Chapter One: The Night the Lin Dynasty Burned
The first thing Lin Yuexin remembered was the smell.
Not smoke—incense.
Heavy, sweet, expensive incense that clung to the back of her throat and made her eyes sting. The kind her mother only burned during forbidden readings, when the doors were locked and the servants sent away.
Yuexin was nine years old, barefoot on cold marble, clutching a book she wasn't supposed to touch.
"Yuexin."
Her mother's voice was sharp. Not angry—afraid.
"Come here. Now."
Yuexin hesitated. The book trembled in her hands. She had only wanted to look. Just once. The characters inside glowed faintly, like they were breathing.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, already stepping forward.
Her father stood by the window, staring down at the Lin estate gardens. His hands were clenched behind his back, knuckles white.
"They're here," he said quietly.
Her mother froze.
The lights went out.
Not flickered—died.
The silence that followed was so deep Yuexin could hear her own heartbeat. Then, somewhere beyond the walls, metal screamed. Gates tearing. Alarms cut off mid-cry.
Her mother grabbed her shoulders hard enough to hurt.
"Listen to me," she said, eyes blazing with something desperate and wild. "No matter what happens, you do not come out. Do you understand?"
Yuexin nodded, too scared to speak.
Her father crossed the room in three long strides and knelt in front of her. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing away tears she didn't remember crying.
"You are a Lin," he said. "Remember that. Even if no one else does."
A crash echoed from the lower halls. Screams followed—servants, guards, people Yuexin had known her entire life.
Her mother pushed her toward the hidden panel behind the altar.
"Go. The well chamber. Now."
"But—"
"NOW."
Yuexin ran.
Behind her, the panel slid shut just as claws raked across wood.
She tumbled down stone steps, skin scraping, breath knocked from her lungs. The well chamber was dark and damp, ancient, built long before electricity or comfort. She crawled into the hollow space behind the well wall, pressing herself flat.
She covered her mouth.
Footsteps thundered above.
Voices—not human.
"Search the estate."
"They have a child."
"No survivors."
Her father's voice cut through the chaos.
"She knows nothing."
A laugh answered him. Low. Mocking.
"She knows enough by blood alone."
There was a sound like bone snapping.
Yuexin bit her arm so hard she tasted blood, choking back a scream.
Her mother's voice followed—sharp words spoken in an old language, characters burning bright enough to light the chamber through stone.
A roar shook the walls.
Then silence.
The incense smell turned sour.
Smoke seeped through cracks in the stone. Yuexin's lungs burned. Her head spun. She pressed her face to her knees and waited.
She waited until the screams stopped.
She waited until the estate collapsed inward with a thunderous groan.
She waited until dawn painted the smoke gold.
When the panel finally opened, she expected monsters.
Instead, a man in grey robes stood there, eyes calm, unreadable. Behind him were others like him—silent, precise, untouched by the destruction.
He looked down at her.
"So," he said. "The Lin girl lives."
Yuexin stared at him, hollow-eyed, soot-streaked.
"My parents?" she asked.
The man tilted his head slightly.
"Dead."
She nodded.
No tears came.
"Do you want revenge?" he asked.
She thought of the claws. The laughter. The sound her father made when his spine broke.
"Yes," she said.
The man smiled faintly.
"Good. Then you'll survive."
As they led her away from the ruins of her home, Yuexin looked back once—at the ashes, the broken stones, the place where her childhood ended.
Something inside her folded itself away neatly.
Years later, she would learn to kill without shaking.
Years later, she would joke over corpses and count bloodstains like stars.
But that night—
That night, Lin Yuexin learned the first rule of survival:
Love burns faster than fire.
And knives last longer.
.