The capital buzzed with life. Lanterns swayed in the warm breeze, colors spilled across the streets, and the laughter of merchants tangled with the sound of drums. Festival week had begun, an event so grand that even kings from faraway lands had come to witness it.
This year carried a heavier weight: the Crown Prince himself would appear. Rumor whispered he might soon take a wife. Every daughter of noble blood walked the streets in her finest silks, eyes shimmering with hope.
Lord Chen and his family had arrived earlier, and already the city felt crowded. Every inn and guesthouse was overflowing with visitors, leaving no vacant rooms for latecomers.
His in-laws found shelter within the palace temple, their status granting them such a sacred refuge.
Mò Lián preferred the familiar comfort of her father's home, nestled near the bustle of the market, where the air always carried the scent of roasted chestnuts, fresh herbs, and the echo of vendors calling into the twilight.
Her aunt lived there as well, and to Mò Lián, that bond was priceless. In the evenings, she and her aunt would take slow walks together beneath the lanterns that swayed over the market stalls, their laughter weaving softly with the hum of the crowd. The path was ordinary, but for her, it was an anchor to warmth.
Though she had visited the capital before, years had passed, and it felt almost new again — the crowded stalls, the hawkers shouting, the smell of candied fruits in the air.
Lord Chen set out to visit one of his old business partners, the familiar road stirring memories of a time when his wealth and influence stretched across the entire central market. The meeting was cordial at first—handshakes, smiles, the weight of old trust still binding them—but soon it turned into something more lively.
New faces entered the room, merchants and travelers drawn by the reputation of both men. Lord Chen, though quieter than he once was, found himself in calm conversation. Stories of trade, journeys, and palace rumors flowed like wine, and with every word, his circle of acquaintances widened. Some came as customers seeking his wisdom, others as friends eager to share their respect.
For a moment, Lord Chen felt the old spark return—the warmth of companionship, the thrill of influence. It wasn't just business anymore; it was connection, the weaving of new bonds beneath the fading sun.
Four days before the grand ceremony, Mò Lián followed her aunt to the market. The air was thick with spice and incense. While her aunt bartered for festival ingredients, Mò Lián slipped away, drawn by the glittering colors of a candy stall. She bought her favourite candy.
Her favorite treat, stick candy, melted sweetly on her tongue as she jingled happily back. But the crowd pressed too tightly; her eyes darted left and right, searching for her aunt. Lost in the sea of faces, she stepped onto the road.
The thunder of hooves split the noise.
A carriage barreled forward, too fast, too close.
The world blurred. Mò Lián stumbled, shut her eyes tight, bracing for pain.
When she dared to open them, a young man's horse loomed before her. He had already dismounted, eyes sharp with concern.
"I'm so sorry," he said, reaching to help her up. "Are you hurt?"
Gasps rippled through the crowd gathering around them.
But before Mò Lián could answer, a cold female voice lashed out from within the carriage.
"Be quick! I don't have time for your foolishness!"
Her tone was sharp enough to cut. The rider stiffened, leapt back onto his horse, and urged the carriage forward. As it rolled away, Mò Lián caught sight of a woman peeking through the curtain, her smirk wicked, her eyes filled with disdain.
The crowd dispersed, leaving Mò Lián unsettled. She turned, almost colliding with another woman.
"I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" she asked quickly.
The stranger smiled warmly. Recognition flickered.
It was the lady from the royal store, the one who had once invited her to the palace to dance.
"Mò Lián, how are you?" the woman greeted with surprising familiarity.
Relief washed through her, and they walked together until they found Lord Chen's sister. Together, they returned to Lord Chen's rented home. Lord Chen's sister did not yet recognize the lady talking with Mò Lián.
Inside, while her aunt busied herself storing the market goods, Mò Lián sat with the visitor at the dining table.
"I'm not very good at dancing," Mò Lián admitted softly, her face clouded.
The woman chuckled. "If you don't wish to, don't force yourself. Follow your passion."
Just then, Lord Chen's sister entered with a tray of tea. Her eyes widened when she finally looked at the guest." I know this lady from somewhere." She sat, dropping the tray.
"I didn't even introduce myself properly," she said. "I am Li Fuyao. You may call me Miss Fuyao. How is Lord Chen?"
"You—! My lady! I've always wanted to meet you! My brother told me about you."
But before she could finish, Mò Lián stood up facing the visitor.
"My aunt told me stories about the legendary dancer, but I never believed I'd meet her in person. I never dreamed of meeting you again." She said happily." It's an honour, Ms. Li Fuyao."
They nodded in approval.
"My lady. Mò Lián's mum was a wonderful dancer. It's a thing of honour." Mò Lián turned, looking at her aunt, who was smiling widely.
The lady's lips curved into a graceful smile.
"I honour Lord Chen and his late wife; they were my spiritual parents when I was young."She was happy.
"I'm also happy to know you are Lord Chen's sister. I'm also happy to meet you, Mò Lián."
In Fuyao's youth, her parents engaged in a quiet but relentless battle for position within the palace. Ambition sharpened their words, their loyalties shifting like sand. Yet her mother, graceful and clever, found favor in the eyes of the queen, a bond that brought their family closer to power than her father alone could ever achieve.
During those years, her parents shared a strong friendship with Lord Chen. His impact during the campaign and election had been undeniable; his name carried weight in every corridor of the court. At the height of his strength, Lord Chen was excessively wealthy, his influence wide as the horizon. He ruled the central market with an authority few dared to question; every coin seemed to pass through his hand.
But everything changed when his wife passed. The fire of ambition that once fueled him dimmed into ashes. His empire faltered as grief hollowed him out, leaving him a shadow of the man who once commanded the city's heart.
That evening, one woven into memory, stretched into hours. Laughter spilled, conversation lingered, and they exchanged quiet confessions in the softest corners of the evening. For Fuyao, that experience tested bonds, revealed hearts, and made the past press itself indelibly into the present. When Fuyao left, she accidentally forgot her palace pass card.
The next morning, Mò Lián and her aunt carried their pass cards and made their way to Lady Fuyao. For the very first time, Mò Lián was to step into the heart of the palace.
The process was not as simple as she imagined. At the palace gate, stern guards demanded documentation, their sharp eyes scanning every detail. The minutes stretched long, their questions curt and their pace deliberate, as though every visitor were a potential threat. Only after much delay were they finally allowed to pass through.
And then—Mò Lián froze.
The palace unfolded before her like a dream carved from heaven itself. Towering jade arches soared above her head, polished so finely they glistened in the sunlight. Golden courtyards stretched wide, their tiles glowing as if kissed by fire. Fountains danced and sang in the distance, their water catching the light like shattered stars. The scent of blossoms made each breath sweet and dizzying.
Her heart raced. She had heard stories of the palace's splendor, but nothing—nothing—compared to standing within it. It was beauty that demanded reverence, a grandeur that whispered both glory and danger.
Beside her, her aunt did not share her awe. Tears shimmered in the older woman's eyes, brimming with emotions Mò Lián could not yet name—sorrow, memory, perhaps even regret. She clasped her hands tightly, as though the sight of the palace awakened wounds long hidden in her heart.
"Mò Lián," she whispered, trembling, "your mother's greatest wish was to dance here, in the heart of Huǒyuán. She dreamed of performing in all four provinces during the ceremonial season. She loved your father deeply... he never forgot her. You must make him proud."
Mò Lián swallowed hard, her heart heavy yet burning with determination. "Then I'll do it, Aunt. I'll make my parents proud. I'll make you proud."
Mò Lián spoke with a maid, who was passing by, her voice soft yet steady as she asked where to find Lady Fuyao. The lady looked at her with faint surprise—after all, everyone in the palace knew of Li Fuyao. With a quick nod, she gave them directions, and together they began their walk through the winding palace paths.
By the time they reached Fuyao's quarter, the great gates stood open, welcoming and proud. Yet before they could step inside, a soldier appeared, his expression unreadable. With only a brief exchange of words, he understood their purpose and led them directly to Lady Fuyao.
Fuyao's face brightened the moment she saw them. Her joy was warm and unrestrained as she welcomed them into her quarter, her hands graceful, her tone gentle.
She offered them a room without hesitation, though Mò Lián's aunt decided to return home, choosing to stay with her brother instead. Before leaving, she pressed a little bag of coins into Mò Lián's palm, whispering,
"Keep this close, child. You never know when it may save you."
Left in Fuyao's care, Mò Lián's world shifted.
That afternoon, Fuyao guided her through delicate dance steps, her movements fluid as water, her corrections soft but precise. For the first time, Mò Lián felt the rhythm of the palace flowing through her body—the grace, the beauty, the quiet strength hidden in every gesture.
By evening, exhaustion settled over her. She returned to the quiet chamber Lady Fuyao had arranged; the walls draped in silk and the air carrying a faint sweetness of incense. Night deepened. When the hour for dinner came, two maids entered silently, balancing trays of food.
One maid lingered as she set the tray down, her tone unexpectedly light. Mò Lián looked up curiously.
"Are you bored?" she asked with a smile, her voice far less formal than custom allowed. "I know you're not familiar with us... but I can be your friend."
Mò Lián's lips curved into a small smile, and she nodded. The other maid slipped out, leaving the two of them alone.
"This food is too much," Mò Lián murmured, eyeing the large bowls of tofu and fragrant dishes. "I love food, but this... this is far too much for me alone."
The maid sat down beside her without hesitation, gently pressing Mò Lián's hands down when she fidgeted. Startled, Mò Lián turned to look at her.
"My name is Huā Yuán," the girl whispered, her eyes warm and searching. "I can be your friend. And... I'll eat with you."
Something in her tone felt honest, fragile, almost pleading. Mò Lián's heart softened, and she gave a brief nod of approval.
"Huā Yuán... why do you want to be my friend?"
Huā Yuán tilted her head, her gaze sharp yet curious. "I saw you dancing earlier with Lady Fuyao. Are you close to her?" She leaned closer, her breath brushing Mò Lián's cheek as if daring her to answer.
"Hey...!" Mò Lián laughed nervously, shifting back. "Do you really want to be my friend? Then let's eat before the food gets cold."
They shared the meal, laughter bubbling here and there. The tofu was soft and savory, the rice warm, but it was the company that filled the silence more than the food.
"Mò Lián..." Huā Yuán said suddenly.
Mò Lián turned, surprised. "You know my name?"
"Of course I do. I noticed you earlier." Huā Yuán's smile faltered into something raw, vulnerable. "I'm a lonely person. I really want to be your friend. When I saw you... I don't know; I saw a light in you." Her voice dropped to a whisper as her eyes lingered on Mò Lián's face. "You're beautiful."
Mò Lián's breath caught. "Thank you... My aunt always tells me that."
But her smile trembled. A sharp ache filled her chest, an emptiness she had long carried. She had never known her mother—never even seen her face. The thought struck her suddenly, and tears welled in her eyes. Her chopsticks slipped from her hand and clattered into the dish.
The room went still.
"Mò Lián...!? What's wrong?" Huā Yuán asked. Immediately, pulling her into her arms. Her voice was gentle, steady, as though she already understood. "It's okay to cry. I do that every night."
At those words, something inside Mò Lián broke. She threw her arms around Huā Yuán and wept, her sobs raw and unrestrained. "I miss my mother... I miss her so much!"
Huā Yuán's own chest ached. She held her tighter, stroking her back in slow circles. "Say it out... It's alright. I understand the feeling."
Her own voice shook, tears slipping down her cheeks as she whispered, "You don't know me... yet here you are in my arms. But I know your pain, Mò Lián. I know it well."
"I've been alone too," Huā Yuán whispered shakily. "Rejected since I was a child. Every night, I beg the heavens to let me live as an ordinary human...!
Her voice cracked, and her tears fell like rain. She remembered her past.
Mò Lián pulled her closer, her own sorrow mingling with the maid's.
"You've suffered too much. From today onward, I'll be your family. You're not alone anymore."
For the first time in years, Huā Yuán smiled through her tears.
And under the glow of the palace lamps, two lonely souls found comfort in each other.
Mò Lián lifted her hands to her cheeks, her voice trembling as she whispered, "What a sorrowful day... Huā Yuán, will you return to your room soon?"
Huā Yuán gave a small, lingering smile, one that carried both comfort and unspoken sadness. She gathered the tray of empty dishes and rose to her feet. For a moment, she stood at the doorway, as though wanting to say more, but then she slipped quietly into the corridor, the soft sound of her steps fading into silence.
Left alone, Mò Lián sat for a while, staring at the wooden frame of the door where her new friend had vanished. The room seemed suddenly too large, too quiet, as if it echoed with her loneliness. Her body felt heavy, her spirit drained from all the tears she had shed. Slowly, she lay back on the bed; her gaze still fixed on the door.
Sleep claimed her like a gentle tide, and her last thought before drifting away was of Huā Yuán's fragile smile.