The red fabric taunted her.
Xiyue had spent the whole night thinking about it.
The way it caught the light. The way it didn't belong.
Now, in the gray morning light, she stood at the base of the wall and made a decision.
She was going up.
It's stupid, she told herself. It's so stupid. You have a heart condition. You have zero upper body strength.
Her hand touched the first stone.
The wall wasn't as high as it looked. Maybe twelve feet.
But twelve feet might as well have been a hundred with the way her body protested.
First hold: solid. A stone jutting out just enough to grip.
Second hold: loose. She tested it, felt it shift, found a different spot.
Third hold: nothing. She had to stretch, grab a crack in the mortar, pull herself up while her feet scrambled for purchase.
By the time she was five feet up, her arms were shaking.
By seven feet, her heart was doing that thing—the flutter-skip-stutter that made her freeze and wait and pray.
Not now, she thought. Please not now.
The world spun. Her vision tunneled. She clung to the wall like a terrified cat, pressing her forehead against the cold stone, breathing in shallow gasps until the moment passed.
It took forever.
When her heart finally steadied—when she could see clearly again and her grip wasn't about to fail—she looked up.
Three more feet.
She could do three more feet.
The red fabric was closer now.
She could see it wasn't just a scrap—it was a handkerchief, silk, with embroidery along the edges. Caught on a loose stone, snagged there like it was waiting for her.
Xiyue reached.
Her fingers brushed it. Missed. She stretched further, shifting her weight, feeling her hold slip—
Got it.
She grabbed the fabric, pulled it free, and for one terrifying second she was falling, off-balance, about to crash onto the rubble below.
But her other hand found a grip. Her feet found a ledge. She pressed her whole body against the wall and just... held on.
Never doing that again, she thought.
Then she looked at what she'd risked her life for.
It was a handkerchief.
Square, maybe twelve inches, made of silk so fine it felt like water. Deep red—the color of important things, ceremonial things, things that cost more than most people made in a year.
And embroidered in one corner: a plum blossom with five petals. Perfectly stitched. Gold thread for the center, pink silk for the petals.
Below it, tiny characters.
Xiyue stared at them. She couldn't read—the original owner's memories didn't include literacy—but the system could.
[Translation available. Display?]
She thought yes.
The characters glowed, then shifted, rearranging themselves into modern text that floated over the fabric:
"For Consort Yao, on the occasion of the Solstice Celebration."
Consort Yao.
The name triggered something in the original owner's memories—fragments, impressions, like photos seen through fog. A woman in elaborate robes. Beautiful. Cold. The center of attention whenever she entered a room. The Emperor's favorite. The most powerful woman in the harem after the Dowager Empress.
And her handkerchief was here. In the Cold Palace. Caught on a wall in the most forgotten corner of the empire.
Xiyue stuffed the handkerchief into her robe, next to the hairpin and the stolen radish.
Then she started the long, terrifying climb down.
Back on solid ground, she collapsed against the wall and pulled out her find again.
The silk was so soft. So expensive. Nothing like the rough fabric of her own robes, the ones the original owner had worn for years without replacement.
Someone important lost this, she thought. Or someone important left it here on purpose.
The system pulsed.
[Item of narrative interest detected.]
[Bonds function available for query.]
[Yes] [No]
Xiyue hesitated. Bonds. That was the heart icon, the locked function that required host stabilization.
She touched [Yes].
The screen changed. A new window opened, showing a woman's silhouette. Beautiful. Cold. Eyes that looked right through you.
[Bonds — Consort Yao]
[Relationship status: Unknown]
[Potential enmity: 15%]
[Notes: Target may be aware of host's existence. Further interaction recommended.]
Fifteen percent. Potential enmity.
She didn't know this woman. Had never met her. The original owner's memories included glimpses, but no interactions—the real Lin Xiyue had been too low-ranked to ever speak to the Emperor's favorite.
The memories came faster now.
The original owner, younger, being assigned to the Cold Palace. Not gradually, not naturally—suddenly. One day she was a seventh-level concubine, ignored but alive. The next, she was being moved to the abandoned section, told it was "temporary," and then forgotten.
Someone made that happen, Xiyue realized. Someone wanted her here.
The system pulsed again.
[Memory integration: 72% complete.]
[New memory fragment available.]
Xiyue closed her eyes and let it come.
A garden. Beautiful. Flowers everywhere.
The original owner—younger, healthier—standing in a corner, watching a celebration. Music playing. Concubines laughing. The Emperor at the center, surrounded by women.
And beside him, Consort Yao.
She was stunning. Red robes, gold jewelry, hair arranged in elaborate loops. She leaned into the Emperor, whispered something, made him smile. The other concubines watched with envy.
But her eyes—her eyes weren't on the Emperor.
They were on the corner. On the original owner. On a nobody seventh-level concubine who shouldn't matter.
And in those eyes, something flickered.
Recognition. Dislike. And something colder—intent.
The memory ended.
Xiyue opened her eyes.
She saw her, she thought. Consort Yao saw the original owner, and something about that moment mattered. Enough to remember. Enough to act.
The handkerchief in her hand felt heavier now. Not lost—placed. Left here on purpose, maybe.
She had a name now. A face. A thread to pull.
She spent the rest of the day searching the area near the wall.
Found more evidence—footprints in the mud near the shed, not hers. A small pile of ash from a recent fire, hidden behind a collapsed building. A piece of rope, cut cleanly, not rotted.
Someone was living here. Someone who received supplies from the main palace.
The sun was setting when she found the cave.
Not a real cave—a space under a collapsed building, where the roof had fallen at an angle and created a sheltered area. Big enough for a person to crawl into. Hidden from view.
And inside, signs of habitation.
A mat of dried grass. A clay cup. A small pile of vegetables—the same kind she'd found in the shed.
Someone was here.
Xiyue backed away slowly, heart pounding.
If someone else was living in the Cold Palace, that meant she wasn't alone.
But it also meant she wasn't the only one fighting to survive.
That night, she didn't light a fire.
She sat in the dark kitchen, knife in hand, listening. The rats were back—she could hear them scratching in the walls. But beyond them, beyond the normal night sounds, she listened for something else.
Footsteps. Breathing. The sound of another person moving through the darkness.
Nothing.
Eventually, exhaustion won. She slept in fits, waking at every noise, hand always reaching for the knife.
The last time she woke, it was almost dawn.
And she wasn't alone.
Someone stood in the doorway.
A silhouette against the gray light. Small. Hunched. Watching her.
Xiyue's hand found the knife. Her heart seized, skipped, kept going.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The silhouette didn't move.
For a long moment, neither did she.
Then the figure spoke—a voice like rustling leaves, old and cracked:
"The question is, girl... who are you?"
The original owner's memories surged—
A woman. Old. Kind. Holding her hand. Telling her stories. In the early days, before the Cold Palace, when things were still okay.
A nanny. A servant. Someone who'd cared for her.
Someone who'd disappeared years ago.
"Nanny?" Xiyue heard herself say—not her voice, but the original owner's, rising from somewhere deep.
The silhouette stepped forward into the light.
And Xiyue saw her face.