The second morning came with noise.
Not the quiet, domestic hum of maids sweeping steps or the gentle clink of bowls at breakfast. No, this was the sound of pressure. Clattering wheels grinding against stone. The sharp cadence of hooves on the cobbled path. Voices raised not in anger, but in that particular strain of forced politeness used when the palace was watching.
Yun Zhi was in her corner courtyard, bent over her embroidery frame. She had been stitching a single peony petal, layering pale pink over ivory silk, when the sound reached her—louder, closer, heavier than usual.
The thread stilled mid-loop.
This isn't just commotion. This is a ceremony.
From beyond the garden wall came the weighty stomp of boots—uniformed, not barefoot. Palace men. Ministry of Rites.
She rose quietly, folded her embroidery with care, and laid it aside.
A maid appeared at the gate, young and unfamiliar, her eyes fixed on the ground.
"Fifth Miss," she said in a hushed voice. "Master requests your presence in the main hall."
Yun Zhi nodded. No questions. She smoothed her sleeves, adjusted the fall of her robe, and stepped onto the path that led through the inner courtyard.
Two days ago, she could have wandered through this house and no one would have noticed. Now servants lined the hallway walls, kneeling with lowered heads as she passed.
No one dared look at her. No one whispered. It wasn't deference—it was discomfort.
They don't know what I am anymore. Neither do I.
The air in the main hall was different. Swept clean of dust, but thick with tension. Incense smoldered from two carved burners at the foot of the steps, perfuming the air with sandalwood and camphor. Light from the high windows glinted on polished tile.
Her father stood at the head of the room, hands folded behind his back, the edges of his robes sharp as folded steel. His jaw was set. His eyes did not move.
Madam Lin was seated beside him, regal in layered robes of plum and blue, her posture perfect, her mouth a thin, pale slash of restraint.
Yun Zhi's sisters stood behind them, arrayed by age and painted with care. Ruolan wore peony pink, her lips red and full. Yuelan's fan twitched in her hand like a lazy threat. Meilan and Xiaolan clung to each other, eyes darting, unsure whether to gawk or frown.
But all of them turned as Yun Zhi entered. She bowed low, not to the family, but to the official who stepped forward with a scroll in hand.
He was a thin man, older, with a quiet authority in the way he moved—no wasted gestures. A Ministry of Rites seal hung from his sash.
He unrolled the scroll slowly, with ceremony.
"By the command of His Highness, the Crown Prince, in honor of his imperial brother's forthcoming union, the following gifts shall be delivered to the Yun household as tribute from the throne..."
His voice rang across the room. No one interrupted.
Yun Zhi did not look away as he read.
"Six bolts of fine silk from the looms of Jiangnan..."
"Four hairpins of gold inlaid with kingfisher feathers..."
"One box of night pearls harvested from the Eastern Sea..."
"A set of crimson wedding robes, embroidered with twin phoenixes, stitched in imperial thread..."
"White jade mirror. An incense set carved with mountain-and-river motifs. Matching bracelets carved from warm jade..."
Forty-eight items in total, each more extravagant than the last.
The words struck her not as generosity, but as a warning.
You are not marrying a man. You are marrying into a throne.
Each item carried weight. Symbol. Politics. Expectations.
The kind of dowry that wasn't meant to welcome, but to display ownership. Proof that the second prince's bride came already gilded.
When the list was complete, the official rolled up the scroll, bowed crisply, and spoke again.
"We await the Yun family's prepared dowry. It shall be reviewed by the palace within three days. All items will be catalogued and registered."
Then he stepped back.
Silence.
A pause too long to be natural. Too careful to be comfortable.
Then her father spoke.
"We'll discuss it privately. Daughters, come."
Yun Zhi followed her sisters into the adjacent chamber. No words passed between them.
Inside, the doors were shut by Madam Lin herself. The air thickened with perfume, polished wood, and anxiety.
Her father stood in front of a lacquered table and exhaled slowly. "We have no choice but to meet the palace's offering with one of our own."
Madam Lin's tone was brittle. "Three days. That's no time to gather proper pieces."
"The palace doesn't want delay," he replied. "The second prince is being moved like a stone across the board. His bride must follow."
His eyes flicked to Yun Zhi. For once, they didn't carry disappointment—just calculation.
"You're part of something larger now."
She didn't respond. She didn't need to. She had understood that from the first moment the decree reached her courtyard.
"We'll draw from the daughters' dowries," Madam Lin said, voice tight. "Ruolan and Yuelan will contribute jewelry. Meilan and Xiaolan, silverware and lacquer boxes. It will balance the display."
Ruolan stepped forward. "Those are pieces reserved for our weddings."
"And this marriage is reserved for the court," their father snapped. "Do not mistake private desire for public duty. The family's name is at stake."
"And what does Yun Zhi provide?" Yuelan asked with a false sweetness. "Or does she simply receive?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge. The implication was clear.
Madam Lin didn't flinch. "She has nothing."
That was true.
She had no dowry store. No mother's legacy to inherit. No chests of gold waiting in storage.
Nothing but this marriage.
Yun Zhi's voice, when it came, was quiet but steady.
"I have my mother's comb. And my embroidery."
Ruolan laughed under her breath. "A comb and a cloth scrap won't impress the palace."
Madam Lin didn't argue. "The rest will hide it."
Hide her.
Her father's voice lowered. "The dowry must appear rich. Let them believe she comes from favor, even if she never had it."
He turned to her, gaze hard. "You will not embarrass this house. You will walk into that palace like you were born to it."
Yun Zhi nodded.
It was the only thing anyone had ever trained her to do.
"Dismissed."
Back in her room, she unwrapped the comb. It lay in her hand, smooth and cool to the touch, pale green with a single lotus carved along the side. Her mother's only gift. Simple, flawless, utterly hers.
She set it down and took out the half-finished peony panel from her embroidery box. The silk was soft under her fingers, the threads already tight and neat. It wasn't finished. But it would be.
She'd stitch late into the night if she had to. Let the others bring gold and jade and hollow smiles.
This is mine.
That evening, voices slipped beneath her door—servants whispering.
"She's marrying the second prince."
"Only because someone in the palace wanted her there."
"She's going to be bait. Mark my words."
"She looks too soft. She won't last."
"She already looks broken."
The voices drifted away.
Yun Zhi didn't move. Didn't cry.
She ran her fingers over the carved lotus on the comb.
I won't be broken.
They could dress her up, send her off, bury her in red silk and empty ceremony.
But she would walk into the lion's den with her eyes open.