The first thing Yue heard was the hum.
Not mechanical. Not magical. Somewhere between.
A low, pulsing vibration, soft enough to ignore — until you noticed it. Then it wouldn't stop.
She opened her eyes.
Her room was unchanged. The bed was untouched. The basin still rippled with old water. The curtains hadn't moved.
But something else had entered.
Hovering six feet above the stone floor, near the center of the chamber, was a floating orb — smooth, pale, about the size of a melon. It spun slowly, trailing a thin line of silver mist in its wake.
No strings. No stands. No wings.
Just an eye. Watching.
Yue sat up slowly, her spine tight with unease.
It didn't react.
It simply watched.
She stood, padded toward it barefoot, then stopped a handspan away.
The orb made no sound.
She narrowed her eyes.
"What are you?"
A click.
Then a voice.
"You may address me as The Eye."
Yue's blood chilled.
Not because the orb spoke — but because of how it spoke.
The voice was smooth, female, layered in silk and venom.
It was the Empress Dowager's voice.
Yue stepped back.
The orb followed — just slightly.
"I didn't invite you," Yue said.
"You are marked. You are within imperial threshold. Observation is your duty."
"I'm not your—"
The orb pulsed.
"Silence is recommended between first and second breath."
Yue stared at it. Then, without ceremony, she turned and grabbed the ceramic pitcher from the table and hurled it.
It struck the orb dead center.
Shattered on impact.
Water exploded in every direction. The Eye didn't move. Not an inch.
It pulsed again. A little louder.
"Resistance noted. You remain under observation."
Yue stood there, panting, soaked from the waist down. Her hand trembled, not from fear — from rage.
"Get out of my room."
"Your room is on loan. As is your life."
The Eye dimmed slightly, retreating just an inch higher toward the ceiling.
Yue didn't move. Didn't speak.
She simply turned, picked up the largest shard of the pitcher, and pocketed it without a word.
If the Eye noticed, it didn't speak.
But it pulsed again. Once.
Watching.
The guards came before sunrise.
No knock. No warning. Just a turn of the handle and a creak of hinges.
Yue stood at once, already dressed, the Eye hovering silently near the ceiling.
"Vein protocol," the taller guard said.
She said nothing. She followed.
The corridors were empty this early. The cold bit at her toes through thin slippers, but no one offered her shoes. She didn't ask.
They passed the silk cages again. This time, the other women did not speak. They watched through gauze, eyes hollow, lips closed. One hummed a lullaby under her breath — tuneless and slow.
The door to the Vein Chamber was a black slab of wood etched with dozens of sigils. Some glowed faintly blue. Others pulsed red, like veins.
It opened without sound.
Inside was silence.
Not emptiness. Curated silence.
The floor was carved from onyx, veined with silver. The walls curved inward like the inside of a bell. Candles floated in perfect orbits above them, unmelting. In the center of the room stood a single man, barefoot, with white robes that pooled like mist around his feet.
He did not turn to greet her.
"Yue Lian," he said, voice like wind over old parchment.
She stepped forward carefully. "You know my name."
"I know your Vein."
She stopped.
He turned now — slow, deliberate. His face was lined but elegant, his eyes hooded and pale green, clouded by ink tattoos that spiraled from the inner corners outward like vines choking a window.
"Quen Daoshi," he said with a shallow bow. "Seer. Whisperer. Listener of blood."
She stared. "You want to… listen to me?"
"To your blood."
He stepped forward, holding out a pale hand. Long fingers. Clean nails. No rings.
"I will not harm you. But if you lie, your blood will speak."
Yue hesitated.
Then gave him her hand.
He cradled it gently. Pressed two fingers to her wrist. Closed his eyes.
Nothing moved for a long time.
Then—
He inhaled sharply.
She felt it — a tug, not physical. A pull in her veins, like someone exhaling inside her bones.
He whispered:
"Three strands. Not one.
Not mother's. Not beast's.
Broken. Swallowed. Fed by teeth.
Glass singing in places that do not echo."
Yue's lips parted. She tried to pull away.
He gripped tighter.
"You should not exist," he said softly.
She yanked her hand free.
He let her go, eyes still closed.
Then he turned and walked to a table at the edge of the room — where a single glass bell waited, suspended over a basin of ink.
"Bleed," he said, not turning back. "Let us hear what your body hides."
Yue stared at the bell.
It hung from three thin gold chains suspended between pillars of obsidian, each etched with ancient glyphs. The bell itself was flawless — clear, fragile, refracting light like crystal. Beneath it, a basin of thick, still ink waited.
Master Quen stood beside it now, hands folded into his sleeves.
"Cut," he said. "The wrist or the mouth. Vein or truth. Your choice."
Yue stepped forward slowly. The Eye had followed her into the chamber — it now hovered behind her, silent as always, yet pulsing faintly with anticipation.
She withdrew the shard of pitcher she'd hidden in her sleeve earlier. The one she'd pocketed when the Eye first appeared.
Quen nodded slightly. "Clever girl."
She didn't ask what he meant.
She pressed the edge of the ceramic to the side of her hand — not deep, but sure. Blood welled up, bright and red… at first.
As it rolled down her skin, it changed.
Silver-blue.
Not metallic — glasslike.
Not normal.
She blinked.
Quen stepped forward and raised her hand beneath the bell.
The drop fell.
It struck the inner base of the bell with a soft chime.
For a moment, all was still.
Then—
The bell cracked.
A single fracture split it from base to mouth.
The sound was not loud — it was wrong. Like something sacred being undone in reverse.
The crack pulsed once—then shattered.
Glass exploded outward. The ink beneath hissed and recoiled as if scorched.
Yue stumbled back, hand to her face. Blood ran from her nose. Her ears rang.
The Eye dropped several inches in the air, its glow intensifying. A sharp humming filled the room like static before a lightning strike.
Master Quen didn't move.
He stared at the broken bell. His lips parted.
"Impossible," he whispered.
Yue wiped her mouth. Her fingertips came away red. And then blue.
From her wrist, the cut still bled — slowly now — but each drop shimmered faintly.
Quen turned to the Eye.
"Summon the beast," he said.
The Moon Court's Hall of Conduct was built like a temple but used like a cage.
There were no windows. No guards. Only a long corridor of cold white stone and a circular room at the end—lit from above by a single shaft of moonlight so narrow it never reached the floor.
Rin stood alone in the center.
His hands were loose at his sides. His hair hung damp against his back. The collar of his robe was open slightly — not out of comfort, but indifference. No one had dared touch him on the way in.
The door closed behind him with the sound of polished bone sliding against stone.
A figure stepped into the room, robed in the silver-gray of the Dowager's Inner Council.
An old woman. Thin. Elegant. Terrifying.
She carried no weapon.
Only a small box, black lacquer, with three chains wrapped around it.
She set it down on a low table between them and undid the clasps one by one.
Inside—
A collar.
It looked simple. Thin. Unadorned.
But Rin smelled it the moment it opened: blood-iron, crushed bone, shadowroot, and a drop of Vein-quencher.
"Designed for beasts," the woman said. "Fitted for your lineage."
He didn't speak.
She gestured toward the box. "Do not mistake our silence for tolerance. You may have clawed your way into this court on instinct, but we remain generous only as long as you remain controlled."
Still, Rin said nothing.
Her voice softened, but her words sharpened.
"You are permitted proximity to the Glass-Bearer because the Dowager has willed it. Not because of your mark. Not because of your Vein."
At last, Rin's eyes lifted. The gold in them did not glow.
Yet.
"You presume I care about permission."
"No," she said. "We presume you care about survival."
He looked at the collar again.
"It won't hold me."
"It's not meant to hold you," she replied. "It's meant to delay you. Long enough for her to be taken."
His fingers twitched.
"And if I refuse?" he asked.
She closed the box.
"Then next time," she said, "we put it on your child."
The air cracked.
Just once.
Rin didn't move. Didn't breathe.
But something behind his eyes did.
She slid the box toward him and left.
He waited until her footsteps were gone.
Then he picked it up.
Not gently. Not with fear.
But as if carrying a promise.
The Eye was gone.
For now.
Yue sat curled at the edge of her bedding platform, wrapped in a robe too thin for comfort, staring at the dark water in the basin. The walls didn't echo. The silence felt heavy—like something unfinished waiting to be spoken.
Her veins still shimmered faintly beneath her skin.
Not obvious. Not to anyone who hadn't seen the bell shatter. But she could feel it.
Her pulse beat wrong. Too slow. Too strong.
The door opened.
No knock.
No creak.
Just Rin.
He entered without announcement, without sound, without hesitation. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, then crossed the room in three slow steps.
He stopped at the foot of her bed.
Said nothing.
Yue didn't look at him.
"I thought they'd chain you," she said softly.
"They tried."
Her gaze dropped to the object in his hand.
Black lacquer. Closed. Familiar.
"You took it," she said.
"I didn't put it on."
She turned her face away.
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It pressed on her. Thick and warm and unspoken. He wasn't just standing near her—he was around her. Like a storm held in place by breath alone.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"Because you didn't tell me not to be."
She blinked.
She turned to him then—slowly—and met his eyes.
They weren't gold tonight.
They were dark. Tired. Almost… human.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.
Then said, "Closer."
Rin didn't move immediately.
When he did, it was quiet. Careful. He didn't sit beside her. Just knelt at the foot of the bed, eyes level with her knees, the collar box placed beside him.
No chains. No pressure. Just waiting.
Yue looked down at her hands.
"If I die," she said, voice barely a breath, "make sure they burn with me."
Rin didn't nod.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
Then:
"That's the only reason I'm still breathing."