“She's harmless."
“She's mute."
“She's slow."
“She can't even write."
That's what the new servants said.
They delivered meals, cleaned linens, and whispered just loud enough behind her back. Xiluo never reacted. Never corrected them.
She listened.
And remembered.
The young maid in the west wing She paused too long near Ethan's room when he bathed. Her shoes were always too clean for someone who claimed to sweep ashes.
The steward who handled herb inventories He marked every moonroot jar with the wrong symbol—deliberately, as if trying to confuse someone.
And the old advisor who insisted Ethan rejoin strategy drills every dusk He carried a handkerchief that reeked faintly of dried nightroot—a paralytic agent.
Xiluo sketched them all.
With charcoal hidden beneath her mattress, sh
