I stood before my father's desk, my hands folded neatly in front of me. He had yet to acknowledge me, his attention fixed on the jade slips before him. I did not shift. I did not clear my throat.
Make them notice you first.
The room smelled of parchment and ink, the faint scent of incense barely masking the sharp tang of metal from the sword hanging by his side. It was always like this—structured, cold, distant.
Finally, after what felt like an appropriate delay, he lifted his gaze.
"What is it?"
His tone was flat, more out of habit than impatience.
I lowered my lashes. Not too much—just enough to seem hesitant, as if I were debating whether or not to speak. A lesser girl would have fidgeted. I did not. Weakness should never be performed so crudely.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Father," I murmured.
He said nothing.
I exhaled softly, as though I had come here against my better judgment. As though I would rather keep my grievances to myself, but had no other choice.
"There have been… issues in the outer sect," I said. "Some disciples—" A pause, a breath, just the right amount of restraint. "—have been treating me unfairly."
The words lingered. Soft. Measured.
Not a complaint. Not an accusation. Just enough to suggest that I was reluctant to bring this up, that whatever had happened must have been serious for me to even mention it.
His frown was slight. "Issues."
Not a question. A test.
I allowed the faintest flicker of something—uncertainty, discomfort—before smoothing my features. "I know it isn't unusual," I murmured, my voice quiet. "The outer sect is full of competition. But… they weren't ordinary disciples."
Silence.
I let the hesitation build, as if I feared sounding weak. Then—just enough restraint to keep the words from sounding desperate—I continued.
"They were ranked higher than me. Stronger." I let my fingers tighten slightly at my sides, as if the memory was something I had tried to endure. "I wouldn't have mentioned it, but…" A small, almost self-conscious exhale. "I suppose I thought it wasn't… fair."
Fair. A childish word. A useless thing in the world of cultivation. I let it hang there, making myself seem naive, as if I still believed fairness had a place in the sect.
That was the bait.
Either he'd dismiss it outright, proving that strength was the only thing that mattered. Or, if he did take interest, it would be because someone of a higher rank had been involved.
A second passed. Then another.
I already knew the answer before he spoke.
"Then there's no need to concern yourself with it." He was already looking back at his scrolls.
I watched him for a moment longer. Then, as if conceding, I inclined my head.
"Of course, Father."
I turned, my steps as light and composed as when I entered. Not a trace of disappointment, not a sign of expectation.
I had received what I came for.
My father was exactly as he had always been. And now, when the time came, I would know which words to use against him.
I let the thought settle, smooth and unbothered, as I made my way to the next one.
…
The air in my mother's courtyard smelled of flowers—soft, cloying, a fragrance carefully maintained by the servants who trimmed the vines and arranged the petals each morning.
It was too sweet.
I stepped lightly, making sure my presence was unobtrusive. My mother disliked interruptions, but she disliked insolence more.
She was seated by the pavilion, a porcelain teacup in her hands. When she saw me, she did not smile. She never did. But she inclined her head slightly, acknowledging me.
It was permission.
I lowered myself onto the seat across from her, my back straight, my expression gentle. Not too eager—just… pleasant.
She did not speak first. She never did.
So I let the silence settle, as if enjoying the flowers with her.
A test.
I had long since learned the rules of conversation with my mother. To speak too quickly was to be impatient. To hesitate too long was to be dull.
So, after precisely five measured breaths, I sighed softly and set my hands on my lap, fingers delicate against the fabric of my sleeves.
"Mother," I murmured, letting my voice be light, a touch uncertain. "May I trouble you for advice?"
She did not react, but I saw the shift in her gaze. Approval.
Good.
A proper daughter seeks guidance. A proper daughter does not burden with complaints.
I lowered my lashes. "It's about the sect."
Still, she did not interrupt.
I let a small pause stretch, as if choosing my words carefully, as if I feared sounding childish.
"There are disciples who… seem to take issue with me." I exhaled lightly, as though reluctant to admit it. "I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but…"
My hands pressed together in my lap, fingers entwining gently.
"They're stronger than me, Mother," I continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Ranked higher." A soft, hesitant breath. "I must have done something wrong to offend them."
I let those words settle.
A different bait. Not fairness, but fault.
I was not complaining. I was not accusing. I was asking to be corrected.
My mother took a slow sip of her tea.
Then, she set it down.
"If you have made yourself a target," she said finally, "then you have been careless."
There it was.
Not How dare they? Not I will handle it.
Just the simple, indifferent weight of You should have been better.
I did not react.
I let my expression soften, as if ashamed. "I see."
She studied me, her gaze sharp, always searching.
And then, after a moment—satisfaction.
I was still the daughter she had raised. The one who learned quickly.
"I will be more careful," I murmured.
She picked up her teacup again, dismissing the subject without another word.
I lowered my head slightly and rose to my feet.
As I walked away, I let my fingers brush against the silk of my sleeves, the faintest press of my nails against my skin.
My mother did not care about my struggles.
She cared about my presentation.