Three days passed without poison, but not without tension.
I shadowed the Empress's meals. Smelled every pot. Tasted what they told me to. Every dish a possible trap. Every glance a possible clue. I was no longer a servant they called me the Ink-Eye, whispered like it was a curse.
I didn't mind. Fear is useful. It keeps people talking just a little too much.
On the fourth morning, the Empress had guests.
Three high consorts, dressed in shades of blooming spring: plum, orchid, and peach. Each beautiful. Each venomous in her own way. They smiled at one another with their eyes half-lidded, their voices honeyed and sharp. It was a performance.
And I was the backdrop.
But it wasn't them I noticed. It was him.
A man stepped into the sunlit court tall, draped in midnight silk, his long hair tied with silver thread. He held a fan, elegant and painted with smoke-like clouds. Not a eunuch. Not a guard. Not dressed like a prince but every part of him commanded silence.
The moment I saw him, the ink on my wrist flared. Just a flicker. But enough.
He looked at me once.
Just once.
And smiled.
The kind of smile you give a person you already know. Or used to.
But I didn't know his name. I didn't know his role. No one introduced him. When I asked one of the kitchen maids later, she whispered like it burned her throat:
"That's Prince Zhen's shadow.
He shouldn't even exist."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The ink mark on my wrist was burning. Not hot but alive. Reacting. Remembering.
And in the dark, a slip of parchment was left beside my mat. No one saw who placed it.
On it, one sentence:
"We've met before, haven't we, lnk-Girl?"