The veil was jade-green silk, embroidered with falling plum blossoms—too delicate for a woman to be sold.
Shen Lian's fingers shook as they wrapped around its edge, bringing the fabric down over her face. Not out of fear. Not even shame. Just from the pressure of eyes that had not seen her in years suddenly locking onto her, hungers', laughing.
Outside the holding tent, chuckles curled up over the auction square like wisps of smoke.
"They held back the traitor's daughter until last," someone mocked. "What honor."
Shen Lian's gaze stayed glued on her hands, folded tidily in her lap. She had learned, a long time ago, to shift quietly. A lady doesn't flinch. A lady doesn't shout. A lady doesn't plead.
"Shen Lian," the auctioneer growled.
She stood up. Each movement she made was noiseless. There were no chains. No guards. She had nowhere to escape.
The curtain swept aside, and light hit her face.
The dais was tall enough that she could see the whole assembly of people assembled in the Imperial Pavilion—nobles draped in silks, lords sitting idly drinking wine, courtesans in robes embroidered with gold. None were here for marriage. They were here for bloodless entertainment.
"For the last auction of the day," the announcer drawled, "we offer Lady Shen Lian, late of the Shen estate—"
"—traitor's blood," someone growled.
"—age nineteen, never wed, modest dowry of shame—"
Laughter ran again.
Shen Lian did not lift her gaze. The veil protected her, but she could sense the warmth of their taunts settle upon her like dust.
"Let's begin the bidding," the auctioneer said, smiling. "Shall we say… ten silver taels?"
"A bit high for a snake," a lord called.
"Five silvers. I'll let her scrub the floors in my stables."
"Three!" someone shouted. "I just want to see her cry."
Shen Lian did not cry. She had done that already. Quietly. Privately. Years ago.
The bids dropped lower—until even the auctioneer began to look annoyed.
But then, a sound cut through the laughter.
A cane, striking wood.
Tap. Tap.
A man stepped forward from the crowd.
He wore a travel-worn cloak and a black jade mask that covered his face completely. His stride was uneven. A limp. An unfamiliar stranger nobody knew.
He uttered just two words.
"Ten thousand."
The square was stunned into silence.
The auctioneer blinked. "Pardon?"
The man held up his hand. In it shone a seal etched on imperial white jade—the phoenix crest of the royal clan.
"Ten thousand gold taels," the masked man said again. "Now."
Whispers exploded into a storm.
"Impossible—"
"Is that real?"
"Ten thousand—!"
The auctioneer, gone white, stuttered, "O-of course… honored sir… sold!"
He struck the gavel with such speed the ring of it was lost in the shocked silence that followed.
Shen Lian's fingers tightened against her skirt.
She did not know this man.
She had never seen that mask before.
And yet, something in his immobility—the steadiness of his voice, the way he turned without show or cruelty—made her more uncomfortable than anything else today.
He appeared for her like a ghost. Extended a gloved hand.
"Lady Shen," he replied in a hushed voice. "I have come to retrieve what was once unfairly cast aside."
She ought to have recoiled. She ought to have inquired as to who he was, or why.
Instead, Shen Lian inclined her head once, and deposited her hand within his.
The jade veil billowed behind her when they stepped off the platform. As the petal falls. As the storm takes its first breath.