Rulan kept her eyes low as the gate opened.

  The stone beneath her sandals was too clean. That was the first thing she noticed—scrubbed pale and smooth, without the dark lines and grease stains she’d learned to read like a map back in the city. No signs of where to step, where to sleep, or where to run.

  The guards didn’t speak. One walked ahead, the other behind. Their robes bore the mark of the Verdant Lotus Sect, though she didn’t know what the curling green-and-white symbol meant. She only knew it was a sect that didn’t kill her on sight, which made it more generous than most.

  Her white hair, dirtied with soot as always, hung in a limp braid over her shoulder. The hem of her shirt was stiff with old sweat and gutter sludge, the sash tied in a crooked knot. A gloved hand and a quiet command had roused her from sleep, or something close to it. There had been no time to wash.

  She's not deaf enough to not notice the guards lean away from her. She knows she smells like gutter trash.

  They passed under a second gate, finer than the first. She glanced up only briefly.

  Carved lotus blossoms watched from above, their petals unbloomed.

  The guards left her at a courtyard. Stone tiles. Cherry trees. There is a solitary bench made of lacquered wood in the area. No one else in sight.

  Then a door slid open, and a woman stepped out.

  She was older, or perhaps just tired—her hair was braided tight, her eyes unreadable. She wore no sect colours, only plain brown robes and soft shoes.

  “You’re late,” the woman said, her voice calm.

  Rulan said nothing.

  The woman gazed at her for a moment longer before pivoting around. “This way.”

  The room she was brought to was warm. Rulan didn’t move until the woman—an orderly, she guessed—pointed to a shallow stone basin and said, “Strip.”

  She did, slowly. Fingers hesitant on her knot, gaze never leaving the floor.

  The water was hot. Not scalding, but enough to sting. The woman scrubbed her with a practiced hand, dumping ladlefuls over her shoulders until the grime ran black across the drain.

  She has to give the woman some kudos for not flinching at the colour of the dirt.

  When she reached Rulan’s hair, her hand paused.

  “This colour,” the woman said.

  Rulan braced for the words.

  But the woman said nothing else, seeming to swallow her tongue and words back. She only scrubbed at it, washing her hard-earned soot from it, and left Rulan to change once she was clean.

  The robe they gave her was plain but whole, the pale green edges just a shade darker than the white base. It felt too clean in her hands—like touching something that hadn’t yet lived. The sash was a dull grey. She had to knot it twice before it held, the fabric softer than anything she had ever owned herself.

  Soft underthings were folded beneath. She stared at them for a beat too long before realising they were meant to be worn under the robe. Then came the shoes—flat-soled, hemp-stitched, with thin cloth uppers. She tested one by pressing at the toe. It gave no resistance.

  The woman handed her a small bundle tied with twine.

  Inside: a comb, a sliver of soap that smelled faintly of camphor, a wrapped needle and thread, and a pouch of firm grey rocks that clinked against each other like bone dice.

  And finally—a thin strip of paper, pressed into her palm.

  “Your name,” the woman said.

  Rulan stared at it. The ink was black, the brushstrokes unfamiliar.

  “...I don’t know what that says.”

  The orderly raised a brow.

  “It’s what you told the guards,” she said.

  “I said Rulan,” Rulan replied, cautious. “I don’t… know the writing.”

  The woman made a noncommittal noise in her throat and turned to a shelf. When she returned, she held out a brush and a dish of ink.

  “Which characters?” she asked. “For the record.”

  Rulan looked down at the paper again, then away. Her stomach twisted, and she shouldn't be here.

  “I don’t know,” she said. Soft. “I never saw it written before.”

  The silence that followed stretched long.

  Then: “Very well,” the woman said. “It’ll be recorded as given.”

  Rulan didn't enquire about her choices.

  The bundle was tied shut again. No explanation. No correction. Finally, the woman gestured towards the outer door.

  “Third-tier dorms. Flagstone path. Look for the names on the board.”

  Rulan took the bundle. It was heavier than it looked.

  She bowed—awkward, shallow—and left without looking back.

  She didn’t know if the board had pictures.

  The door opened before her with a soft thud, and Rulan stepped out into the entry yard.

  It was broad and paved in soft grey stone, edged by trimmed hedges and white-painted railings. The air smelled of early mountain rain—wet pine, crushed moss, and the faint copper bite of something floral growing just beyond the walls. She barely noticed; her focus narrowed to the crowd.

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  There were too many of them.

  They wore the same robes she did—green-edged, loose-sleeved, and tied at the waist with green. Boys and girls, all young. Some stood in tight clusters, speaking low, laughing in bursts too sharp for comfort. Others loitered near the outer edges, postures guarded. A few stood alone, arms crossed, watching.

  All of them were too clean.

  Rulan’s fingers tightened around the bundle at her chest. Her robe still felt like it didn’t belong to her. Her shoes creaked too softly. Her hair, freshly combed, felt like a lie.

  She lingered at the edge of the shadowed walkway, her spine brushing stone.

  No one looked at her. That was better than being seen.

  She scanned the crowd, not for welcome, but for threats. She didn’t know the sect’s signs; she didn’t know who was strong or who mattered. So she looked instead for the things she did know—the tension in someone’s jaw, the way hands hovered near sleeves like knives, who stood too confidently, who had room made for them without asking.

  A boy passed close. The boy stood tall, his upper robes carelessly loose. He reviewed her once, from white hair to tied sash, and didn’t stop walking.

  Rulan held his breath until he was gone.

  She didn’t like this. Too many eyes. Too much space. Not enough walls.

  Still, she didn’t run. There was nowhere to run to.

  Instead, she stepped carefully out from the shade and moved towards the far side of the yard, where a wooden board stood. Names, the orderly had said. But there were too many characters. The number of lines was excessive, blurring a little in front of her eyes.

  She stared at the board and saw only the shape of confusion.

  She didn’t know where to begin.

  The board meant nothing to her. The board was merely a neat and inescapable tangle of brushstrokes and lines. She stood a pace back, arms drawn in, the bundle pressed flat against her chest.

  The others were watching the board too, but they seemed to understand it. A pair of girls pointed out names, then turned to walk off laughing, robes swishing behind them. A small cluster of boys moved together like reeds in the wind, their words too low to hear but full of purpose.

  She tried to look like she wasn’t lost.

  She must have failed.

  “White hair. How quaint.”

  The voice came from behind her shoulder—smooth, bored, just loud enough.

  Rulan didn’t flinch, but her grip on the bundle shifted. The bone comb inside jabbed her ribs.

  She turned slightly.

  The speaker was tall—older than her, maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen, though his face still held the puffed confidence of a boy who’d never been struck when it mattered. His robe was spotless, hair pinned with care, not a thread out of place. Behind him stood two others, both wearing faint smirks and folded arms.

  “Really shows the standards this year, doesn’t it?” he said to no one in particular. “A proper sect, and they bring in street ghosts.”

  His eyes slid back to her. “Can you even read the board?”

  Rulan lifted her chin just slightly. “I can read your face,” she said. “It says you need someone smaller than you to feel tall.”

  A beat of stillness. Then one of the boys behind him let out a low whistle.

  The smirk on the speaker’s lips didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed.

  “Clever tongue. That’ll be the first thing to get you beaten; if the elders don’t do it, the trials will.”

  Rulan didn’t blink. “If you’re so sure I won’t last the month,” she said flatly, “why bother talking to me at all?”

  That stopped him, just for a heartbeat. Not enough for the others to see, but she saw it—how his mouth closed, just briefly.

  Then he scoffed and stepped closer, too close, the clean scent of his robe brushing up against old instinct.

  “No clan seal. No badge. No house name. Do you even have shoes, or did they give you those too?”

  He looked at the bundle in her arms, eyes narrowing with lazy contempt. “What did they trade for you? A pig’s tail? A story about how you glowed once under the moon?”

  Her tongue tasted like copper. But she didn’t look away.

  It wasn’t fear. Not yet. Not exactly. It was weight—the old, pressing weight of too many eyes, too many rooms she didn’t belong in, too many hands brushing her away like filth.

  She said nothing else. That was answer enough.

  The boy watched her another moment, then turned with a scoff, his sleeves snapping faintly in the breeze.

  “She’ll be gone by the end of the month,” he muttered to his friends. “Mark my words. Vermin never last long under clean stone.”

  They left, laughter trailing like perfume.

  Rulan didn’t move.

  She watched the board a little longer, until the lines blurred and her eyes began to sting. Then she turned and walked back into the shadow, where the edge of the courtyard met a line of old pine trees and the stone path wound uphill.

  She stayed in the shadow of the pine trees, breath even, expression as blank as she could get it. Not because she was calm, but because he hadn’t earned the right to see her flinch. The law of the streets was that the weak got eaten quicker than rats ate through a grainhouse, and she doubts it changes even this far up the food chain.

  The board was still useless. Her robe itched at the collar. The bundle of supplies weighed heavier than it should in her arms.

  She was deciding if she could guess her way through it when a voice behind her spoke—quiet, matter-of-fact, no pity in it.

  “Don’t take it to heart. That boy’s name will outlive his worth.”

  Rulan didn’t move. She just shifted her weight enough to glance sidelong.

  A girl stood a few paces away, arms folded, paper slip in one hand. She wasn’t smiling. Her robe was clean but plain, thick black hair tied back with no ornament. There was a stillness to her—not stiff, not afraid. Settled.

  “Who are you?” Rulan asked, blunt. Not rude, just efficient.

  The girl didn’t seem bothered, gold-brown eyes not leaving her.

  “Shen Li. You?”

  “Rulan.”

  A faint nod.

  Shen Li stepped a little closer, not intruding, just enough that her voice didn’t carry. “That was Yao Shen. Son of a junior branch from the House of Yao. Used to be rich. One uncle tried to stand against a Ministry appointment—sect politics. Loud about it. Got quiet in a dungeon real quick. They burned half the family name off the records.”

  Rulan frowned, eyes narrowing. “Why tell me?”

  Shen Li’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because people like him don’t mock to feel strong. They mock to distract. He’s scared.”

  Rulan didn’t quite believe that. But she didn’t argue either.

  “Do you know your house?” Shen Li asked.

  Rulan gestured towards the board, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Don’t read.”

  That earned the first real reaction—just a blink, not surprise, but… confirmation, maybe. Her eyes narrowed further.

  Shen Li stepped towards the board and scanned it fast. “Rulan. Tier three housing. House twelve. South slope, that way.”

  She tilted her chin towards one of the branching paths. “I’ll walk you there.”

  Rulan didn’t move.

  The offer hung in the air between them. Soft. Too soft.

  Kindness was a shape she didn’t trust. She had no faith in strangers. She had no faith in those who came from noble blood, money, or fancy houses. Not from anyone who spoke quietly and watched carefully. Rulan wouldn't trust herself either, by any merit, but that was neither here nor there.

  She glanced sideways, taking Shen Li in—not just her robe or her face, but the space around her. No one stood near. No clique. No shadow. She didn’t act like someone used to power, but she didn’t flinch from it either.

  And she hadn’t asked for anything. Yet.

  That was the part that made Rulan pause.

  Nothing comes free. Not food. Not shelter. Not names on paper or shoes that didn’t blister. People like Rulan didn’t get looked after. They got used.

  So why walk with her?

  Was it pity?

  No. Shen Li’s face didn’t shift like someone holding back condescension. Was it strategy, then? Something to do with alliance or leverage? Possible.

  Or maybe she just liked puzzles. Rulan had met girls like that in the alley markets—ones who liked to pick at broken things to see just how they worked.

  Or maybe—maybe—this one had seen the boy sneer and seen her not flinch and thought that was worth noticing.

  Still. She didn’t trust it. Couldn’t. But she wasn’t stupid.

  Strength came from knowing who would watch your back when you were too tired to watch it yourself. For now, walking behind someone meant you got to look at their spine and not your own shadow.

  Rulan adjusted the bundle in her arms.

  “We can walk,” she said at last, voice flat. “Doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

  Shen Li didn’t smile, and Rulan had the strangest suspicion this clean-faced stranger approved. “Good.”

  Then she turned, and Rulan, after a long moment, followed.