Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I didn’t sleep that night.

The room the palace had arranged for me was behind the side hall. It was stiflingly warm, and the bed was layered with down mattresses. When I lay down, my first reaction wasn’t comfort, but fear. It felt like lying on the belly of some living creature; with the slightest turn, the bedding beneath me seemed to let out a gasp.

I was used to sleeping under bridge arches and in old warehouses, accustomed to the sound of wind whistling through wooden planks and the scuttle of rats. A place that was too quiet actually made my skin crawl.

When the hour of the Ox arrived, a series of very light footsteps suddenly echoed from next door.

They weren’t the steps of an adult-they were too small, too hurried, like a group of barefoot children running along the corridor. Immediately after, someone began to knock on the wall.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Three long, one short, like a plea for someone to open the door.

I bolted upright. The palace servants keeping watch outside made no movement, as if they hadn’t heard a thing. But the knocking grew more frequent, eventually merging into a continuous rhythm. I threw on my clothes and quietly pushed open the door. A chill instantly poured through the crack, making my teeth chatter.

The West Corridor was indeed still lit.

I followed the sound. The further in I went, the heavier the cloyingly sweet scent of wax became. It was so sweet it turned bitter, like the scorched smell of burnt milk mixed with singed hair. At the end of the corridor was a half-open iron door, and behind it, a set of stone steps leading downward. The knocking was coming from below.

Bracing myself against the wall, I descended step by step.

At the end of the stone stairs was a large cellar. The four walls were built of black stone, and in the center stood a dozen glass jars. The jars were filled with matches-long, thin sticks coated in white wax, with a hint of pale pink showing at the base. At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing, but as I drew closer, I realized they weren’t made of wood.

They were the severed little fingers of children.

The tip of each one still bore half a fingernail, thin and translucent with the bluish-white tint of the dead. A transparent liquid had pooled at the bottom of several jars, with golden flecks floating on the surface like melted dreams.

My stomach churned. I stumbled back, but my foot kicked a wooden plaque leaning against the wall.

I flipped the plaque over. It was densely packed with names.

Ah Qiao. Dongsheng. Xinger. Ah Man.

Further down, I saw a name I could never mistake.

Yi Yinchun.

That was my mother.

My head throbbed with a loud buzz, and all sound around me vanished. Just then, someone suddenly covered my mouth from behind.

“If you don’t want to die, don’t scream.”

The person was incredibly strong, dragging me entirely behind the door. I struggled to look up and saw a man’s cold, hard face. He wore black clothes, carried a blade, and had an old scar at the corner of his right eye that looked like it had been sliced by an icicle.

He stared at me, his voice kept extremely low. “This is not a place you should be.”

I bit down hard on the back of his hand, and the metallic taste of blood immediately spread in my mouth. He didn’t flinch; he merely frowned and let go of me.

“Who is Yi Yinchun?” I asked hoarsely.

The man was silent for a moment. “The Fire Seed Woman from sixteen years ago.”

“Is she dead?”

“No one who enters this place leaves alive.”

My eyes burned, but I couldn’t shed a tear. It was as if it were too cold, and even my tears had frozen.

“Who are you?”

“Bai Linye,” he said. “East Palace Guard Commander.”

I stared at him. “These matches… what are they, really?”

Bai Linye didn’t answer. He tilted his head to listen to the movements outside. His expression suddenly changed, and he shoved me roughly into the shadows.

“Someone’s coming.”

When the iron door was pushed open, I watched through the gaps in the wooden shelves as a pair of boots embroidered with silver thread stopped in the center of the cellar.

Yan Zhichuan leaned over and drew a match from a glass jar.

Then, right in front of me, he lit it.

The moment the flame flickered to life, the sound of children’s laughter echoed throughout the cellar.