By the time the next tenday began, the visitor corridor had stopped feeling temporary.
The stakes were gone. The chalk lines had been washed away. In their place were waist-high railings, fresh stone basins, and a drainage channel cut so clean it looked like it had been carved by someone who hated mistakes.
Lanterns hung in straight, disciplined rows. New ones, not the patched kind that flickered.
And near the sanitation turn, the inspection slate had grown thicker—more columns, more marks, more hands signing off on cleanliness as if cleanliness could be enforced by ink.
Yun Xue passed it on her way to the Hall and kept her eyes down.
She had learned, in a short and ugly stretch of days, that being noticed didn't always mean being valued.
Sometimes it meant being held.
The Hall courier met her at the side entrance, lacquered token still shining at his waist like he never touched dust.
"Today," he said, and didn't bother to ask if she was ready.
Yun Xue followed.
---
The Hall workroom was warmer than the nursery yard, but the warmth didn't feel kind.
It was controlled heat—dry, sharp, full of powders that clung to the back of her throat.
The assistant behind the counter slid her handling sheet toward her without looking up.
"You're late," he said.
Yun Xue blinked. "I'm… I came as soon as—"
He tapped the slate beside him.
"Two sessions weekly," he said. "Means two sessions weekly. Not when you feel like it."
Yun Xue bowed too fast. "Yes. I'm sorry."
The assistant made a mark.
A tiny ink stroke that did more harm than a slap.
He turned the sheet so she could see it.
The blank line from last time had been filled.
Not with her writing.
With clean, careful characters.
Misting solution: standard.
Yun Xue's stomach tightened.
Standard.
She had never said standard.
She opened her mouth—then closed it. If she protested wrong, it would become a record that she was "difficult."
The assistant's brush hovered.
"Thumbprint," he said.
Yun Xue's hands trembled. She looked at the ink pad.
Li Shen's voice rose in her memory, quiet and urgent:
No extra lines. No blanks. If they bring paper, bring it to me before you touch it.
Yun Xue swallowed.
"Can I… have a copy," she asked, voice small but clear.
The assistant finally looked up.
His eyes were not angry.
They were surprised, like a tool had spoken back.
"A copy," he repeated.
"Yes," Yun Xue whispered. "So I can— I can keep my own record. So I don't make mistakes."
The assistant stared at her for a heartbeat longer, then snorted softly.
"Servants don't keep Hall records," he said.
Yun Xue's cheeks burned. She bowed again, ashamed of wanting something that made sense.
The assistant pushed the sheet closer.
"Thumbprint," he repeated, colder now.
Yun Xue hesitated.
Then she lowered her thumb.
Pressed.
The ink soaked into the paper like it had been waiting.
She felt it again—like a latch catching.
---
They put her on Silvervein Orchids again.
Not the nursery-edge pots she had helped stabilize.
Hall stock. Conclave stock.
The benches were packed tighter than they should have been, arranged for output rather than health. A few leaves still held dust. A few pots leaned as if no one had turned them since last session.
Yun Xue knelt and began correcting what she could without being seen as slow.
Mist, careful and fine.
Turn each pot a fraction.
Check the soil surface.
Listen with her eyes.
The Silvervein Orchid responded to gentleness the way a frightened animal did—slowly, only when it believed it would not be hurt again. Its veins brightened almost imperceptibly as the leaf tension eased.
Yun Xue let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
If I keep it stable, she told herself, it will be fine.
She caught a scent again—faint, clean, sharp.
Chalk-thin.
Not herb oil.
Not powder.
Something that belonged to the sanitation lanes, not to a greenhouse.
She froze.
Her ladle hovered.
The scent came from the far bench, near a corner where a small bucket sat under the tablecloth.
Yun Xue's throat tightened.
Maybe someone cleaned.
Maybe it drifted in.
Maybe she imagined it.
She hated herself for thinking that.
Because imagination was what people accused you of when they wanted you to doubt your own hands.
She moved toward the corner bench slowly, as if approaching too fast would startle the plants.
One orchid there had stood out to her last time—its veins had been unusually clear, silver threads sharp and even.
Today, one leaf looked tired.
The silver line dulled.
The edge curled inward.
Not a collapse.
A warning.
Yun Xue's pulse spiked.
No. I didn't— I didn't—
She checked the soil.
Not too wet. Not too dry.
She misted lighter, almost apologetically.
She turned it away from the warmest spot.
She tried to imagine what mistake she had made that could cause this.
But she hadn't touched this pot yet today.
That thought landed in her mind like a stone.
She stared at the leaf.
A thin dusting clung to the rim of the pot—white, almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
Her fingers brushed it lightly.
It felt… wrong. Not soil. Not mineral in the normal way.
Alkaline.
She knew that feeling from the sanitation stations where slaked lime got thrown down to kill rot.
The scent was stronger now that she had found it.
Her stomach twisted.
Someone had brought cleaning into the plants.
Someone had done it quietly.
Someone had done it near the corner bench—near the pot that mattered.
Yun Xue's hands went cold.
She lifted the pot and looked at the drainage.
The micro-roots visible near the edge looked tense, as if the plant had clenched.
Not drowning.
Not rot.
A shock.
Her breath caught.
This wasn't carelessness.
This was an event.
Injected.
Yun Xue's mind tried to deny it anyway, because denial was safer than the alternative.
Maybe the bucket water was wrong.
Maybe the bench had residue.
Maybe—
She stopped.
Because the residue was too clean.
Because the timing was too perfect.
Because she had been doing everything right.
And the world was still moving to make her wrong.
---
She tried to correct it.
Not because she believed she could undo a shock with gentle hands.
Because she couldn't stand doing nothing.
She carried the pot to the side sink and rinsed the rim lightly, careful not to flood the soil.
She scraped a thin layer of top soil away, replaced it with clean mix from a sealed pouch she kept tucked in her bundle—something she had started doing after Li Shen told her not to trust what was left out.
She misted again, then stepped back and watched.
For a moment the leaf held.
Then, slowly, the curl deepened.
The silver vein dulled further, as if the plant was withdrawing into itself.
Yun Xue's throat tightened until her breath became shallow.
She pressed her hands to her thighs to stop them shaking.
It's my fault, her mind insisted, because that was the only way to keep control.
If it's my fault, I can fix it.
If it isn't… then I can't.
A shadow fell over the bench.
The proxy Hall man—the one who moved like he belonged to other people's time—stood behind her with a slate.
He didn't kneel. He didn't touch the plant.
He looked at it from above like a judge.
"What happened," he asked.
Yun Xue's mouth opened and nothing came out.
Her voice finally arrived too fast.
"I didn't— I found residue— I'm fixing it—"
The proxy's eyes flicked to the pot rim.
To the faint white trace she hadn't fully removed.
Then to Yun Xue's hands.
He didn't look surprised.
He looked satisfied.
"Waste," he said softly.
Yun Xue flinched. "No. It's not waste yet. I can—"
The proxy turned his slate so she could see.
A lot number.
A date.
Her name already written beside it.
"Silvervein Orchid is Conclave stock," he said. "We don't have 'yet.'"
Yun Xue's vision narrowed.
"I didn't do this," she whispered, and hated how small her voice sounded.
The proxy's expression didn't change.
"I don't care who did it," he said. "I care whose thumbprint is on the sheet."
Yun Xue's blood went cold.
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a paper—thin, official-looking, with a Hall mark and a blank line at the bottom.
"Loss acknowledgement," he said. "Compensation will be docked in points. Standard."
Yun Xue stared at the blank line.
Blank lines were traps.
She could see it now.
She could see it the way Li Shen saw it.
Too late.
"I… I need to speak to my supervisor," she whispered.
The proxy's gaze hardened by a fraction.
"You're attached," he said. "The Hall is your supervisor for attached work."
Yun Xue's throat tightened.
"I need… I need to show someone," she said, voice trembling. "This isn't normal damage. There was residue. It smelled—"
The proxy's pen scratched once on the slate.
"You're refusing allocation," he said calmly.
Yun Xue's heart stumbled.
"No," she whispered. "I'm— I'm trying to do it right."
The proxy leaned in just enough that she could smell ink on his sleeve.
"Doing it right," he said, "means signing what keeps the records clean."
That sentence was the knife.
Because it meant the Hall didn't want truth.
It wanted a tidy file.
It wanted her name at the bottom.
Yun Xue stared at the paper until her eyes burned.
She wanted to sign just to make it stop.
She wanted to sign because she was afraid.
She wanted to sign because if she didn't, she would be punished and everyone would say she had deserved it.
Her hand lifted—
Then she stopped.
She remembered the Silvervein Orchid leaf that had been perfect last session.
She remembered that her hands had made it better.
And she realized, in a sudden painful clarity, that this was not a test of skill.
This was a test of submission.
She lowered her hand.
"I can't," she whispered.
The proxy's eyes narrowed.
"You can," he corrected. "You choose not to."
Yun Xue bowed, shaking.
"I… I need to ask someone," she said again, because she didn't have better words. "Please."
The proxy straightened.
He didn't shout.
He didn't threaten.
He simply turned his slate and made another mark.
Then he looked at her like she was already decided.
"Then this will be reviewed," he said.
Yun Xue's stomach dropped.
Reviewed.
That meant higher eyes.
That meant she was no longer small enough to be ignored.
The proxy tucked the paper back into his sleeve without offering it again.
Not because he was merciful.
Because he didn't need her signature yet.
He had her refusal recorded.
He had a conflict.
And conflicts were ladders for the people who climbed.
He gestured toward the exit.
"Go," he said. "Return next session. Don't be late."
Yun Xue stumbled out of the workroom with her bundle clutched so tight it hurt.
Behind her, the Silvervein Orchid leaf continued to curl.
Not dying dramatically.
Just failing, quietly.
Like a servant being erased.
---
That night, Yun Xue couldn't eat.
She sat on her bedding and stared at the handling sheet under her mat, fingers trembling whenever she thought of her thumbprint on the page.
Temporary.
Two sessions.
Points.
Those words had been a promise.
Now they were a noose made of paper.
She wanted to cry, but crying felt like noise, and noise attracted attention, and attention was what had started all of this.
So she swallowed her tears and forced herself to breathe slowly.
She remembered the smell—chalk-thin, clean, wrong.
She remembered the white trace on the pot rim.
She replayed the scene until her mind hurt.
Because if she could find the moment she had failed, she could fix it.
But that was the trap.
There was no moment she had failed.
There was only a moment someone had decided she needed to.
Yun Xue pressed her forehead to her knees and made a decision that felt like stepping off a ledge.
She would ask Li Shen for help before the next session.
Not hint.
Not whisper.
Ask.
Even if it made her look stupid.
Even if it made her look weak.
Because weakness was already being written into her record.
---
The next morning, she caught Li Shen near the wash line, where the lantern-lit visitor corridor cast pale light over everything like a blade.
The corridor was louder now—more footsteps, more buckets, more scrubbing. Someone had pinned a new notice to the wall:
Final prep cycle. No delays.
Yun Xue's throat tightened.
Conclave wasn't coming.
It was almost here.
Li Shen was washing his hands with the same economy as always, breath controlled, posture calm in a way that made her feel both safe and ashamed.
She bowed too quickly.
"I— I think someone is hurting the orchids," she blurted.
Li Shen's hands stopped.
He didn't look shocked.
He looked… focused.
"What happened," he asked.
Yun Xue forced herself to speak clearly.
"Silvervein Orchid," she said. "White residue. Smells like lime. Only on one corner pot. They said it was waste. They wanted me to sign loss."
Li Shen's eyes sharpened.
He didn't ask why she hadn't noticed sooner.
He didn't scold her for thumbprinting.
He did what he always did.
He took the chaos and tried to give it shape.
"Did you keep the pot rim residue," he asked.
Yun Xue blinked. "I… I rinsed it."
Li Shen's jaw tightened slightly—an almost invisible reaction.
"Next time," he said quietly, "you don't clean it first. You show it. You make them see it."
Yun Xue's stomach twisted with shame.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
Li Shen looked at her for a long heartbeat.
Then his voice softened by a fraction—not kindness, but strategy.
"They planned it," he said. "That's why you didn't know."
Behind him, Bai Ren appeared, face hard, mud still on his sleeves.
He heard "planned" and his eyes flashed.
"Who," he growled.
Li Shen didn't answer with a name.
Names made enemies you couldn't kill.
"Hall proxies," he said. "Paper men."
Bai Ren's fists clenched.
"I'll—"
"You'll get recorded," Li Shen cut in, flat. "And then you're gone."
Bai Ren froze, jaw working.
Yun Xue hugged her bundle tighter.
"I don't want you to get in trouble because of me," she whispered.
Li Shen's gaze stayed on hers.
"You're already in trouble," he said. "So now we just choose what kind."
Yun Xue's breath caught.
Li Shen looked past her, toward the Hall direction, toward the visitor corridor, toward the tightening lanes and the lanterns and the polished face of the sect.
Then he spoke like someone deciding the next move in a game he didn't want to play.
"Next session," he said. "You go. You touch nothing until you see the lot. You don't sign anything. And if they call it review—"
He stopped.
Because in that moment, a runner passed behind them carrying a sealed strip of paper.
Not Hall-level wax.
A heavier stamp.
Protocol routing.
The runner didn't stop for Yun Xue.
He didn't need to.
He pressed the sealed strip into the hand of a clerk at the wash line table and moved on.
Yun Xue saw the heading as it flashed past the lamplight:
Herb Integrity Review — Conclave Stock
Her stomach dropped.
Li Shen saw it too.
His face didn't change much.
But his eyes went colder.
"—then someone higher is already looking," he finished.
Yun Xue stood frozen under the lantern light, feeling the world shift under her feet.
She had wanted to do her work well and be safe.
Instead, the Hall had turned one curling leaf into a ladder.
And now, because a Silvervein Orchid mattered more than a servant girl, the eyes that came next would not be small.