She wakes to warmth.
Not fire. Not the burning collapse of the ritual chamber. Not the screams.
But sunlight — soft, golden, spilling through sheer curtains embroidered with plum blossoms.
Rue Yim's eyes fly open.
For one breath, she does not move. Her lungs expand shakily, confused by the absence of blood-scent and smoke. She is lying on a bed, silk sheets cool beneath her palms, her pulse hammering as though she is still dying. Her ears ring. Her throat is raw. Every sense rebels against the peaceful stillness of the room.
Then a woman's voice speaks gently near her ear.
"Madam Wang? Are you awake?"
Madam… Wang?
Rue Yim jerks upright so violently that the maid startles backward. Her vision swims, but the room remains unchanged — soft lotus patterns on the walls, lacquered furniture, folded robes waiting on a chair.
"Y-you fainted this morning," the maid stammers, adjusting her apron. "Master Wang told us to let you rest…"
Master Wang.
Wang Si.
