Episode 3: The Prisoner's Mark

(Xie Mansion, West Courtyard - Later that Morning, 1522)

Lin Zhiruo stumbled back to the West Courtyard, the echoing crunch of shattered jade ringing in her ears. Xie Zhan’s words – "You belong to me" – felt like a brand seared onto her soul. The taste of the tea he’d forced her to drink lingered, a bitter mockery of survival. Auntie Liu trailed silently behind, a gaoler in servant's robes, her presence a constant reminder of the prison walls that had truly closed in.

The familiar sparseness of her chamber offered no comfort now. It felt like a cell. Zhiruo sank onto the edge of the cold bed, her hands trembling uncontrollably. "Exposed. Trapped." The reality hammered at her. Xie Zhan knew she was Li Chen’s assassin. He knew she’d tried to kill him. And he hadn’t killed her. Why? What game was he playing? His chilling claim of ownership made her skin crawl. Was she a hostage? A pawn in some deeper game against the Crown Prince? Or simply a toy to be broken slowly?

Auntie Liu moved with her usual silent efficiency, laying out plain grey robes – a stark contrast to the bridal finery of yesterday. "The Honored Madam will dress simply," she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. "The Minister expects propriety. And... vigilance."

The unspoken threat hung heavy. Vigilance meant Auntie Liu’s eyes would never leave her. Any move, any whisper, would be reported. Zhiruo’s training screamed to fight, to find a way out, but the crushing weight of Xie Zhan’s power and the certainty of immediate, brutal retribution held her paralyzed. She changed mechanically, the rough fabric scraping against skin still humming with residual terror.

Breakfast was a silent, tense affair. Simple congee and pickled vegetables, brought by a young maid who refused to meet Zhiruo’s eyes. Auntie Liu stood by the door, a silent sentinel, watching every spoonful Zhiruo lifted. The food tasted like dust. "He could poison me anytime," the thought was chillingly logical. "He has no reason to keep me alive, except..." Except his own cold, unfathomable purpose.

The day crawled by. Zhiruo was confined to the West Courtyard. She paced the small, walled garden, feeling the invisible bars. Auntie Liu was always there, just within sight, mending linens or pretending to tend to sparse winter plants. Guards patrolled the outer walls with increased frequency, their footsteps a constant reminder of her captivity. She tried to read a volume of poetry left in the chamber, but the characters swam before her eyes, replaced by images of Xie Zhan’s obsidian gaze and the shattered jade.

As dusk began to paint the sky in bruised purples, a different maid arrived, one Zhiruo hadn’t seen before. She bore no tray of food. Instead, she carried a single item, folded neatly on a small lacquered tray: Zhiruo’s pale blue silk handkerchief, the one embroidered with the delicate nightingale.

Auntie Liu intercepted the maid at the chamber door. She took the tray, her expression tightening almost imperceptibly. She dismissed the maid and turned to Zhiruo, holding out the tray. "The Minister returns your property," she said, her voice carefully neutral, yet Zhiruo sensed an undercurrent of… disapproval? Caution?

Zhiruo reached out slowly, her fingers brushing the cool silk. It was clean. Impeccably pressed. The tiny nightingale seemed to stare up at her, a symbol of her allegiance to Li Chen and the Nightingale Bureau, now laid bare in the enemy’s hand. Holding it felt like holding evidence of her own treason. "Why return it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Auntie Liu’s lips thinned. "The Minister does not explain his orders. He merely instructed its return." She paused, then added, her tone hardening, "He also commands your presence tomorrow morning. In the Crimson Pavilion."

The Crimson Pavilion. Zhiruo recalled the name from her briefings. It was Xie Zhan’s personal receiving room for… intimate audiences. A place of whispered secrets and subtle threats. Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at her again. "For what purpose?"

Auntie Liu’s gaze was flinty. "To serve your husband, Honored Madam. You will bring your embroidery." She gestured pointedly at the handkerchief. "And your skill with the needle. The Minister has a task for you."

A task. Embroidery. In the Crimson Pavilion. The implications were sinisterly mundane. Was it a test? A further humiliation? Or a way to keep her close, under his direct, terrifying observation? Zhiruo clutched the handkerchief, the silk suddenly feeling like a shroud. The delicate nightingale seemed less a symbol of hope and more a mark of prey.

"Understood," Zhiruo managed, forcing her voice steady. She folded the handkerchief carefully, tucking it away, hiding the tell-tale bird.

Auntie Liu watched the gesture, her expression unreadable. "Rest well, Honored Madam," she said, the words devoid of warmth. "Tomorrow requires… diligence." She gave a shallow bow and retreated, leaving Zhiruo alone with the deepening twilight and the suffocating weight of her predicament.

Zhiruo sat on the edge of the bed, the returned handkerchief burning a hole in her pocket. Xie Zhan wasn’t just imprisoning her body; he was dismantling her identity. Returning the emblem of her loyalty was a calculated move, stripping away even that small piece of herself. The command to embroider for him felt like a violation, forcing her hands, skilled in both art and death, to serve the man she had vowed to destroy.

She looked down at her hands. The hands that had mixed poisons, that had scaled roofs, that had held the vial meant for Xie Zhan’s heart. Tomorrow, they would hold a needle and thread, performing a wifely duty for her captor. "A task," she whispered into the gathering darkness. "What cruel game are you playing, Xie Zhan?" The silence offered no answer, only the echo of his chilling claim: *You belong to me.* The prisoner’s mark was set, and the first move in his game was about to begin.

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