The summons came just after dawn.
A pair of guards appeared at Lan's chamber door without a word. She followed them, still wrapped in the torn remnants of her hanfu, feet bare against the cold stone. No explanation. No choice. But she had learned that resistance brought only bruises—and worse, silence.
They led her through the eastern wing of the stronghold, past carved archways and tapestries thick with history she did not know. The corridors brightened with windows as they entered another structure entirely—a grand manor built against the mountain's edge, wrapped in ivy and crowned with towers of silver-gray slate. Where the fortress was stone and steel, this place whispered of old nobility and quieter power.
House Lichtenfeld.
She stepped into a domed atrium where light spilled from above like melted glass. Waiting for her at the base of a wide marble staircase was Lady Elara.
Lan froze.
In the hall of judgment, Elara had looked regal. Here, she looked... unreal.
Her gown was a soft shade of lavender-gray, embroidered with curling vines of silver thread. Her dark auburn hair was swept into a low chignon, a few strands framing her pale, smooth face. Her features were refined—eyes like calm forest pools, a straight nose, and lips often pursed in thought. She couldn't have been more than thirty, yet there was wisdom in the curve of her posture, weariness tucked behind the folds of grace.
"You must be cold," Elara said gently. "Come. We'll find you something proper to wear."
Lan followed her without a word, past servants who barely spared her a glance. A few turned away, their expressions unreadable. One woman narrowed her eyes in open disapproval.
No words were said aloud—but the message was clear. She did not belong here.
Elara led her to a warm chamber with a copper tub steaming at its center and a wardrobe lined with fabrics foreign to Lan's eyes. A new hanfu—a gift—had been carefully laid out in creams and dusky blue, delicate but simple. Next to it, a golden comb and a thin sash woven with Lichtenfeld's sigil: a pale hawk flying beneath a crescent moon.
As servants prepared the bath, Elara turned to her. "This house is yours now," she said. "You'll be treated with dignity. But... I will not lie to you. There are those here who think you should've been left in chains."
Lan's throat tightened, but she bowed her head. "I understand."
Elara studied her for a moment, then reached out—slowly—and touched a stray lock of Lan's damp hair. "You remind me of someone I used to be. Before politics taught me how sharp people's smiles can be."
Lan didn't know what to say.
After the bath, her new maid was introduced. A girl no older than seventeen, with braided blonde hair, a freckled nose, and guarded gray eyes. Her name was Mina.
"She'll serve you now," Elara said. "If you need anything, ask her."
Mina offered a stiff curtsy but didn't meet Lan's gaze.
The tour was brief, as if Elara sensed how disoriented she already felt. The estate was vast, though, stretching into courtyards and libraries, an observatory, and even a music hall that had long fallen into disuse. The gardens outside were bare in the winter chill, but Elara spoke of them fondly—how the plum blossoms would bloom soon, just like they did in Qinglong.
It was the first moment that made Lan's chest ache.
Finally, as they returned to the atrium, a man's voice called down from the stairwell.
"Elara."
Lan turned.
Descending the stairs was a tall man in an emerald overcoat, dark blond hair streaked with gray at the temples, and pale blue eyes sharp with command. He carried himself like a blade—polished and precise.
Elara stepped forward. "Lan, this is Lord Diederich Lichtenfeld, my husband."
He reached her and gave Lan a long, assessing look. "So, this is the girl from Qinglong."
His voice was deep but not cruel. He tilted his head slightly, then smiled.
"You are... far more regal than they described. You carry your ruin with dignity. That's rare."
Lan bowed, unsure whether it was a compliment or something else.
"Think of this place as your home," he added.
But Lan could not. Not yet. The halls were too cold. The eyes too sharp. And the weight in her chest too unfamiliar.
Only one question echoed now in her mind.
Who is the man I'm meant to marry?
...
That night, she sat before her mirror as Mina brushed her hair. The blue silk hanfu shimmered faintly under candlelight. Her eyes—once the bright jade of childhood—had deepened to sapphire since the fall, darkened by salt and sleepless nights.
"You have pretty hair," Mina said abruptly, voice low. "They'll probably cut it after the wedding."
Lan blinked. "Why?"
Mina hesitated. "You don't know anything, do you?"
Lan said nothing.
Mina leaned in slightly. "You're to marry Prince Alaric. And trust me... he's the worst man alive."
The brush stopped.
"He used to be... close to Lady Elara," Mina continued, voice growing bitter. "Too close. People still talk about it behind closed doors. That he once loved his own stepmother. That she's the only person he's ever treated with kindness."
Lan sat motionless.
"Everyone else?" Mina went on. "He's cruel. Cold. He doesn't care about anyone but her. And even that—" she scoffed, "—no one knows what it really was."
The candle crackled softly in the quiet.
Lan stared into the mirror, into the face of a girl who wore silk like armor and blue eyes like bruises. Her lips parted to speak, but no words came. Only questions. Only dread.
She was to marry a man who didn't want her.
A man who once loved the only person who showed her kindness.
And for the first time since her capture, the idea of being truly alone in this place began to sink into her bones.