Gao-shun slid the door shut behind him with a soft hunk, the paper screen settling into place like a breath held too long.
The corridor outside felt cooler, the garden's jasmine fading to the sharper tang of polished wood and distant charcoal braziers.
His steps were steady as always—boots quiet on the planks—but his mind turned over the conversation like a stone smoothed in a river.
Mountain. Flute. No family.
The pieces didn't fit the court's usual puzzles—no scheming consort, no escaped servant with a grudge. Just a girl with eyes too wide for the weight they carried, words slipping strange and honest.
Unfamiliar, he'd said. But that was the hook: she felt less like a threat and more like a wind that had blown off course, fragile but stubborn.
He paused at the corner where the hall met the garden path, spotting Madam Hui-lan lingering near a lantern post.
She was folding linens with that efficient grace of hers—hands quick but gentle, her Gray robes tied practical, hair knotted back without a strand out of place.
Gao-shun cleared his throat soft—not a bark, just enough to pull her attention.
Hui-lan straightened, linens tucked under her arm, bowing shallow with the ease of habit.
"Gao-shun-sama," she said, voice warm but measured. "The new girl... she rests?"
Gao-shun nodded—small dip, hands clasped behind his back.
"For now. But keep an eye on her until I return."
He kept his tone even. "Make sure she doesn't leave the room until I say. She's... disoriented. No harm meant, but the court has eyes."
Hui-lan inclined her head—slow, careful.
"This old lady will keep that in mind, Gao-shun-sama."
Her voice carried a touch of dry humour. "No door will open without your word. Tea and quiet, that's all she'll see."
Gao-shun's lips twitched—ghost of a smile, gone quick.
"Good. If she asks questions, answer simple. Food if she eats. No more."
He turned then, but paused at the path's bend, glancing back once. The door to the quarters stood shut, paper screen glowing faint with inner light.
Safe, he thought. For now.
Hui-lan watched him go—steps fading down the corridor, the garden swallowing his shadow in petal drift.
She exhaled slow and turned back to the door. Knocked gentle—tap-tap.
"Miss? Tea's fresh if you want it. Or a comb for that hair—it's fighting the wind today."
Inside, Moon heard the knock—heart jumping, but the voice beyond was kind.
She curled tighter on the mat, blanket pulled to her chin. The tea's warmth from earlier fading to a dull ache in her chest.
Disoriented. That's what he called it. Like I'm a bird with a broken wing.
The room's hush pressed in. Stay put. Don't run. Gao-shun's words echoed, not harsh but firm.
The knock came again—lighter.
"No rush, miss. Just letting you know I'm here if needed."
Footsteps faded then. Moon let out a breath she hadn't known she held, rolling onto her side.
Her fingers twisted the blanket edge, the mountain's cold seeping back in memory. Flute. Wind. Here.
No answers, just the quiet doing its work—settling her pulse, slowing the spin.