Chapter Two-The Calm Before the Storm
898 Words
When General Lục Thịnh Lâm returned victorious from the borderlands, snow had already blanketed the rooftops of Trường Ninh.
Eighteen years guarding the frontiers had earned him glorious fame and a grand mansion as vast as a small city.
The people of the capital revered him—a brilliant general, disciplined and loyal to the nation.
But only those within the residence knew:
This same general, in his old age, longed not for more victories—but for beauty, and a peaceful hearth that war could never offer him.
That was why he brought home Chu Hồng Lệ, a famed courtesan from Giang Nam, and made her his concubine.
And that was why… his eldest daughter, Lục Nhược Mai, was slowly pushed into the shadows.
That day marked the memorial of Lady Tô—Nhược Mai’s late mother.
Though it had been over ten years, the ancestral shrine’s incense never ceased to burn.
Each year, Nhược Mai herself arranged the flowers, brewed the tea, prepared the offerings.
But this year… the doors of the ancestral hall were locked.
She arrived early, arms holding a basket of white chrysanthemums. Her coat was thick, yet her gaze was veiled in misty warmth.
The gatekeeper lowered his head, whispering:
“By the General’s orders… from now on, memorial rites will be performed by the present Madam. Please return, young lady.”
Nhược Mai stood there for a long time.
Long enough for the flowers to slip one by one from her arms.
Snow fell upon her hair, upon the basket, upon her small hands trembling from cold.
No one saw the young man behind the stone pillar—Trạm Dư, his fingers clenched tight around the broomstick, blood seeping from his grip.
That evening, the residence held a lavish banquet.
The General was celebrating the birthday of Tố Yến, daughter of Madam Chu.
Beneath the blazing red lanterns, Tố Yến wore a peach-colored silk robe embroidered with phoenixes and a hundred birds. Her hair was coiffed with ornate pins, her lips painted bright vermilion.
Everyone praised her beauty, her grace, her decorum—worthy of the title “Precious Lady of the Lục Household”.
Only one person did not attend the feast.
Nhược Mai sat alone in her room, her slender fingers tapping lightly on the window frame. The wind slipped through the gauzy curtains, cold as riverwater in midwinter.
Since her mother’s passing, she had never demanded anything.
The General returned less often.
A stepmother took charge of the house.
A younger sister shared her place and power.
She accepted it all—not from weakness, but because she understood:
What others fight for—if she clings too tightly, she will lose.
But what she does not release… no one can steal.
Her mother once said:
“She who can endure… shall eventually win.”
She believed it.
But from this day on, perhaps it was time… to learn how to take things back.
At that very hour, Trạm Dư sat alone in the woodshed, carefully wiping an old wooden sword he always kept hidden in his trunk.
On its surface, carved in crooked strokes, were the words:
“Forever protect.”
No one taught him to read. He had learned by himself—because he wanted to remember.
Every favor. Every wound.
Every cold stare—and every quiet smile she had ever given him.
He used to think standing behind her was enough.
But today, when he saw her barred from her mother’s shrine, arms full of white chrysanthemums, he knew—
Just standing behind… could no longer protect her.
Late at night, the banquet faded.
The handmaids on night duty dozed against the corridor pillars.
Tố Yến returned to her room, the candle in her hand flickering.
A faint fragrance lingered in the air; the soft clack of her shoes echoed on the stone floor.
Behind her, a shadow moved across the dark hallway.
A faint sound.
A porcelain bowl fell.
Its fragrance—strange, sharp—spread into the cold night.
Before Tố Yến could turn around, a voice sounded behind her:
“What medicine are you drinking tonight?”
A low voice—husky, restrained—but beneath it, a blade-like chill.
Tố Yến’s hand trembled. She hadn’t expected the person behind her to be Trạm Dư—the lowly servant always seen sweeping the courtyard, eyes dull like a blind man.
But tonight, he looked at her as if peeling away every mask she wore.
“… Just… tonic,” she forced a smile.
“I’ve been feeling unwell. Madam had the physician prepare it…”
Trạm Dư said nothing.
He bent down, picked up a shard of porcelain, brought it close to his nose.
Then he smiled.
A smile soft… yet terrifying.
“Lingzhi. Ginseng. And a hint of poison.”
“Tố Yến… how long have you been drinking this?”
Tố Yến turned pale—but quickly recovered, offering her sweetest smile.
“You… shouldn’t speak such nonsense. You’re just a servant. You have no right to meddle in your mistress’s affairs.”
Trạm Dư did not respond.
He turned, disappearing into the dark.
But he left behind one sentence—like wind whispering through her ear:
“Poison that doesn’t kill… only waits for permission.”
“And if, one day… that person changes their mind?”
- Writer
