The spring rain fell without end, drumming against the roof and windows. Inside, the room was warm, the fire roaring, steam curling from the lids of boiling medicine jars, gurgling softly.
Before a bronze mirror, a young woman sat, examining her reflection. Her face was small, pale, framed by long frowns that dimmed her emerald-green glow. Thin lips, like water chestnuts, pursed delicately. Almond-shaped eyes, dark and watery, hinted at depth—like a mountain stream before mist disperses to reveal a hidden gem. She was in her twenties, fair-skinned and delicate, beautiful, but only beautiful.
She knew her appearance. Rouge, powder, perfumed hair cream—the scents hung heavily, prompting He Yan to wrinkle her nose in a reluctant sneeze.
The mirror fogged with her breath, blurring her reflection. For a fleeting moment, she felt lost, as if she were back on the day she first shed her men’s clothing, confronting her female self, a stranger in a new world.
She had been drowned in the Xu family pond by He Shi’s men, but upon waking, she had become someone else entirely—not the Xu family’s He Yan, sister to General He Rufei, wife of Xu Zhiheng. She was now He Yan, eldest daughter of He Sui, the ninth-rank city gate captain, owner of a humble cottage. Two lives, two He Yans—yet their worlds could not have been more different.
"Yan Yan, why didn’t you tell me you woke up?"
The voice came through the door curtain, accompanied by a chill breeze. A middle-aged man entered, bearded, square-faced, dark-skinned, tall and broad—like a lumbering bear, both clumsy and strong. His smile held caution, a hint of flattery. Seeing the room empty, he called, "Qingmei, where’s Qingmei?"
"She’s gone to collect herbs," He Yan whispered.
He scratched his head, muttering, "Oh… then Daddy will pour it for you."
The white porcelain medicine bowl, small as his palm, was treated with care. Bitter herbal aromas filled the room. He Yan glanced at the plum blossoms beside the bowl, then at the man’s face—He Sui, her father.
The word “father” felt strange on her tongue. Her biological father had been He Yuanliang, second master of the He family. As the substitute for He Rufei, she had called him “Second Uncle.” Her adoptive father, He Yuansheng, had been distant. Love from her father had always been tenuous—an echo of what was given and lost, like spilled water.
He Sui, pouring carefully, removed floating residue and blew gently on the bowl.
He Yan took it, saying, "I’ll do it myself."
He Sui withdrew, sheepish, murmuring, "Okay."
The medicine’s bitter scent rose. Memories of He Shi’s warning came unbidden:
"The bowl of herbs that poisoned you was personally delivered by one of your clan elders!"
Which one? He Yuansheng? He Yuanliang? Others? And what of the cup Xiaodie had handed her that day? Poison or not, she couldn’t be certain.
He Sui misread her hesitation as distaste. He coaxed gently, "Don’t be afraid, Yan Yan. It’s not bitter. You’ll be fine."
Without another word, He Yan tipped the bowl and drank it in one motion.
"Wait…" He Sui stammered, too late. The bowl was empty.
"It’s not hot," she said.
He Sui blinked, fumbling. "Then… rest well. Don’t run around. Daddy’s going to the martial arts field." He carried away the empty bowl.
Alone, He Yan exhaled. The intimacy of the interaction was foreign—being treated gently, as a woman, something she had never experienced. Her maid, Qingmei, hadn’t returned. He Sui’s salary was modest; they could barely afford one servant. All other luxuries—rouge, powders—were hers alone.
He Yan rose, stepping to the door. Her body felt soft, fragrant, unfamiliar. She lacked strength; she couldn’t protect herself. Only her eyes—bright, alive—were a gift, a window to a world she hadn’t seen in years.
A thud behind her announced another presence. A young man appeared, dropping a bundle of firewood.
He Yunsheng, He Sui’s youngest son, He Yan’s biological brother, stood before her. Slightly darker complexion, features delicate like hers, yet his chin sharper, expression stubborn, proud. Blue cloth jacket, trousers, white leg bindings—simple, practical, unadorned.
He Yunsheng had visited during her illness, never speaking, only bringing water and firewood. Their bond had been cold. And yet, standing before him now, He Yan sensed the subtle inequity of the household. All the care and comfort went to Miss He. Why?
She didn’t move as he chopped firewood. Two sharp chops, then a frown.
"Excuse me, you are blocking me," he said, without calling her “sister.”
He Yan’s gaze met his, unwavering. She didn’t step aside. Instead, she spoke, measured:
"You can’t chop firewood like this."
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