After a few weeks, on the night of the Lantern Festival, when even the shadows dared to dance.
The Gu Estate, like every noble household in the city, was alive with colour and laughter. Paper lanterns of every hue swayed gently in the breeze, casting warm reflections upon the silver pond. Children ran through the courtyards waving streamers; maids sang old songs by the kitchens; and from the tower halls, music floated—harps, flutes, and the low hum of wine-laced conversation.
But while lanterns bloomed like stars in the courtyard, a darker constellation moved through the estate—silent, coiled, and patient.
Three shadows. Three men, lean and silent, robed in the colour of soot and shadow, crept like ink across silk. They did not speak. They did not breathe loudly. But each of them carried, hidden beneath their sleeves, blades dipped in the poison of the southern marshes—deadly, even by the standards of professional killers. One scratch meant fever, then silence.
Their target: Gu Yan Chen, heir of the Gu family, war-hardened son of the northern frontier, and now—thanks to a festering jealousy in high places—an inconvenience.
By fate—or folly—they did not reckon on the strange girl in the west wing.
Mu Lian, left alone during the festivities, had taken to walking the quieter paths of the garden, where the peach blossoms dropped one by one, like tears from a too-full heart. Something in her chest was unsettled—call it instinct, or a soldier's intuition disguised in silk robes.
She saw the first man crouching behind the ornamental rock by the koi pond.
She did not scream.
Instead, she stepped lightly backward into the shadows and climbed the narrow stair that led to the second story balcony, from which the entire northern courtyard could be seen—and where Gu Yan Chen presently stood, alone, his face turned slightly upward toward the moon, away from the noise and colour.
She spotted the other two.
One scaled the eastern wall with spiderlike grace. The second was already in the outer corridor, too close, too fast. Mu Lian's breath caught—not with fear, but with fury. She had lived among wolves before. She knew the smell of death before it arrived.
"Assassins," she whispered.
And then she moved.
It was said later—by the few who saw it—that she descended the inner terrace as if falling with purpose, her robes fluttering like flame in wind. She dashed across the courtyard, seized a guard's polearm without permission or ceremony, and shouted—
"To arms! Protect the Young Master!"
The words hit the estate like thunder.
Gu Yan Chen turned, not startled but alert, his hand already halfway to the hilt at his waist. He saw the glint—metal catching lantern light—the first assassin lunging forward like a black serpent. But before he could draw fully, Mu Lian was between them, staff raised in two pale hands.
The clash resounded like cracked wood. Sparks. A cry. Blood.
The first assassin stumbled back, shocked—not by her strength, but by her precision. Her strike had met his elbow with such speed and certainty that the joint snapped audibly. He hissed, more in rage than pain, and lunged again.
He did not make it. A blade—thrown, not swung—came from the side. Gu Yan Chen had drawn at last. The steel struck the assassin in the throat with brutal grace. He crumpled.
"Another!" Mu Lian gasped, pointing toward the inner corridor.
By now, the guards had rushed in. Bells rang. Doors flew open. Steel clashed.
The second assassin was caught by the steward and three guards near the stairwell, his attempt foiled in a storm of blades. The third made it closest—he darted from the roof like a bird of prey, aiming straight for Gu Yan Chen's back.
Mu Lian moved before even he did.
She shoved the heir with the full force of her body, knocking him from the assassin's path just in time. The killer's blade missed Gu Yan Chen's neck by inches, slicing instead into Mu Lian's shoulder. She did not scream.
She spun around, staff raised, even as blood trickled down her back.
Gu Yan Chen, now recovered, ended the matter with a single upward strike. The final assassin collapsed at Mu Lian's feet.
When the household gathered afterward—nobles, stewards, maids and captains—they beheld a sight that none would forget:
Mu Lian, pale as snow, robes torn, shoulder bleeding freely, yet standing like a statue wrought by the gods themselves. She said nothing. She did not faint. She only looked at Gu Yan Chen, her eyes calm, unblinking.
"You... you saved me," he said, voice low.
"No," she replied, with the faintest smile. "I did what was necessary."
From that night on, none in the Gu household dared question her place.
They whispered tales of her old life—of a noble bloodline perhaps hidden, or some far-off prince's sister cast down by misfortune. They brought her fresh silk robes and ointments, and bowed lower than they did the ladies of the house. Even Old Cook Li wept into her sleeves and demanded someone bring the girl dumplings.
As for Gu Yan Chen, something in him had changed.
He began to linger longer by the training yard—not just to instruct the soldiers, but to watch her. When she walked past, he sometimes turned to follow, his brow furrowed in thought. And once—just once—he left a single peach blossom at her door, though neither of them ever mentioned it.