nickname with a gentleness that softened his stony features. "You look... upright. Against all medical advice, I suspect."

"Barely," Jinshi muttered, guiding Maomao to a chair near the table. He practically deposited her into it, arranging a cushion behind her back before she could protest. He stood protectively beside her, resting a hand on the back of the chair, his posture radiating ownership over the small apothecary.

Maomao ignored the fussing. Her eyes were locked on the table.

Laid out on a sheet of oil paper were the remnants of the man who had tried to kill her. A black hooded tunic of coarse, rough-spun wool. A pair of worn leather boots. A small pouch. And the dagger.

The dagger was sheathed in a glass container, sealed with wax. Even through the glass, it looked malevolent. The steel was dark, etched with patterns that looked like writhing snakes, suggestive of the Shiwi region’s ancient, venomous folklore.

"Don't open the container," Gaoshun warned, seeing Maomao lean forward, her investigative curiosity overriding her caution. "The residue is still active. Luomen confirmed the half-life is unexpectedly long."

"I know," Maomao said, her eyes narrowing. "I can smell it from here. It's the cyanide signature, mixed with the musky sulfur compound. Like a bitter rot."

She pointed to the boots. "Turn them over, please. Slowly."

Gaoshun obliged, flipping the heavy leather boots to reveal the soles. They were worn down at the heels, the leather cracked and stained, suggesting many leagues of walking. But it was the dried mud trapped deep in the treads that caught Maomao’s attention.

It wasn't the dark, rich, loess soil of the capital. It was red. A rusty, iron-rich red clay, the kind that stained everything it touched.

"Red clay," Maomao murmured. "High iron content. Sticky, compacts easily. This is not local dirt."

"The northern provinces have red clay," Jinshi noted, leaning against the table, his arms crossed, mimicking her posture of analysis.

"Not this shade," Maomao corrected, running her gaze over the soles again, her apothecary vision picking out the anomalies. She reached out—Jinshi flinched, instinctively pulling his hand back—but she only pointed to a specific clump of earth. "See the flecks of grey within the red? That’s pulverized limestone dust. Red clay and limestone together... that’s not just the North. That’s the Shiwi mountain range. Specifically, the western pass where the marble quarries operate."

Jinshi and Gaoshun exchanged a look of sudden, sharp understanding.

"The trade route," Gaoshun said heavily. "The one used for the heavy materials. The marble shipments."

"The assassin wasn't just Northern," Maomao deduced, her brain finally firing on all cylinders, the fog of recovery burning away. "He traveled through the Western pass. Recently. Within the last two weeks, judging by the fact that the clay hasn't fully crumbled away and is still bonded to the leather."

She shifted her gaze to the pouch. "What’s in there, besides coins?"

"Coins, yes," Gaoshun said, pulling a few out with tweezers—common currency, but mixed with a few old, untraceable silver pieces. "And this."

He used a separate pair of tweezers to pull out a small, crumpled piece of paper, folded into quarters. He laid it flat on the oil paper.

It was a receipt, or a list, scribbled hastily in charcoal, but legible. It was a list of raw ingredients, not polished herbs from a physician’s ledger.

Wolf’s Bane (for the paralyzing neurotoxin).
Sulfur (a stabilizer, and to aid in the causticity).
Dried beetle husks (to provide the blister agent and increase absorption).
Cinnabar (mercury sulfide, a coloring agent, and secondary poison).

Maomao felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with her injury. "He wasn't just buying poison. He was fabricating it. Those are ingredients for a primitive, but highly effective, nerve and contact agent. The kind used by the local gangs and mountain bandits of the Shiwi region," Maomao said softly. "But bandits don't infiltrate the Imperial Palace. Bandits don't have access to the inner garden drainage maps, or the guard schedules."

She looked up at Jinshi, who was listening with terrifying focus. "Someone let him in. Someone who knows the layout of the palace, but needed an untraceable outsider to do the dirty work. Someone who wanted a poison that looked foreign, to throw suspicion away from the court—forcing us to look externally."

"A frame-up, calculated and cold," Jinshi concluded, his expression darkening. The celestial beauty was entirely gone, replaced by the hard lines of a general planning a military campaign. "They wanted us to look West, or North, so we wouldn't look inside."

"Precisely." Maomao sat back, the adrenaline fading, leaving her exhausted. Her shoulder throbbed a warning beat, protesting the strain. "The viper is still here, Jinshi-sama. The assassin was just the fang."

Jinshi stared at the dagger in the glass box. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, knuckles white. He looked torn between ripping the palace apart and sitting down to hold Maomao until she was entirely well.

"We will find them," he said, his voice low and vibrating with suppressed rage. "Gaoshun, check the entry logs for the last month. Cross-reference anyone—servant, guard, or official—who has family or business in the Shiwi region. Focus on logistics and financial ties, particularly any reported gambling debts."

"Understood," Gaoshun said, bowing, his eyes hard and vengeful. He began to pack up the evidence, moving with the practiced efficiency of a man who handled palace secrets daily.

"And Maomao?" Jinshi turned to her, the transition from warlord to frantic caretaker instantaneous.

"Yes?"

"You are done for today. You look faint."

"But I haven't analyzed the cloth fibers of the tunic for pollen unique to the quarry—"

"Done," Jinshi repeated firmly. He reached down and took her good hand, pulling her gently up from the chair. "You are pale. You are swaying. And your shoulder is bleeding."

Maomao looked down. A small bloom of red was seeping through the white silk of her sling, a tiny, dark stain against the immaculate fabric.

"Oh," she said. "I didn't feel that."

"I know," Jinshi said, and his voice broke, just a fraction, the raw edge of fear returning. "That is what terrifies me. Your willingness to ignore your own hurt for a riddle."

The bedroom was warm, lit by the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through paper screens. Maomao sat on the edge of the bed, her upper robe stripped down to her waist, leaving her in her plain undergarments. Her skin felt cool in the air, exposed and vulnerable.

She shivered, not from cold, but from exposure. She was used to undressing for physicians. She viewed her body as a vessel, a biological machine. But this was not a physician. This was Jinshi.

"I can call a maid," Maomao suggested again, staring resolutely at the intricately painted screen on the far wall.

"The maids are clumsy," Jinshi muttered, his voice low. He was standing behind her, a bowl of warm water and fresh bandages on the table. "And I don't want anyone else seeing this. Their whispers are like the plague."

Seeing what? My scar? Or the sight of their Master tending to a low-ranking servant? Maomao wondered, her internal cynic working overtime.

She felt his hands on her skin. His fingers were cool, contrasting with the heat of the water he had dipped a cloth into. He began to peel away the old, blood-stained bandages. He moved with agonizing slowness, pausing every time the dried blood stuck to the skin, his care almost painful in its precision.

"Does it hurt?" he whispered, his voice close to her ear.

"It is acceptable," Maomao replied automatically, focusing on the rhythmic ticking of a clock in the outer chamber.

"Liar."

He peeled the last layer away. The air hit the wound, and Maomao hissed through her teeth, unable to suppress the sharp sting. It was an ugly thing—a jagged slash running from the top of her shoulder down towards her collarbone. The flesh was angry, red and purple, held together by thick black silk stitches, already beginning to pucker.

Jinshi went still. He stood behind her, his breath hitching, a sound of pure distress. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the tension radiating off him, heavy and choking.

"It will scar," Maomao said practically, trying to fill the silence with professional detachment. "But it missed the major artery. The range of motion should return to ninety percent with proper therapy. It’s an interesting example of a rapid tissue necrosis reversal."

"Ninety percent," Jinshi repeated, his voice hollow, mourning the missing ten percent.

He dipped the cloth in the water again and began to clean the wound. He was so gentle it was maddening. Maomao was used to scraping her own knees, cauterizing her own burns. This reverence, this treating her skin like it was made of spun glass, made her chest ache in a confusing way. It was a luxury she wasn't accustomed to, and therefore, distrusted entirely.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked suddenly, unable to stand the silence and the proximity any longer.

His hand paused. "Doing what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely with her good hand. "Cleaning my wounds. Feeding me. You are the Emperor's brother... or, well, the Master of the Rear Palace. You have eunuchs to wipe your feet. You shouldn't be touching... this."

She gestured to the ugly, puckered wound, wanting him to recoil, to see her as the damaged, low-born thing she was.

Jinshi didn't answer immediately. He finished cleaning the area, then reached for a jar of medicinal salve—a pungent green paste that smelled primarily of mugwort and bitter herbs, intended to prevent infection and reduce inflammation.

"When I was a child," Jinshi said softly, applying the paste, massaging it gently into the skin around the stitches, "I had a dog. A small, white thing. It wasn't pedigree. It just appeared one day in the servant's courtyard. It got caught in a trap meant for a fox near the outer walls."

Maomao blinked. "I didn't know you had pets. I thought you were only allowed songbirds."

"I wasn't supposed to. I hid it in an abandoned storage shed," he explained. He began to wrap the fresh bandage, winding the white linen carefully around her shoulder and under her arm. His arms encircled her, effectively hugging her from behind as he worked, his chin resting near the crown of her head. "It was hurt badly. A leg trap. The servants wanted to put it down immediately. They said it was broken, useless, and a liability."

He pulled the bandage tight, securing it with a deft knot, his actions speaking of practiced desperation. His hands lingered on her shoulders, resting against her smooth skin.

"I spent weeks nursing it. Feeding it by hand, because it couldn't stand. Cleaning its wounds, despite the stench and the risk of infection." He pressed his forehead lightly against the back of her neck, just for a moment of quiet connection. "It lived. It wasn't pretty anymore. It limped for the rest of its life. But it was mine. And it was the only thing in that palace that looked at me and didn't see a god, or a political tool, or a symbol. It just saw the boy who fed it. It gave something back that no title or consort ever could."

He pulled back, walking around to face her. His eyes were shimmering, unprotected, holding a desperate vulnerability.

"You are not a dog, Maomao," he said, his voice husky. "But when I saw you on that floor... when I saw your blood on my hands, staining my immaculate robes..." He swallowed hard, visibly fighting for composure. "I realized that I would clean your wounds a thousand times over if it meant you stayed in this world, intact or not."

Maomao stared at him. Her mouth felt dry. The logic center of her brain, usually so robust, was sputtering, short-circuiting against the overwhelming tide of his devotion.

This was dangerous. This was more dangerous than the assassin’s poison. This was an invitation to rely on someone, to be needed in a way that wasn't about her skills.

If she accepted this—this devotion, this care—she would be drinking a different kind of toxin. The kind that made you dependent. The kind that made you weak.

"The dog," Maomao said, her voice raspy, desperately clinging to the only logical thread. "What happened to it, eventually?"

Jinshi’s smile was sad, brittle, yet held a flicker of deep warmth. "It died of old age, years later. Fat and happy and loved. It forgot the trap, eventually."

He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek, lingering on the freckles.

"I am not a pet, Jinshi-sama," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I know," he said intensely. "You are the apothecary. And I am the patient. And right now, I am sick with worry. I am addicted to your existence, Maomao, and I have no cure."

He picked up the discarded, bloody bandages. The moment broke, shattering back into the reality of the room, the scent of antiseptic herbs and linen replacing the intoxicating scent of raw emotion.

"Put your robe back on," he said, turning away to dispose of the medical waste in a bucket lined with lead. "Gaoshun brought scrolls from the archives. If you are going to be stubborn and work, you can at least do it from the warmth of the bed."

Maomao pulled her robe up, fumbling with the sash one-handed. She watched his back.

Sick with worry. Addicted to your existence.

She touched the fresh bandage. It was neat, professional. Better than she could have done herself one-handed.

"Jinshi-sama," she called out.

He turned at the door. "Yes?"

"The salve," she said. "It has mugwort. It will stain your hands, quite aggressively."

Jinshi looked at his hands, stained faint, stubborn green. He shrugged, a gesture of elegant indifference. "Then let it stain. It matches the bruise on my ego."

He left the room.

Maomao sat alone in the gathering twilight. She looked at the green stain on her own skin, then at the door.

She lay back against the pillows, the scent of mugwort and expensive sandalwood filling her nose.

Slow burn, she thought, applying a term she’d heard the court ladies use for romance novels. Like a charcoal fire. It doesn't flare up and vanish. It smolders. It consumes.

She closed her eyes.

She was afraid of fire. But for the first time in her life, she didn't want to put this one out.

Three Days Later

The recovery proceeded with agonizing slowness.

Maomao was allowed to walk in the private garden attached to Jinshi’s wing, provided she was accompanied by Gaoshun or Jinshi himself. She felt like a prized poodle being walked on a leash. She was perpetually under surveillance, even while inhaling the autumn air and studying the precise shade of the gingko leaves.

But her mind was free, and it was running marathons, fueled by the excellent nutrition and the sheer need for distraction.

She sat on a stone bench under a gingko tree, the yellow leaves falling around her like gold coins. On her lap was a stack of personnel files, ledger entries, and maintenance logs Gaoshun had smuggled to her from the Ministry of Works. She felt most like herself when her fingers were sticky with bureaucratic ink and not medicinal salve.

"Find anything? You've been staring at that ledger for an hour."

Maomao didn't jump. She was getting used to Jinshi appearing out of thin air, a silent, beautiful shadow. He was wearing informal robes today, pastel green, which made him look unfairly fresh and spring-like despite the autumn chill.

"Patterns," Maomao said, tapping a scroll detailing the bi-weekly delivery manifests. "I’m looking for supply chain anomalies that correlate with the Shiwi trade route. Any deviation in routing, weight, or delivery personnel."

"Explain." Jinshi sat next to her, close enough that their sleeves brushed. He did that a lot lately. Invading her personal space. Maomao had stopped flinching, replacing the fear with annoyed resignation.

"The red clay," Maomao said. "It’s from the Shiwi region. But the presence of high-grade limestone dust implies a specific quarry. I cross-referenced the palace supply manifests. We import decorative marble from a single quarry near the western pass."

"For the new wing construction in the Garnet Palace," Jinshi nodded, tapping his memory for the specific documents he had signed. "I approved the budget and the contract myself six weeks ago."

"The shipments arrive bi-weekly," Maomao continued, tracing the figures with her finger. "Large carts. Heavy loads. Not easily inspected thoroughly without halting the entire construction process. The guard is instructed to wave them through with only a cursory glance."

She unrolled a second scroll—a partial roster of temporary workers and drivers. "Three weeks ago, the large marble shipment arrived. The driver for that particular delivery was listed as a new hire. His name was 'Li.' Very common. But his previous work history was listed as 'irregular transport'—a clear fabrication, but believable to a bored clerk."

"And?"

"And two days later, a maid in the laundry service reported missing a set of servant robes. Large size, the type worn by unskilled laborers." Maomao looked at Jinshi, the pieces clicking together with cold logic. "The assassin didn't scale the walls, Jinshi-sama. He rode in on a cart of marble, hidden under the rough-cut stone, changed his clothes on site, and walked right into the inner court as a construction worker."

"Trojan horse," Jinshi murmured, the elegance of his robes contrasting with the savagery of his realization. His face hardened. "But the marble goes to the Garnet Palace. That is..."

"Consort Ah-Duo’s former residence. Now empty, pending renovation." Maomao rolled the scroll up. "It’s the perfect staging ground. Empty rooms, not occupied by consorts. Construction noise to mask movement. And it is close to the drainage access points where the poison was later dumped."

Jinshi stood up, pacing the gravel path, crushing fallen gingko leaves under his expensive boots. "If they are using the Garnet Palace construction as a cover... that implicates the Ministry of Works. Or someone within the supply logistics who authorized the 'new driver.'"

"Or," Maomao said quietly, her voice cutting through his frustration, "someone who has the authority to sign off on the large-scale budget and overlook the inspections of the marble carts."

Jinshi stopped. He looked at Maomao, his eyes wide, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.

"Official Kan," he whispered, naming the senior official in charge of the renovation budget. "The overseer of the construction project."

"He has a reputation for crippling gambling debts, primarily to moneylenders known to operate near the northern border towns," Maomao noted, consulting a small, hidden file detailing financial reprimands. "And gambling debts make men desperate. Desperate men take bribes from Northern factions looking to destabilize the inner court's administration."

The wind picked up, blowing a swirl of leaves between them. The golden dust of the gingko seemed to symbolize the corruption hidden beneath the beautiful surface of the palace.

"This is speculation, Maomao," Jinshi said, though he looked entirely convinced. "We need physical proof. We cannot accuse a high-ranking official based on clay, missing laundry, and rumors of his wife’s creditors."

"I know," Maomao said. She stood up. Her shoulder twinged sharply, but she ignored it, focusing on the urgency of the moment. "That is why I need to go to the Garnet Palace. If the assassin camped out there for two days, there will be microscopic traces of the poison’s unique binder on the marble or on the floorboards of the storage room."

"No." The refusal was instant and absolute, a sharp, cold command. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"Jinshi-sama—"

"You are injured!" Jinshi snapped, turning on her, his face contorted in a mask of panic and fury. "You are barely healed. You are not going into a potential nest of vipers with one arm in a sling! What if the official planted another trap? What if his hirelings are still there?"

"I don't need to fight them," Maomao argued calmly, refusing to be intimidated. "I just need to inspect the storage room. If the assassin camped there, there will be traces. Toxin residue. Food scraps. Something Gaoshun won't identify as abnormal dust."

"Gaoshun can go with your notes!"

"Gaoshun is not an apothecary. He won't know what to smell for. He won't spot the microscopic dust of the poison binder mixed with the limestone, nor the subtle change in the air quality that indicates lingering volatile agents." Maomao took a step closer to him, forcing the issue. "It has to be me. Unless you wish to wait until Official Kan cleans his tracks, which he will, once he realizes the dagger was traced to Shiwi."

Jinshi glared at her. It was a formidable glare, one that usually made ministers tremble. Maomao just looked back, her face bland, her eyes challenging him to put his worry above the safety of the Imperial family.

They stood there for a long moment, a battle of wills played out in silence under the gingko tree, the rustling leaves the only witness. Jinshi looked like he wanted to lock her in her room until the investigation was over.

Finally, Jinshi groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat, the gesture utterly devoid of his usual grace. "You are unbearable. You know that? Completely impossible. You make me wish I was an assassin just so I could be rid of you."

"I have been told," Maomao agreed, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touching her lips.

"Fine." Jinshi stepped close, looming over her. The proximity was overpowering. "We go tonight. Gaoshun will ensure the area is clear, but we treat it as hostile territory. You do not leave my side. I mean it, Maomao. I will have you shackled to my wrist if I have to."

"Understood," Maomao replied, her voice firm. "Lead the way."

"And Maomao?"

"Yes?"

He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, a gesture that was both threatening and pleading. His eyes were dark, swirling with that terrifying, possessive intensity again, the love and the panic warring for dominance.

"If you get hurt again," he whispered, the sound a promise and a curse, "I will not be responsible for what I do to the person who touches you. I will make sure the person who hires them suffers worse than the poison you took."

Maomao’s heart did a traitorous flip. She leaned—just a fraction of a millimeter—into his touch. The cold dread of the investigation was suddenly overpowered by the overwhelming heat of his concern.

"I will be careful," she promised.

"See that you are."

He dropped his hand and turned away, barking a series of rapid, cold orders for Gaoshun to prepare their midnight excursion.

Maomao watched him go. She touched her cheek where his hand had been.

Investigation, she reminded herself firmly. Focus on the poison. Focus on the facts.

But as she followed him back towards the palace, the only fact her mind could focus on was that the taste of the air had changed. It no longer smelled of rain and rot.

It smelled of sandalwood, ozone, and the electric charge of a storm that was just beginning to break. And she, the apothecary, was willingly walking directly into the eye of it, protected by a cage of pure silk and iron will.

Chapter Text

The Garnet Palace did not look like a place of luxury, nor did it resemble the gilded cage that most of the Inner Court aspired to be. Under the pale, sickly light of a waning moon, it looked like a picked carcass, a hollowed-out memory of former glory waiting for a resurrection that felt eerily distant.

Scaffolding hugged the outer walls like the ribs of a leviathan, stripped of its flesh, casting long, skeletal shadows across the courtyard that seemed to twitch in the biting wind. The air here was fundamentally different from the rest of the Inner Palace. It lacked the cloying perfume of gardenias, crushed petals, and expensive incense that usually masked the rot of court life; instead, it tasted of wet plaster, sawdust, rusting iron, and the cold, mineral scent of pulverized stone—a dry, choking dust that coated the back of the throat.

Maomao adjusted the sling under her dark cloak, grimacing as the rough wool caught on the fine silk of her bandage. Her shoulder throbbed in time with her heartbeat—a dull, warning rhythm that reverberated through her collarbone, a persistent reminder of her own mortality that she studiously ignored in favor of the puzzle at hand.

"Stay close," Jinshi whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind rattling the loose tarps.

He was virtually unrecognizable. Gone were the shimmering silks, the intricate hairpins, and the celestial smile that could disarm a general or seduce a nun. He was dressed in dark, fitted clothing that absorbed the light rather than reflecting it, his hair tied back severely with a simple ribbon. He moved not with the languid grace of a court flower, but with the silent, predatory efficiency of a hunting cat—tension coiled in every muscle, ready to snap.

"I am attached to your shadow, Jinshi-sama," Maomao murmured back, keeping her voice low, her eyes scanning the dark windows of the looming structure. "Though if you squeeze my good arm any harder, I will have two useless limbs, and then you will have to feed me rice porridge with a spoon for the rest of my life."

Jinshi’s hand, which was gripping her upper arm with bruising force, loosened slightly, though he did not let go. His fingers were rigid, betraying the anxiety he was trying to suppress. "Quiet. Gaoshun says the perimeter guards are lax, bribed with wine and indifference, but construction sites have ears. Echoes carry in empty halls."

Gaoshun was a few paces ahead, a silent monolith melting into the darkness. He moved with a terrifying lack of sound for a man of his size, signaling for them to halt near a service entrance that had been forced open. The lock was twisted, the wood splintered—likely the work of the 'new driver' Maomao had identified in the logs, a man whose clumsiness was a cover for brute force.

They slipped inside, the darkness swallowing them whole.

The interior of the Garnet Palace was a maze of draped furniture that looked like ghosts standing in judgment, and half-finished walls exposing the wooden lattice beneath. Dust motes danced in the solitary, piercing beam of the small, shielded lantern Gaoshun carried, swirling in the disturbed air. The silence was heavy, almost physical, broken only by the settling of the old wood—groaning under the weight of history—and the distant wind whistling mournfully through the scaffolding outside.

"The storage room is to the north," Maomao whispered, her nose twitching as she oriented herself not by sight, but by scent. "I can smell the marble dust from here. It’s distinct—sharper than the plaster, drier."

"And the poison?" Jinshi asked, his voice barely a breath, leaning closer to her as if her proximity offered answers.

"Not yet. The plaster and the damp wood are masking it. But if he was brewing here, the walls will remember."

They moved deeper into the belly of the palace, navigating piles of discarded lumber and buckets of hardening mortar. Maomao felt a strange sense of déjà vu. She had spent her life lurking in shadows, gathering herbs in dangerous places, slipping into the Red Light District’s back alleys. But usually, she was alone, relying on her own inconspicuousness. Having the Master of the Rear Palace acting as her personal shield was a novelty she couldn't quite process. Every time she stumbled on a loose floorboard, his hand was there instantly to steady her, his grip firm and warm. Every time a rat skittered in the walls, scratching frantic patterns, he tensed, his body shifting to shield hers, placing himself between her and the imagined threat.

It was... inefficient. It slowed them down. But also, Maomao admitted to herself with a strange flutter in her stomach, it was comforting in a way she hadn't realized she craved.

They reached the north storage wing. It was a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in shadow, the floor stacked high with crates and slabs of raw white marble destined for floors that would one day be walked upon by concubines. The moonlight filtered through the high, unbarred windows, illuminating the stone slabs like rows of jagged teeth in a giant’s maw.

"This is it," Maomao said. She pulled away from Jinshi, ignoring his stifled protest and the way his hand lingered in the air, and approached the nearest stack of marble.

She didn't look with her eyes; she looked with her nose, closing her lids to focus her primary sense.

She inhaled deeply, sorting through the olfactory chaos. Pine wood from the crates. Iron nails rusting in the damp. Damp stone. Mouse droppings, old and dry.

And there, underneath it all—faint, sweet, and rotting. Like fruit left in the sun too long, mixed with the metallic tang of bitter almonds.

"Here," she said, her eyes snapping open, pointing to a secluded corner behind a wall of crates that had been arranged to create a blind spot. "Someone was living here. Recently."

Jinshi and Gaoshun moved the heavy crates aside with quiet strength, their muscles straining in silence. Behind the barrier was a small, cleared space. A makeshift nest.

There was a flattened pile of straw, stolen from the stables, covered with a rough blanket. A few discarded food wrappers—oiled paper that smelled of cheap pork buns. And in the center, a small, ceramic mixing bowl that had been hastily wiped clean, but not clean enough for an apothecary.

"Careful," Maomao warned sharply as Jinshi reached for the bowl. "Don't touch the rim. The residue can permeate the skin."

She knelt down, ignoring the protest of her knees, and pulled a pair of bamboo tweezers from her sash. She picked up a small, dark flake from the floor near the bowl, bringing it into the sliver of light.

"What is it?" Gaoshun asked, holding the lantern steady, his face grim.

"Dried resin," Maomao analyzed, her voice dropping into her professional monotone. "Pine resin mixed with... wax. It’s a sealant. He wasn't just mixing the poison; he was sealing it in containers to transport it safely. He was methodical."

She looked around the small space, her eyes scanning the floorboards for any other story they might tell. Her gaze landed on the wall, near the floor. There, scratched into the soft, drying plaster, was a symbol. A crude, jagged line that looked like a mountain peak, intersected by a winding snake.

"The crest of the Shiwi bandit clans," Jinshi hissed, recognizing it instantly, his voice dripping with disdain. "So he was one of them. A barbarian from the peaks."

"A mercenary," Maomao corrected, studying the crudeness of the carving. "Hired muscle. A true clansman wouldn't leave his mark in an Imperial Palace unless he wanted to be found. This is arrogance. Or boredom. But look at this."

She pointed to a stain on the floorboards, about two feet from the nest. It was dark, almost black in the dim light, and had soaked deep into the wood grain.

"Is that blood?" Jinshi asked, stepping closer.

"No. Ink." Maomao leaned closer, sniffing it. "High-quality ink. Pine soot and musk. The kind used by officials, not bandits. Someone came here to give him orders. And they spilled their inkwell."

She traced the splatter pattern with the tip of her tweezers. "They were nervous. Shaking. See the droplets? They radiate outward from a central splash, indicating a tremor in the hand holding the inkstone. The person who stood here was terrified of the man they hired. They were sweating—I can smell the faint trace of old fear-sweat in the wood, stale and sour."

"Official Kan," Jinshi said, the name tasting like bile on his tongue. "He came here to deliver the payment or the target. A man who gambles with his life would naturally shake when facing the executioner he hired."

"We have the connection," Gaoshun said, his voice grim and final. "The resin, the symbol, the ink. It’s circumstantial, but combined with the supply logs and the testimony regarding the marble delivery..."

"It’s enough to squeeze him," Jinshi said, his eyes narrowing in the dark. "Enough to make him talk before the Board of Punishments."

"Wait," Maomao said suddenly, freezing. She held up a hand, silencing them.

The air had changed.

The heavy silence of the warehouse had shifted. The wind outside had died down, but a new sound had replaced it. Not the settling of wood, but the soft, rhythmic scuff of cloth against stone. A footstep, dragged slightly.

"Someone is here," Maomao whispered, the hairs on her arms standing up.

Jinshi extinguished the lantern instantly. The room plunged into near-total darkness, save for the pale moonlight slicing through the windows in dusty beams.

"Gaoshun," Jinshi breathed, his hand finding the hilt of a hidden dagger at his waist.

"I hear them," the attendant replied, his voice coming from a different spot than before. He had already moved into a defensive position, disappearing into the gloom.

"They are by the door," Maomao analyzed, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. The adrenaline spiked, dulling the pain in her shoulder into a distant buzz. "Blocking the exit. Moving slowly."

"How many?"

"One. Maybe two. Heavy breathing. Nervous. It sounds like... wheezing."

A voice echoed from the darkness—rough, anxious, and terrified.

"I know you're in here! Come out! The Master said to burn the nest if I found rats! I won't lose my head for this!"

A cleaner, Maomao realized, her mind racing. Official Kan sent a servant to destroy the evidence. He knew we were closing in.

"Burn?" Jinshi’s voice was a low growl, vibrating with menace.

A spark flared in the darkness, blindingly bright. Then another. A torch roared to life, casting wild, dancing shadows against the marble slabs. It illuminated the terrified face of a man dressed in the dusty livery of the Ministry of Works. He was holding the torch in one hand and a heavy iron crowbar in the other, his knuckles white. His eyes were wide, frantic, darting around the room like trapped insects.

"I see you!" the man yelled, his voice cracking, swinging the torch wildly. "I see the girl! The apothecary! The one who knows!"

He wasn't looking at Jinshi or Gaoshun. He was looking straight at Maomao, recognizing the sling, the small stature.

"He wants you dead!" the man screamed, frantic with his own survival instinct, and he hurled the torch.

It wasn't aimed at them. It was aimed at the pile of straw and dry crates in the corner—the assassin's nest, the proof.

"No!" Maomao lunged forward, instinct overriding self-preservation. If the evidence burned, the link to the poison—and the antidote data she needed to fully understand the toxin in her own blood—would be gone.

"Maomao, stop!" Jinshi shouted, his voice laced with panic.

The torch hit the straw. Flames erupted instantly, hungry and bright, licking up the dry wood of the crates with a roar. The heat hit them like a physical wall.

The man didn't run. He charged. Emboldened by the fire, driven by the debt held over his head, he raised the crowbar. His eyes were locked on Maomao with the desperation of a man who had been promised his life in exchange for hers.

"Die!" he shrieked, swinging the iron bar down with all his weight.

Maomao couldn't dodge. Her sling threw off her balance, her center of gravity shifted. She tried to pivot, but her feet tangled in the debris of the nest. She saw the iron bar descending, saw the firelight reflecting off the rusted metal, a crude arc of death.

She flinched, bracing for the impact that would shatter her skull, closing her eyes and waiting for the end.

It never came.

There was a sickening thud, dense and meaty, followed by a crack that sounded like a dry branch snapping in a winter storm.

Maomao opened her eyes, gasping.

Jinshi was there.

He hadn't just blocked the blow. He had caught the man's wrist in mid-air with one hand. Jinshi stood between Maomao and the attacker, his back to her, his indigo silhouette framed by the rising fire like a demon rising from the pit.

The attacker gasped, his eyes bulging, dropping the crowbar as the bones in his wrist ground together under Jinshi’s crushing grip.

"You," Jinshi said.

His voice was unrecognizable. It wasn't the voice of the celestial nymph, or even the stern administrator. It was a voice from the depths of the earth, cold, absolute, and utterly devoid of mercy.

"You dared," Jinshi whispered, the sound cutting through the roar of the fire.

He twisted. The man screamed—a high, thin sound—as his arm was wrenched behind his back at an unnatural angle. Jinshi didn't stop there. He swept the man’s legs out from under him with a brutal kick, slamming him face-first onto the stone floor.

The impact shook the room.

Jinshi didn't let go. He planted a knee in the man’s back, pinning him to the ground with the weight of a mountain. He leaned down, his hand gripping the back of the man’s neck, pressing his face into the stone until the skin split.

"Who sent you?" Jinshi asked. He wasn't shouting. He was speaking with a terrifying calm, his face shadowed, his eyes glowing with the reflection of the flames. "Name him. Now. Or I will let the fire take you first."

"I—I don't—" the man sputtered, blood pooling from his broken nose, mixing with the dust.

Jinshi applied pressure. The man shrieked again.

"The fire is growing," Jinshi said conversationally, watching the flames consume a crate. "The smoke will fill this room in minutes. I can drag you out. Or I can leave you here with your work. It is your choice."

"Kan! Official Kan!" the man sobbed, breaking completely. "He said—he said the apothecary knew too much! He said if I killed her, he’d clear my debts! Please! I just wanted to live!"

Jinshi went still. For a second, Maomao thought he might actually kill the man right there. The violence radiating off him was palpable, a physical heat that rivaled the fire. His hand tightened on the man's neck, trembling with the effort of restraint.

"Gaoshun," Jinshi said finally, standing up and stepping back as if the man were filth that had soiled his boots. "Secure him. Drag him out."

"Understood." Gaoshun was already there, hoisting the sobbing, broken man like a sack of rice, his face set in a grim mask.

"Maomao." Jinshi turned, his eyes wild.

The fire was roaring now, eating the crates and licking at the ceiling beams. The smoke was getting thick, acrid and black, stinging the eyes.

"The evidence," Maomao coughed, pointing at the burning nest. "The bowl—the residue—"

"Forget the bowl!" Jinshi roared, his voice cracking.

He grabbed her—not by the arm, but by the waist, scooping her up against his chest. He didn't wait for her to walk. He lifted her completely off the ground, shielding her face with his sleeve, tucking her head under his chin.

"We are leaving. Now."

He ran. He carried her through the maze of the warehouse, kicking open the service door and bursting out into the cool, clean night air. He didn't stop. He ran past the scaffolding, past the shadows, putting distance between her and the threat.

He didn't stop running until they were well clear of the building, under the cover of the gingko trees near the outer wall, where the air was sweet and cold.

He set her down, but he didn't let go. His hands gripped her shoulders—her good shoulder and her upper arm—shaking her slightly.

"Are you insane?" he demanded. His face was streaked with soot, his eyes wide and wild, the pupils blown wide with adrenaline. "You lunged at the fire! You tried to save a ceramic bowl while a man was swinging a crowbar at your head!"

Maomao blinked, coughing to clear the smoke from her lungs, wiping soot from her nose. "The resin... analysis... it was the only link..."

"I don't care about the resin!" Jinshi shouted. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his composure completely shattered. "I care about you! Why can you not get that through your thick skull?"

He pulled her into him, crushing her against his chest. It wasn't a romantic embrace; it was a desperate, terrified clutch, the way a drowning man holds onto driftwood. He buried his face in her hair, smelling of smoke and fear.

"I was too slow," he whispered into her hair, his voice cracking, vibrating against her ear. "I was almost too slow. If I hadn't caught it... if I had been a second later..."

Maomao stood frozen. She could feel his heart hammering against her cheek through his clothes. It was beating so fast it felt like a bird trying to escape a cage—erratic, panicked.

She realized, with a sudden jolt, that he was trembling. The man who had just broken another man’s wrist with casual ease, who commanded the Inner Palace, was shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"Jinshi-sama," she said, her voice muffled against his robe. She moved her good hand, hesitantly, and rested it on his back. "You were not slow. You caught him. I am here."

"It was too close." He pulled back, gripping her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones, smearing soot on her pale skin. He scanned her frantically—checking her eyes for dilation, her forehead for burns, her bandaged arm for fresh blood. "Did he hit you? Did the smoke get in your lungs? Does your shoulder hurt?"

"I am fine," Maomao said, forcing her voice to be steady to anchor him. She reached up, hesitating for a moment, before placing her hand over his trembling one on her cheek. "I am intact. Thanks to you."

Jinshi closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers. He took a shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of her hair, proving to himself that she was alive.

"I am going to destroy Kan," he whispered, a promise made to the night. "I am going to take everything from him. His title, his wealth, his name. I will leave him with nothing but regret."

"We have the witness," Maomao reminded him softly. "Gaoshun has him. The law will handle it."

"Yes." Jinshi opened his eyes. The gold in them was hard, cold, and absolutely ruthless—a terrifying beauty. "Gaoshun has him. And tomorrow, Kan will wish he had died in that fire."

He straightened up, wiping the soot from Maomao’s cheek with his thumb, his touch lingering. The tenderness of the gesture was a jarring contrast to the violence of his words.

"Let's go home," he said. "Luomen needs to check you for smoke inhalation. And I need to wash this filth off my hands."

"I'm fine, really—"

"Home," Jinshi commanded, leaving no room for argument. He put his arm around her, supporting her weight completely, pulling her into his side. "And if you argue, I will carry you again. And I will make sure everyone in the Inner Court sees it. I will parade you past the Verdigris House if I have to."

Maomao shut her mouth. She leaned into him, letting him take her weight. Her shoulder was throbbing, and her lungs burned, but for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel the need to watch her own back.

As they walked back towards the Jade Palace, leaving the smoking ruin of the warehouse behind them, Maomao thought about the look in Jinshi’s eyes when he had pinned the attacker.

It wasn't the look of a ruler enforcing the law.
It was the look of a dragon guarding its hoard.

And for the first time, Maomao wondered if being the treasure was more dangerous than being the thief.

The Next Morning

The aftermath of the fire was swift and brutal.

Official Kan was arrested before sunrise. The "cleaner," terrified by whatever Gaoshun had said to him in the dark hours of the morning—and perhaps by the memory of Jinshi's glowing eyes—had confessed everything. The gambling debts, the bribe from the Northern faction, the hiring of the mercenary, and the desperate order to silence the apothecary who was getting too close.

Maomao sat in Jinshi’s private solar, grinding herbs. The rhythmic scrape-scrape of the pestle against the stone mortar was soothing, a familiar sound in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.

She was ostensibly "resting," but Jinshi had allowed her this small task to keep her from dismantling his furniture out of boredom or trying to sneak back to the crime scene.

The door opened. Jinshi entered.

He looked impeccable again. Not a hair out of place, his robes stiff and formal, embroidered with silver clouds. But Maomao, who observed details for a living, noticed the slight stiffness in his right hand—the one that had caught the crowbar.

"It is done," Jinshi said, sitting down across from her.

"Kan?"

"Confessed. He is currently on his way to the Ministry of Justice. He will not return." Jinshi poured himself a cup of tea, his movements precise. "The Northern faction he dealt with is being... dismantled. My agents are already en route to the border. They will find no safe harbor."

"Efficient," Maomao commented, adding dried ginger to her mixture.

"Ruthless," Jinshi corrected, his eyes dark. He looked at her, searching for something. "I told you I would handle it."

"You did." Maomao stopped grinding. She looked at his hand, resting on the table. It was slightly swollen. "Your hand."

Jinshi glanced at it, dismissing it. "A bruise. Nothing more."

"Let me see."

"It is fine, Maomao."

"I am the apothecary. You are the patient." She held out her hand, palm up. "Give it to me. Unless you want it to stiffen and affect your calligraphy, which would be a tragedy for the state."

Jinshi sighed, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He extended his hand.

Maomao examined it. The palm was bruised, deep purple and blue, swollen where the heavy iron bar had impacted. It must hurt terribly, throbbing with every heartbeat, but he hadn't shown a flicker of pain.

"Bone bruise," she diagnosed, pressing gently. "No fracture, but deep tissue damage. You caught a heavy iron bar moving at speed. It’s a miracle nothing shattered."

She reached for a pot of the same green salve he had used on her shoulder days ago.

"Irony," she muttered, dipping her fingers into the paste.

"What?"

"Using the same salve. The doctor becomes the patient." She began to massage it into his palm, working the medicine deep into the bruised tissue.

Jinshi watched her. His gaze was heavy, intense, tracking the movement of her fingers.

"Maomao," he said softly, breaking the silence.

"Yes?"

"Last night. When I... when I lost my temper." He hesitated, searching for the words. "Did I frighten you?"

Maomao paused. She thought about the violence. The sound of the man’s wrist snapping. The sheer, unadulterated rage radiating from him, hot enough to burn. It was a side of him the court never saw—the monster beneath the silk.

"You broke a man’s arm," she said flatly.

"He tried to kill you."

"You looked like you wanted to tear his throat out with your teeth. You looked feral."

"I considered it."

Maomao looked up at him, meeting his golden eyes. "No. You didn't frighten me, Jinshi-sama."

"No?" He looked surprised, perhaps even a little disappointed that his monster hadn't scared her off.

"No." She went back to massaging his hand, her touch firm but gentle. "A wild dog frightens me because it bites without reason. A snake in the grass frightens me because it strikes from hiding. A weapon used without thought frightens me."

She pressed her thumb into a knot of tension in the center of his palm.

"But a sword raised in defense? Controlled violence used to protect?" She shook her head. "That is not frightening. That is... useful."

Jinshi let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since the night before, his shoulders dropping. "Useful. Always useful with you. Is that all I am? A useful tool?"

"And," Maomao added, her voice dropping to a whisper, her eyes focused on his hand, "perhaps... reassuring."

Jinshi went still. His fingers curled slightly, trapping her hand in his, ignoring the sticky salve.

"Reassuring," he repeated, tasting the word, testing its weight.

"Don't get used to it," Maomao warned, trying to pull her hand away, but he held fast.

He didn't let go. He held her hand, his bruised palm against her calloused fingertips, a connection forged in violence and healing.

"I am not a nice man, Maomao," he said quietly, his voice dropping to that silky register that usually annoyed her, but now sounded dangerously honest. "I play the role of a celestial nymph, I smile and I bow, but underneath... I am selfish. I am possessive. And I am vindictive. I enjoyed breaking him because he touched you."

"I know," Maomao said. "I've seen your paperwork. I know how you handle your enemies."

Jinshi chuckled, a dark sound, but his eyes remained serious. "You are bound to me now. Kan knows you. The North knows you. You are marked as mine. There is no going back to being invisible."

"Is that a threat?"

"It is a fact." He lifted her hand, turning it over to kiss the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse point. Maomao’s breath hitched, her heart stuttering against her ribs. "I will not let you go back to the shadows, Maomao. You are in the light now. My light."

Maomao looked at him. She saw the trap closing. The beautiful, silken, golden trap she had spent her life avoiding.

She should run. She should pack her bags, fake her death, and flee back to the pleasure district, back to the anonymity of the brothels and the safety of her father's house.

But as she felt the warmth of his lips on her wrist, and the steady, protective grip of his damaged hand, she realized something terrifying.

She didn't want to run.

"Your light is too bright," she grumbled, feigning annoyance to hide the flush rising in her cheeks. "It hurts my eyes. It is distracting."

"Then close them," Jinshi whispered, leaning across the table, invading her space until he was all she could see. "I will see for both of us."

Maomao didn't close her eyes. She watched him. She watched the man who had burned down a conspiracy for her, the man who would burn the world if asked.

"Just..." She sighed, defeated by her own traitorous heart. "Just make sure the tea is better next time. This blend is swill. It tastes like old hay."

Jinshi smiled. It was the real smile. The dangerous one. The one that promised trouble.

"As you wish, my apothecary. As you wish."

Chapter Text

The Inner Palace was a creature of habit, a beast that lumbered on regardless of the rot in its gut. It breathed in gossip and exhaled scandal, digesting tragedy with a polite, terrifying efficiency that Maomao found both impressive and repulsive.

Two days had passed since the fire in the Garnet Palace. To the casual observer—the laundry maids scrubbing silks in the river, the eunuchs carrying palanquins—nothing had changed. The ladies-in-waiting still tittered behind painted fans about the color of the season, the lower consorts still fought viciously over the Emperor’s favor, and the Emperor himself still slept in the center of his web, unaware of the spiders circling the perimeter. The routine was a heavy blanket, suffocating the truth.

But to Maomao, the air tasted different. It didn't smell of autumn leaves or charcoal braziers. It tasted of ash. It tasted of a secret that had been burned but not destroyed.

She sat on the veranda of the Jade Palace—not the cramped servants' quarters she was used to, but the private terrace attached to Jinshi’s personal office. She was technically "working," though her primary task seemed to be existing within Jinshi’s line of sight, like a potted plant he needed to water to ensure it hadn't withered.

"You are scowling," a voice drifted from the open doorway, smooth as poured honey but laced with exhaustion. "It will give you wrinkles before your time."

Jinshi stepped out. He looked immaculate, a vision in pale lavender silk embroidered with silver wisteria that made his skin look like polished porcelain. He was the Moon Spirit, the unattainable dream of the Inner Court. But Maomao, who had spent the last week memorizing the micro-expressions of his face during her convalescence, saw the truth. She saw the tightness at the corners of his eyes, the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusted his sleeve, and the way his golden eyes scanned the garden not for beauty, but for threats.

"I am thinking," Maomao corrected, setting down the pestle she had been using to crush dried chrysanthemum petals for a calming tea. "Official Kan is dead."

Jinshi’s movement paused for a fraction of a second—a glitch in the perfect performance—before he gracefully lowered himself onto the silk cushion opposite her. "He took his own life in the holding cell. A hidden capsule of poison in a hollow tooth. Fast acting. Likely aconite."

"Convenient," Maomao muttered, grinding the petals harder than necessary. "A man who gambles with debt usually gambles with his life, hoping for a reprieve. Suicide implies he knew there was no way out. Or that the alternative was worse."

"And the 'cleaner'?" Jinshi continued, answering the question she hadn't asked yet. "Tongue cut out before he could sign a confession. He was found in his cell this morning, choking on his own blood. The guards saw nothing."

"Whoever is pulling the strings does not leave loose ends," Jinshi said, his voice dropping to a glacial temperature that matched the autumn wind. "They burn them. They excise them like gangrenous flesh."

He reached for the teapot Maomao had prepared. He didn't check it for poison. He didn't use a silver needle. He simply poured the steaming liquid into a porcelain cup and drank. The level of trust terrified Maomao more than the assassin’s blade. It was a burden she hadn't asked for, a weight heavier than the water buckets she used to carry.

"Kan was a gambler," Maomao mused, looking out at the manicured garden where the maple leaves were turning the color of dried blood. "Gamblers are superstitious. They look for patterns. Luck. They don't use foreign rituals unless they believe in the payoff."

She reached into her sleeve, bypassing her bandages, and pulled out a small, charred fragment. It was a piece of the ceramic bowl she had tried to save from the fire in the warehouse.

Jinshi stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "I told you to leave that. It is evidence of your recklessness."

"I have fast hands," Maomao said unapologetically, placing the shard on the low table between them. "And you were busy breaking a man’s wrist. I thought one of us should be productive."

The shard was black with soot, ragged at the edges, but a smear of the dried residue remained protected in the curve of the clay, shielded from the heat.

"I analyzed it again," she said quietly. "The binder. The pine resin and wax."

"The Western preservative," Jinshi nodded, leaning forward. "We established this. It stabilizes the volatile compounds."

"I was wrong," Maomao said.

This got his full attention. Jinshi set the cup down with a sharp clack. "Wrong? You are rarely wrong about toxins, Maomao. It is your one redeemable quality besides your freckles and your ability to brew tolerable tea."

Maomao ignored the backhanded compliment/flirtation. She was too focused on the chemistry of murder. "I thought it was a stabilizer for the poison. To keep the cyanide potent during transport over the mountains. But the ratio is off. There is too much resin. Too much wax. And under the microscope, I found traces of something else. Myrrh. And natron."

Jinshi frowned, his brow furrowing. "Natron? The salt used for drying meat? For jerky?"

"Used for drying bodies," Maomao corrected, her voice low and grim. "In the far West, beyond the Shiwi mountains, there are tribes that do not burn their dead. They preserve them. They eviscerate them, then wrap them in linen soaked in resin, myrrh, and natron, so they can walk in the afterlife. They call it the 'Eternal Sleep'."

The wind rustled the bamboo wind chimes above them, a lonely, hollow sound that seemed to echo the emptiness of a tomb.

"This wasn't just a poison, Jinshi-sama," Maomao whispered, tapping the shard. "It was an embalming fluid. Modified, toxic, yes. But the base... the base is a ritualistic preservative. It is designed to stop decay the moment the heart stops."

Jinshi stared at the shard of pottery as if it were a venomous spider, curling his fingers into his palm. "Why? Why use a funeral rite to kill? It is inefficient. It is expensive."

"Symbolism?" Maomao suggested, rubbing her chin, her eyes unfocused. "Or perhaps... the target isn't meant to just die. They are meant to be preserved."

"Preserved?"

"A poison that kills without rotting the flesh. A poison that leaves the victim looking like they are merely sleeping, their skin waxy and perfect." Maomao felt a shiver crawl up her spine, a cold premonition. "It suggests the killer doesn't hate the target. They revere them. Or they need the body intact for something. A public display."

Jinshi went pale. Not the fashionable pallor of the court, but the waxen white of genuine shock. The blood drained from his lips.

"The Moon Festival," he breathed.

Maomao tilted her head, calculating dates. " The mid-autumn rite? It is in ten days."

"The Emperor presides over it," Jinshi said, his voice barely audible, staring at nothing. "He drinks the ceremonial wine from the Ancestral Cup. And afterwards... he lies in state for three hours in the Temple of Heaven, to 'commune with the ancestors' in a trance. He sits on the Jade Throne, motionless, while the court chants the sutras."

Maomao’s blood ran cold. The pieces clicked together with a sickening snap.

"If he were poisoned with this..." she started.

"...he would look like he was in a trance," Jinshi finished, his eyes wide with horror. "He would be dead, sitting on the throne, stiffening in the rigor of the poison, and no one would know until the rites were over. The perfect assassination. No blood. No struggle. Just the Emperor ascending to the ancestors, leaving a pristine corpse behind."

The silence on the veranda was deafening. The implications were catastrophic. This wasn't just a hit; it was a coup disguised as a miracle. It was a play for the throne that utilized the Emperor's own piety against him.

"The Shiwi connection," Maomao said, her mind racing, connecting the dots faster than she could speak. "The resin comes from there. The Western pass. Who controls the trade through that pass now that the bandits are scattered?"

Jinshi looked up, his golden eyes hard as flint. "The Verdigris Clan. But they are loyal. Or so I thought."

"Loyalty is like milk," Maomao said cynically. "It sours if you leave it in the heat too long. And the North has been hot with rebellion for years. If the Verdigris Clan believes the current Emperor has lost the Mandate of Heaven, they might seek to 'preserve' him and install a new puppet."

Jinshi stood up abruptly. He paced the length of the veranda, his robes swishing aggressively. He looked like a caged tiger—beautiful, lethal, and pacing the limits of his confinement.

"We need to check the wine," he said. "The ceremonial wine. It arrives from the vineyards tomorrow."

"You can't," Maomao pointed out, crushing his hope with logic. "It is sealed in the Temple of Heaven immediately upon arrival. Only the High Priest and the Emperor can break the seal. Even you cannot touch it."

"I can break anything I want if it saves his life," Jinshi growled, his hands clenching into fists.

"And trigger a religious panic?" Maomao shook her head. "If you break the seal and the wine is pure, you have desecrated the rite. You will be stripped of your position. The Northern faction wins without lifting a finger. They will say you are unhinged, unfit to rule the Rear Palace."

Jinshi stopped pacing. He turned to her, his expression desperate. "Then what do I do? Do I watch him drink it? Do I stand there and wait for him to stop breathing?"

"No," Maomao said calmly. She picked up the shard of pottery and crushed it in her hand, the sharp edge biting into her palm, grounding her. "We don't check the wine. We check the cup."

"The cup?"

"The Ancestral Cup. It is porous jade, is it not?"

"Ancient jade. White nephrite. Carved three hundred years ago."

"Jade absorbs," Maomao said. "If they want to poison the wine without breaking the seal, they would coat the inside of the cup. The resin binder... it’s sticky. It would adhere to the stone. When the warm wine is poured, it melts, releasing the toxin."

She stood up, brushing the ceramic dust from her robes.

"I need to see that cup, Jinshi-sama. And I need to see it before the festival."

Jinshi looked at her. He looked at the bandage on her arm, hidden under her sleeve. He looked at the determination in her eyes that matched his own.

"The cup is in the Treasury," he said slowly. "Guarded by the Imperial Guard. It is not a construction site, Maomao. We cannot sneak in through a broken window."

"No," Maomao agreed. "We cannot sneak."

She stepped closer to him, invading his personal space, smelling the sandalwood and the underlying scent of fear.

"But the Master of the Rear Palace has the authority to inspect ceremonial items for 'impurities', does he not? Especially if he brings a specialist in... cleaning delicate antiques?"

Jinshi stared at her. Then, slowly, a smirk spread across his face. It wasn't the wolfish grin of the other night. It was sharper, more cunning. It was the smile of a conspirator.

"You want to polish the Emperor's cup," he stated.

"I am very good at cleaning," Maomao deadpanned. "I once scrubbed the entire floor of the Verdigris House after a drunken merchant vomited fermented fish sauce. A jade cup should be easy."

Jinshi let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "You are absurd. Completely absurd."

He reached out and took her hand—the one she had used to crush the shard. He opened her fingers, brushing away the dust, checking for cuts with a tenderness that made Maomao's breath hitch.

"If we do this," he said, his voice turning serious, "there is no going back. If we are wrong, we are desecrating a national treasure. If we are right, we are walking into the center of the cult. They will know we interfered."

"We are already in the center," Maomao said, looking at the bruise on his palm that was fading to a sickly yellow. "We might as well start breaking things."

The Treasury of the Inner Court was less a room and more a vault carved into the bedrock beneath the Hall of Supreme Harmony. It smelled of cold metal, stagnant air, and the oppressive weight of wealth. It was a silence so deep it felt like the earth was holding its breath.

Maomao walked two paces behind Jinshi, her head bowed, carrying a lacquer box filled with cleaning supplies—soft cloths, distilled water, and a few vials of reagents she had disguised as polishing oils. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but her face was a mask of servant-like indifference.

The guards at the heavy iron doors were not the lazy conscripts of the Garnet Palace. These were elite soldiers, statues in lamellar armor who didn't blink. They were the Emperor's personal shield.

"The Master of the Rear Palace," Jinshi announced, his voice ringing with authority, echoing off the stone walls. "Here to inspect the ritual vessels for the Moon Festival."

The captain of the guard stepped forward. He was a mountain of a man with a scar running through his left eye. He looked at Jinshi, then at Maomao.

"We have received no order for inspection, Jinshi-sama."

"The order comes from necessity," Jinshi said smoothly, producing a scroll with a seal that Maomao suspected he had forged—or at least, misappropriated—within the last hour. "The High Priest expressed concern regarding mold in the vault. We are here to ensure the Ancestral Cup is pristine. Would you prefer to explain to the Emperor why his wine tastes of mildew?"

The captain took the scroll. He read it slowly. Maomao held her breath, focusing on lowering her heart rate. If he checked the signature too closely, if he questioned the validity...

"Enter," the captain grunted, handing the scroll back. "But the maid stays here."

Maomao froze.

"She is my specialist," Jinshi said, his voice hardening, slipping into the imperious tone of royalty. "The cup is ancient nephrite. Do you want me to handle it with my unskilled hands? If I drop it, Captain, whose head do you think will roll first? Mine? Or yours? I am the Emperor's favorite. You are... expendable."

It was a blatant power play. Jinshi was leveraging his status, his potential connection to the bloodline, and the sheer pettiness of court bureaucracy.

The captain hesitated. He looked at Jinshi’s hands—soft, manicured hands of a eunuch (supposedly). Then he looked at Maomao’s hands—rough, stained, practical.

"She touches nothing but the cup," the captain warned, stepping aside. "And you have ten minutes."

"Generous," Jinshi clipped.

They passed through the doors.

The vault was lined with shelves of gold plates, silver ewers, and gem-encrusted swords. Maomao ignored them all. The glitter of gold meant nothing to her; poison was far more valuable. Her eyes were fixed on the pedestal in the center.

There, resting on a cushion of red velvet, was the Ancestral Cup.

It was white jade, translucent and ghostly in the lantern light. It was carved with dragons and phoenixes, their eyes seemingly following Maomao as she approached. It looked innocent. It looked holy.

"Five minutes," Jinshi whispered, turning his back to the pedestal to block the view of the guards standing at the doorway. "Work fast."

Maomao set her box down. She put on a pair of cotton gloves.

She picked up the cup. It was heavy, cold as ice. The stone felt dead in her hands.

She brought it to her nose. Nothing. Just the smell of cold stone and velvet.

Of course, she thought. They wouldn't use a scent that could be detected by a taster. They are professionals.

She dipped a cotton swab into one of her "polishing oils"—a solution of vinegar and butterfly pea flower extract. She ran the swab along the inside rim of the cup, right where the lips would touch.

The clear liquid on the swab turned a faint, sickly pink.

"Acidic residue," she whispered. "Invisible to the eye."

She took a second swab, dipping it into a solution of alcohol and silver nitrate. She rubbed it deeper into the carving of the dragon’s mouth inside the cup, where the resin would collect.

The swab turned black instantly.

"Sulfur," she hissed. "And... organic protein. It's the Western blend."

She looked closely at the jade. To the naked eye, it was smooth. But under the magnification of her focus, she saw it. A faint, waxy sheen filling the microscopic pores of the stone, sealing the death inside.

"Jinshi-sama," she whispered.

He turned his head slightly, keeping his body as a shield. "Yes?"

"It is coated," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "The entire interior. A thin layer of the resin poison. It has been buffed to look like the natural polish of the jade. As soon as hot wine hits this..."

"...the Emperor dies," Jinshi finished, his voice tight.

"We have to clean it," Maomao said, reaching for the solvent. "I can strip it with alcohol."

"No," Jinshi stopped her, his hand gripping her wrist. "If we clean it, they will know. They will know the plot failed, and they will try something else. Something we can't predict. They will panic and strike blindly."

"So we leave it?" Maomao looked at him like he was insane. "We leave a loaded weapon on the altar?"

"We swap it," Jinshi said.

"Swap it? With what? I don't have a spare ancient jade cup in my pocket!"

"No," Jinshi said, his eyes scanning the shelves frantically. "But the Treasury does."

He pointed to a shelf in the corner. There, covered in dust, was a replica. A slightly less ornate, slightly more grey piece of jade.

"That was the decoy used during the civil war," Jinshi explained rapidly. "It is imperfect. The dragon has four claws, not five. But in the dim light of the Temple..."

"It might pass," Maomao agreed. "But the guards are watching your back. If I move to the shelf..."

"I will distract them," Jinshi said. "You make the switch."

"Distract them how?"

Jinshi took a deep breath. He reached up and pulled the pin from his hair. The silken curtain of his dark hair cascaded down his back, transforming him from official to disheveled mess. He adjusted his robes, pulling the collar slightly askew.

He turned to the door.

"Captain!" Jinshi cried out, his voice pitching up into a sound of pure, high-maintenance distress. "There is a spider! A massive spider on the Imperial Robes!"

It was a performance worthy of the finest opera, and utterly humiliating. He flailed, knocking into a shelf of silver plates. The crash was deafening.

"Save the silver!" Jinshi shrieked, acting the part of the terrified, incompetent courtier to perfection. "It has legs! So many legs!"

The guards rushed in, their instincts triggered by the noise and the commotion. They surrounded Jinshi, trying to steady the shelf and calm the hysterical "eunuch."

In the chaos, Maomao moved.

She grabbed the poisoned cup, wrapped it in her cleaning cloth, and shoved it deep into her lacquer box. She grabbed the decoy from the shelf, wiped the dust off with her sleeve in one frantic motion, and placed it on the velvet cushion.

She arranged the replica so the imperfections were turned away from the light.

"It is just a spider, Jinshi-sama," the captain groaned, righting a silver platter, looking at Jinshi with undisguised contempt. "Please, compose yourself."

Jinshi straightened up, smoothing his hair, his face flushed—whether from acting or adrenaline, Maomao couldn't tell.

"I... I apologize," Jinshi stammered. "I have a phobia. It was... very hairy."

He glanced at Maomao. She gave a microscopic nod.

"We are done here," Jinshi announced, his voice regaining some dignity. "The cup is... clean."

They walked out of the vault. The heavy iron doors slammed shut behind them with a sound like a tomb sealing.

Maomao clutched the lacquer box to her chest. She was carrying the murder weapon. She was carrying the evidence of high treason.

They walked in silence until they reached the surface, the fresh air hitting them like a physical blow.

"That," Maomao said, her legs feeling like jelly, "was the worst acting I have ever seen. You owe the theatre guild an apology."

"It worked," Jinshi breathed, leaning against a pillar, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You have it?"

"In the box."

"Good." Jinshi looked at her. The playfulness vanished. "Now we have the poison. We can reverse engineer the antidote. And we can find out exactly where the resin came from."

"And the Festival?"

"The Emperor will drink from a clean cup," Jinshi said. "And the 'Viper' will be watching, waiting for him to fall. When he doesn't..."

"...they will panic," Maomao finished.

"And when they panic," Jinshi smiled, a cold, terrifying expression, "we will be waiting."

Later That Night

The Jade Palace was quiet, settled into the deep silence of the ox hour. Maomao sat at her worktable, the poisoned cup sitting in front of her like a bleached skull.

She was scraping the resin from the interior, collecting it in a glass vial. The smell of bitter almonds and myrrh filled the small room, a scent that was equal parts holy and profane.

The door slid open. Jinshi entered, wearing night robes, his hair loose. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline crash finally hitting him. He looked less like a deity and more like a mortal man carrying the weight of the sky.

He didn't speak. He walked over to her and sat on the floor, resting his head against the leg of her table.

"Are you finished?" he mumbled, his eyes closed.

"Almost," Maomao said, her voice soft. "The concentration is lethal. Five times the fatal dose. Whoever designed this wanted to be absolutely certain."

Jinshi closed his eyes. "They really wanted him dead. My brother..."

Maomao paused. My brother. He rarely said it out loud. It was the secret that defined his existence, the reason he wore the mask of a eunuch.

She looked down at him. He looked so young like this, stripped of his titles and his schemes. Just a man trying to keep his family alive in a pit of vipers.

"Jinshi-sama," she said.

"Hmm?"

"You kept your promise."

He opened one eye, peering up at her from the floor. "Which one? I make many."

"You didn't let me get hurt. Even in the vault. You put yourself between me and the guards."

Jinshi smiled tiredly. He reached up, his hand finding hers on the table. He laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold jade.

"I told you," he whispered. "I am selfish. I protect what is mine."

Maomao looked at their joined hands. The scar on her arm throbbed, a dull ache. The bruise on his hand was dark and ugly. They were a matching set of damaged goods.

They were both battered. They were both scarred.

But they were alive. And for the first time, Maomao felt that being alive was something worth fighting for, not just enduring.

"Maomao," Jinshi said, his voice drifting towards sleep.

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow... teach me how to check for poison in tea. Properly. Not just looking for bubbles."

Maomao smiled, a small, genuine thing that no one else would ever see.

"I will," she promised. "But for now, sleep. The Viper isn't going anywhere. And neither am I."

She went back to scraping the cup, the sound rhythmic and steady. Jinshi’s breathing evened out, his grip on her hand never loosening.

Outside, the moon hung heavy and full, a white eye watching the palace. The Corpse Flower was blooming in the dark, its roots deep and poisonous, threatening to strangle the throne. But inside the Jade Palace, Maomao and Jinshi were preparing their own garden.

And they were planting thorns.