The Cold Palace Bloom

The Imperial Inspector, a eunuch named Zhao, arrived at dawn, his palanquin borne by six silent attendants. Mist curled around the courtyard stones, dampening the air with the scent of earth and magnolia. The Zhang household had been roused before the rooster's crow, each servant and mistress adorned in their finest silks. Lady Wang, her gaze sharp with expectation, had spent the morning drilling her daughters in etiquette and poise. By the time the eunuch stepped past the lacquered threshold, the sisters were already lined up, their eyes lowered in feigned humility. 

Eunuch Zhao's face was powdered a ghostly white, his lips a touch too red from crushed cinnabar. His robes, a deep violet hue stitched with silver cranes, swept the floor with every deliberate step. His eyes, dark and unreadable, roved over the Zhang sisters as he circled them like a vulture scenting weakness. The power he held was immense; a single word from him could determine their fate in the palace. 

"Recite the "Classic of Filial Piety," he ordered, his voice smooth yet edged with scrutiny. 

Mei, the eldest, tilted her chin and began, her voice light, almost playful. The verses rolled off her tongue as if they were a jest rather than a command. 

Lan, the middle sister, followed, but her voice cracked like a dying lute. The lines faltered, stumbling over each other. Her fingers clenched her sleeves, her face paling with every mistake. 

Lian, the youngest, did not hesitate. Her voice was clear, each word crisply enunciated, her posture steady. Unlike her sisters, she neither giggled nor fumbled. She met the eunuch's gaze with quiet defiance, her chin lifted as if daring him to find fault. 

Snap.

The ivory fan in his hand snapped shut with a sharp crack that echoed through the courtyard. 

"Arrogance," he remarked, his lips curving slightly. The word hung in the air, heavy and irreversible. He did not need to elaborate; the judgment was final. 

Mei exhaled in relief. Lan swallowed audibly. But Lian only held his gaze, her expression unreadable. 

Lady Wang's fingers twitched where they rested on the jade clasp of her belt. A smile—too quick, too tight—curved her lips as she stepped forward, her voice honeyed with false warmth. 

"The youngest is stubborn, my lord, but her calligraphy—" 

"The Son of Heaven doesn't bed scrolls," Zhao interrupted, tucking his fan into his sleeve as he extended his hand. 

Lady Wang pressed a pair of jade earrings into his palm. The pieces were exquisite, carved into phoenix wings—no doubt a subtle bribe. Zhao weighed them in his fingers before slipping them into his robe, his expression unchanged. 

A servant girl approached with a tray of warm pear wine. Zhao sipped lazily, his eyes flickering back to the girls. "You are fortunate, Lady Wang. His Majesty has taken an interest in noble daughters this season. If one of yours is selected, your family's fortune will rise." 

Lady Wang lowered her gaze demurely, though her fingers trembled. "An honor beyond measure." 

Zhao swirled the wine in his cup. "The palace is not kind to weak-willed women." His gaze lingered on Lan, whose head remained bowed. "Nor to foolish ones." His fan tilted toward Mei before settling on Lian. "And arrogance, Lady Wang, is the quickest path to ruin." 

Lian remained impassive, though the weight of his stare pressed down on her. She knew what he saw: a girl who refused to cower or simper. A girl unbroken. 

Zhao set the cup down and clapped once. "Prepare the second test. The calligraphy set." 

Lady Wang exhaled slowly. "Yes, my lord." 

A maid unrolled a silk scroll onto a lacquered table, arranging brushes and inkstone. Mei's strokes were graceful but shallow, decorative rather than skilled. Lan's hand shook, leaving wobbling characters. Lian, however, wrote with a steady hand. Her brush glided in fluid, decisive strokes—each character poised, deliberate. 

Zhao studied their work, tapping his fan. At last, he pointed to Lian's scroll. "The best among the three." 

Lady Wang's shoulders eased—until his next words froze her. 

"Unfortunately," Zhao murmured, "calligraphy does not warm the Emperor's bed." 

The dismissal in his tone was unmistakable. Lian's talent—her intellect—meant nothing. Only obedience mattered. 

Lady Wang's fingers twitched as she forced another smile. "My lord, surely—" 

Zhao turned, violet silk swirling. "His Majesty will decide. I will submit my report." 

He did not linger. The sisters' fates were sealed. 

As the eunuch departed, Mei pressed a hand to her chest. Lan exhaled shakily. Lian watched his retreating figure, fingers curling at her sides. 

She had been judged. 

And found wanting. 

The path ahead had already begun to twist.