The southern gate loomed at the edge of the rear palace's inner sanctum, its wrought-iron bars half-veiled by climbing ivy that rustled faint in the afternoon breeze. Guards flanked it now, their spears crossed in a barrier no casual servant would test, while attendants hovered at a respectful distance, trays of water and cloths at the ready. The air hummed with low urgency—whispers traded like contraband, eyes darting to the garden path beyond where the incident had unfolded.
Jinshi stood at the gate's threshold, his indigo robes catching the sun in subtle glints, arms folded as he surveyed the sealed path. Maomao paced a few steps ahead, her small frame bobbing like a determined sparrow, nose wrinkled as she sniffed the air near the archway. Gaoshun loomed behind them both, a quiet bulwark, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that swallowed half the gate. They'd converged , drawn by the need to trace the source before the palace's routines swallowed the clues.
"Nothing on the manifests yet," Gaoshun reported, voice a low rumble that cut through Maomao's muttering. He held a folded manifest in one hand, ink still fresh from hasty notes. "The northern traders listed pollens and seeds—exotics for the hothouses—but nothing that matches this chill. No live insects, either."
Maomao snorted, kneeling to brush her fingers over a vine's leaf, as if it might confess. "Of course not. If it was listed, it'd be common. This is something that hides—slips in with the shadows of cargo, not the light." She straightened, dusting her hands, her freckled face set in that familiar scowl of half-solved riddles. "The scent's fading fast. We need the path clear to track it proper. Guards off, let me walk it."
Jinshi's violet eyes flicked to her, a faint curve touching his lips—amusement edged with caution. "And if it strikes again? You're not expendable, Maomao."
She waved it off, already eyeing the gate's latch. "Expendable's for fools who don't sniff first. Besides, if it's adapting like I think, it'll wait for the next warm body. Not me—I've got herbs that'd choke it."
Gaoshun shifted, his gaze scanning the horizon beyond the gate—the outer gardens sprawling wide, vegetable plots neat rows under the sun, distant figures bent to their labors. "The outer maids rotate through here daily. If it's from the fields—"
A rustle from the side path cut him short. Two figures approached from the inner herb enclosures: Hui Lan, the elder maid with her sturdy frame and no-nonsense bun, leading the way with a woven basket slung over one arm. Beside her walked Yelan, steps light and unhurried, her own basket empty for now, dark hair pinned simple but escaping strands in the breeze. They were bound for the outer garden plots, the daily chore of vegetable picking that kept the palace kitchens humming—carrots crisp from the earth, greens for the evening soups.
Hui Lan noticed the gathering first, her steps faltering as she craned her neck toward the gate. Yelan, sensing the shift, followed her gaze—brown eyes narrowing at the cluster of authority: Jinshi's poised silhouette, Maomao's restless energy, Gaoshun's immovable watch.
"Obasama," Yelan murmured, using the gentle term for her elder companion, voice soft but curious as they drew nearer. "What's happening there? Why are so many gathered at the southern gate?"
Hui Lan huffed a short breath, adjusting her basket with a practiced tug. Her face creased in that mix of resignation and gossip-ready spark all long-time maids wore. "Who knows what happened this time in the rear palace. Another incident—mysterious and common, maybe, but just the way it happens, that's the only difference. One day it's a spilled tray, next it's whispers of ghosts in the vines. Keeps us on our toes, doesn't it?"
Yelan nodded absently, her attention already drifting. They passed the gate's shadow, skirts brushing the gravel as the path opened to the outer garden's edge—furrowed earth waiting, tools leaning against a low fence. But something tugged at her then, sharp and insistent: a scent, faint but blooming sudden in her senses. Not the earth's rich loam or the green snap of budding shoots. Something sweeter, hollowed—floral dew laced with frost, threading through the air like a half-remembered warning. It pulled from the gate, from the sealed path beyond, wrong in its quiet invasion.
Her breath caught. The Night Orchid stirred within, a cool pulse in her veins, urging forward.
Without a word, Yelan broke into a run—basket forgotten at her feet, skirts hiked just enough for speed, her sandals kicking up faint dust as she veered straight for the gate.
"Yelan! What happened—wait!" Hui Lan's call chased after her, voice pitching up in surprise, hand outstretched as if to snag the air. But Yelan didn't slow, her eyes fixed ahead, the scent coiling tighter around her like an unseen thread.
She reached the gate sooner than breath allowed, skidding to a halt amid the guards' startled shifts, chest rising quick as she faced the gathered trio—Jinshi's gaze snapping to hers, sharp and questioning.