The report was too clean.
It wasn't the paper. The paper was ordinary—Hall fiber, stiff, pale, cut to fit a standard sleeve. It was the writing.
No panic. No blame. No uncertainty.
Just numbers arranged like a prayer.
Conclave stock. Loss trend. Handling dispute. Review requested.
Elder Yan read it once, then again, slower the second time.
A loss trend in Silvervein Orchid this close to hosting wasn't an inconvenience. It was an insult. Not to her pride—she didn't waste time on pride. To the sect's face. To its inventory. To the quiet promise that everything would be ready before guests arrived.
She handed the strip back to her assistant without looking up.
"You were going to send an inspector," she said.
The assistant—an inner-yard attendant with a disciplined spine—bowed. "Yes, Elder. Standard procedure."
Yan's gaze sharpened. "Standard is what people hide behind."
The assistant held his breath, waiting.
Yan stood.
"I'm going," she said.
He blinked once. "Elder… the schedule—"
"The schedule is why I'm going," Yan cut in. "When things break close to an event, they don't break by accident. They break because someone thinks they have time."
She turned toward the outer herb yards.
Outside, the sect was already wearing its Conclave skin.
Lantern rows hung straight along the visitor corridor, all the patched lights replaced by new paper frames that didn't flicker. Wash basins had been set into carved stone. Drain channels ran like clean scars through the ground.
Servants moved in tight streams, scrubbing until their hands bled and their faces went blank.
Everywhere, the air carried the dull, restless pressure of an organism tightening itself before exposure.
Yan walked through it without hurry.
She didn't need to rush. Others rushed for her.
As she passed, a pair of outer-yard supervisors bowed and pressed themselves flatter than necessary. She ignored them. She was not there for their gestures.
She was there for the orchids.
---
The Hall greenhouse tried to greet her like a script.
Two attendants were waiting at the threshold before she even stepped inside, both in neat grey, hands clean, faces arranged into respectful neutrality.
"Elder Yan," one began quickly, "we were just about to compile—"
Yan walked past him as if he hadn't spoken.
The heat inside struck her first—controlled warmth, over-dry, heavy with powders that stripped moisture from the throat.
Her sensibility stretched out without show.
Not a wave. Not a display.
A simple awareness, like opening her eyes wider.
Plants filled the space in ranked benches—rows and lots, each marked with tags, each tag tied to a slate somewhere.
The living things didn't lie.
They carried their history in their tissue.
Yan felt it at once: the greenhouse was being pushed too hard.
Too much dryness to prevent mold. Too much heat to accelerate growth. Too many hands moving too quickly.
That kind of strain did not kill a plant instantly.
It made it vulnerable.
It made it easy to sabotage.
An attendant hurried alongside her, slate raised like a shield.
"Elder, the loss trend is minor," he said. "Within acceptable—"
"Show me the lot," Yan said.
The attendant swallowed and pointed too quickly, as if moving fast could control where she looked.
"This way. Bench corner. Silvervein Orchid, Conclave allotment—"
Yan followed the direction, but not his lead.
She watched the floor as she walked.
Not for cleanliness.
For residue.
There—near the edge of a bench cloth—an almost invisible dusting, pale enough to look like nothing unless you knew what nothing looked like.
There—on the lower rim of a metal bucket—dry white streaks like a hand had wiped something chalky and forgotten the trace.
Yan stopped.
The attendant nearly collided with her.
He recovered instantly and tried to smile. "We… we use lime in sanitation lanes. It could have—"
Yan didn't respond.
She knelt and touched the bucket rim with two fingers, then lifted them to her nose.
Clean sharpness.
Alkaline.
Not soil mineral.
Not plant ash used properly.
Lime water.
Used where it didn't belong.
Yan rose.
"Who has access to this bench," she asked.
The attendant's eyes flicked sideways, searching for a safe answer.
"Hall staff," he said. "Attached servants. Standard rotation—"
"Names," Yan said.
The attendant hesitated again, and that hesitation told her more than the names would.
He tried to pivot.
"We have handling sheets, Elder. Thumbprints. Compliance lines. It's all recorded."
Yan's gaze chilled.
"Good," she said. "Then you won't mind when I ignore it."
The attendant blinked. "Elder?"
Yan stepped to the bench and pulled the cloth aside.
The Silvervein Orchids sat in their pots like silent judges. Their leaves were thin, elegant, veined with pale silver that made them look cleaner than they had any right to be.
Most of the lot was… well kept.
Not Hall-well. Not "clean on paper." Well in the way only careful hands produced: even moisture, stable leaf tension, no unnecessary bruising, spacing corrected in small increments.
A skilled caretaker had been here.
Then Yan's eyes found the injury.
One pot. Corner bench. Leaf edge curled inward, silver vein dulled as if the plant had pulled the thread back into itself. A faint burn at the rim where tissue should have stayed soft.
Yan crouched, fingers hovering just above the leaf.
Her awareness brushed the plant lightly.
It didn't react like a plant that had been neglected.
It reacted like a plant that had been shocked.
The root zone carried the signature: micro-roots tightened, the fine hairs damaged in a way that did not come from dryness or overwatering.
A brief alkaline surge.
Enough to hurt. Not enough to kill immediately.
A sabotage designed for plausible deniability.
Yan's mouth tightened.
"You did not mis-handle this," she said, almost to the plant.
The attendant seized the opening like a drowning man grabbing air.
"Elder, that's what we said—careless handling by the attached—"
Yan looked at him.
Her gaze wasn't loud.
It was absolute.
"You said careless," Yan corrected. "This is chemical shock."
The attendant stiffened. "We… we don't—"
"You do," Yan said. "You just don't say it out loud."
She stood and turned her head slightly.
"Bring me the person who actually touches these pots," she said.
The attendant swallowed.
"We have multiple hands—"
Yan's patience thinned into something sharper.
"Bring me the hand," she repeated. "Or I will choose one at random and make your records match my choice."
That was not a threat.
That was an explanation of power.
The attendant bowed so fast it was almost frantic. "Yes, Elder. Immediately."
He left at a near run.
Yan stayed by the bench.
She didn't need to chase anyone.
The guilty always came to authority.
---
While she waited, Yan walked the lot in silence.
She touched pot rims, soil edges, the underside of a bench support where residue hid.
The sabotage wasn't everywhere.
It was placed.
Corner bench. Bucket. Cloth.
A controlled point of failure.
Someone wanted a single plant to drop, a single number to rise, a single caretaker to become "wasteful" on paper.
Yan's irritation deepened.
The Conclave was close. The sect was already tightening its posture. This was the worst time for petty war.
Petty wars always happened at the worst time.
Because that was when everyone pretended their hands were full.
Footsteps returned.
Two attendants re-entered with a girl between them.
Small. Pale. Too thin for the bundle she carried. Head bowed as if looking up would make her exist too loudly.
Yun Xue.
Yan didn't need her name to read her.
The girl's hands were rough in the places they should be rough—fingers, palms, the edges of thumbs. Not from carrying stones. Not from rope work. From soil and pot rims and repetitive careful tasks.
Her posture was trained into apology.
Her breathing was controlled badly—too shallow, too polite, as if she didn't want to take up air.
But when Yan's gaze shifted to the orchids, she saw something else:
The plants recognized the girl.
Not sentiment. Not magic.
A subtle easing. Leaf tension relaxing a fraction when the girl stepped close.
Because the girl moved like someone who did not harm living things unless forced.
Yan spoke without raising her voice.
"Touch the pot," she said.
Yun Xue flinched as if expecting punishment.
Then she stepped forward, hands trembling, and placed her fingertips lightly against the rim of the injured orchid.
She didn't grab it.
She didn't yank.
She touched it like you touched a bruise to see how deep it went.
Yan watched her hands.
Watched the angle of her wrist.
Watched the way her eyes flicked from leaf to soil to drainage without being told.
That wasn't learned from Hall quotas.
That was learned from caring too much.
"Who told you to use 'standard misting solution'?" Yan asked.
Yun Xue's head jerked up slightly, panic flashing.
"I— I didn't," she whispered. "I… I used clean water. I… I smelled something wrong and I tried to rinse—"
Her voice tightened.
"I thought it was my fault," she added quickly, as if fault was safer than accusation.
Yan's gaze shifted to the attendant with the slate.
"You filled her sheet," Yan said.
It wasn't a question.
The attendant's mouth opened. "Elder, we— we correct for consistency. The attached sometimes—"
Yan cut him off with a single motion of her hand.
"Your consistency is a rope," she said. "And you're tying it around a child."
The word child landed with quiet contempt—not at Yun Xue, but at the Hall's tactic.
The attendant's face paled.
Yan turned back to Yun Xue.
"Do you know what you are working with," Yan asked.
Yun Xue swallowed. "Silvervein Orchid," she whispered. "It helps… it helps calm meridians. For tremors. For pain. The leaves— they— they hold better if you keep the soil stable and the air not too dry."
Yan watched her.
No arrogance. No performance.
Just knowledge.
Enough to matter.
Yan looked at the injured pot again.
Then at the bucket rim with the lime streak.
Then at the handling sheets clutched in the attendant's hand like a weapon.
The pattern was obvious.
Someone had used sanitation tools where they didn't belong, induced a localized failure, and tried to convert it into points debt and compliance.
A petty political move.
And it was stupid.
Because Silvervein Orchid wasn't just stock.
It was Conclave stock.
It would be seen by guests. Used by guests. Counted by guests.
That made it her business.
Yan's voice turned colder.
"This lot is under my oversight now," she said.
The attendants froze.
The slate-man—if he was a slate-man—tried to recover.
"Elder, the Hall allocation—"
Yan looked at him.
Her tone didn't change.
"The Hall does not allocate what it cannot protect," she said. "And you cannot protect this lot."
The attendant swallowed hard.
"We can compensate, Elder. We can dock points—"
Yan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You will not dock anything," she said. "You will not write her into debt. You will not mark this as theft."
She stepped forward, close enough that the attendant's breath caught.
"You will write exactly what happened," Yan said. "Alkaline contamination. Source unknown. Review ongoing."
The attendant's fingers trembled on the brush. "Elder—"
Yan's patience ended.
She reached into her sleeve and drew out a strip of paper with a seal that was not Hall lacquer.
It was older. Heavier. The kind of stamp that did not argue.
She pressed it to the counter table.
The wax mark was crisp.
Authority made visible.
REASSIGNMENT ORDER — OUTER YARD SERVANT
YUN XUE → ELDER YAN'S HERB YARD
IMMEDIATE EFFECT
ATTACHMENT NULLIFIED
The room went still.
Even the greenhouse heat felt like it paused.
Yun Xue stared at the order as if it were a foreign language.
The Hall attendant's face tightened—anger swallowed behind obedience.
He bowed.
"Yes, Elder," he said.
Yan didn't smile.
She didn't say you're safe now.
Safe was not a promise she dealt in.
She looked at Yun Xue.
"You will come with my attendant," Yan said. "You will not return here unless I send you."
Yun Xue's lips parted.
"Yes," she whispered, then hesitated. "Elder… I… I didn't—"
Yan cut her off gently, not unkind, simply efficient.
"I know," she said.
That was all.
Because it didn't matter whether Yun Xue was innocent in a moral sense.
It mattered that her hands produced stability, and stability was rare.
Yan turned away from the bench and addressed the room like a knife addressing flesh.
"If this lot fails again," she said, "I will not ask for a review."
The meaning was obvious.
She would remove more than a servant.
She would remove the people who thought they could hide behind paper.
No one answered.
No one dared.
Yan nodded once, satisfied.
"Good," she said. "Then we understand each other."
---
Outside, the visitor corridor lanterns were still lit even though the sun had climbed. The sect was already practicing being watched.
Yan walked with Yun Xue behind her, her attendant at the girl's side like a moving wall.
Yun Xue stumbled once, then steadied herself. She clutched her bundle like it was proof she still existed.
Yan didn't slow.
If the girl was going to survive under her yard, she would learn quickly that strength was often just pace.
At a turn near the wash stations, Yan's gaze flicked briefly toward a runner lane.
A boy with a Tier Two token at his sash passed, head down, moving fast but not frantic.
Controlled.
Useful.
Yan didn't stop him.
She noted him.
Later, she would ask who had routed the review and why the Hall's paper had reached Protocol in time.
People like that were dangerous in the best way.
They saw patterns.
And in a sect preparing for a Conclave, patterns were the only thing that kept rot from becoming collapse.
Yan didn't look back at the Hall greenhouse.
It could keep its powder-clean air and its tidy lies.
She had taken what mattered.
A living lot.
And the hand that knew how to keep it alive.