Morning light filtered softly into the Empress's courtyard, pale and quiet, carrying none of the tension that already waited inside.
Lian An sat at the low table, back straight, hands resting on her knees. In front of her lay folded cloth, thread spools arranged by color, and a half-finished crochet piece that looked… passable at best.
Her fingers still ached.
Not the sharp pain of injury, but the deep soreness of muscles unused to such delicate, repetitive work. Three days. It had already been three full days since the old crochet lady arrived, and every day felt longer than the last.
The lady—Madam Qiu—entered silently, as she always did.
She was dressed simply, hair pulled into a tight bun, expression carved from stone. No smile. No warmth. Only precision.
"Your Majesty," she said, bowing stiffly. "Today is the third day."
Lian An nodded. "I know."
