The massage hall was silent except for breath.
Warmth radiated up from the stone couch, steady and even, easing tension from bone and muscle alike. Steam curled faintly near the ceiling, carrying the subdued scent of herbs meant to soothe rather than intoxicate.
Seo Yerin lay face-down, her posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded.
The servant worked carefully along her back, hands moving with practiced precision. There was no urgency in his touch—no indulgence. Only routine. Only service.
She let the silence stretch.
Outside these walls, the sect was already adjusting to a new equilibrium. Messengers had come and gone. Agreements had been finalized with remarkable speed. The Western Ridge delegation had departed quietly, their confidence dimmed, their objections withdrawn without explanation.
No one asked why.
No one needed to.
The scent in the room was different today.
Lighter.
Cleaner.
She noted it without opening her eyes.
"Do you know why the incense from two nights ago worked so well?" she asked calmly.
The servant's hands did not falter.
"Yes, my lady," he replied after a moment. "It was prepared carefully."
"Name it."
A pause.
Then, softly, "Mi xiang."
Bewitching incense.
Confusing incense.
She inhaled slowly.
"It causes dizziness," he continued, encouraged by her silence. "Lowers resistance. It does not compel—only softens. It makes refusal feel… unnecessary."
Her thoughts aligned with his words.
She had felt it herself, faintly, at the edge of awareness. The warmth that lingered too long. The way time seemed less structured, less insistent. But she had never allowed it past that threshold.
"Prolonged exposure?" she asked.
"Drowsiness," he said. "Confusion. Suggestibility. It is not poison. It leaves no trace by morning."
"And the dosage?"
"Dependent on ventilation," he replied. "And preparation."
She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against the stone.
He had prepared it well.
Too well for coincidence.
"You told me once," she said, "that such incense was regulated."
"Yes."
"And yet you made it."
"Yes."
She was silent for a long moment.
She remembered the night clearly—the chamber thick with sweetness, the way the elders' voices had softened, the way their refusals had slowed before stopping altogether. She remembered leaving early, her senses sharp, untouched by the fog settling behind her.
She had known why.
She had planned for it.
The pill dissolved easily beneath the tongue. Bitter. Brief. Effective.
An old formulation—rarely used, harder to procure. It did not nullify the incense entirely. It simply shortened its reach. Bought clarity where others lost it.
"Did you worry," she asked quietly, "that I might be affected?"
The servant hesitated. "You asked for protection."
"Yes," she said. "I did."
He exhaled slowly, relief threading his posture.
Her gaze drifted to the incense burner in the corner—its lid closed now, dormant.
The sect believed the agreement had been reached through patience. Through reason. Through fatigue.
They were not entirely wrong.
But patience, too, could be prepared.
She closed her eyes.
"You did well," she said.
His hands stilled.
"Stand," she added.
He stepped back at once.
She pushed herself up from the couch and sat upright, already naked.
"Loyalty," she said, "is not proven by silence alone."
She met his gaze.
"I reward those who understand that."
He lowered his head.
"Thank you, my lady."
She spread her legs wide. "Finish your dessert," she said unhurriedly. "You left it unfinished last time."
He swallowed, his throat tightening as he looked.
"You may consider yourself… my loyal servant."
The words settled between them—quiet, binding.