It came as a folded summons in a lacquered envelope, placed carefully beside my rice bowl at morning meal.
No one said anything.
No one looked at me.
But the head servant noticed when I did not eat.
Prince Zhen's quarters weren't far from the north garden, hidden behind carved bronze screens and perfumed corridors. No one passed them unless summoned. And even then, only once.
I'd never been that close to the inner chambers of a prince.
I'd certainly never expected to be called to serve him.
They didn't blindfold me. They didn't need to.
The halls themselves disoriented with their silence.
A steward led me to a side antechamber, where a porcelain tea service had already been arranged. Pale green. Delicate. Impossibly expensive.
"Serve it exactly as instructed," he said. "Say nothing."
I waited five full minutes. My hands didn't shake, but they felt like they might. I touched each piece once to check for temperature, residue, scent.
Nothing suspicious.
And then, he entered.
Prince Zhen.
Dressed not as a royal, but as an official dark robes, hair half-tied, an ink stain on his left thumb. He sat down without looking at me, opened a scroll, and read in silence.
I served the tea.
His voice came only after the third pour.
"Your hands are steady. Most poison testers tremble around porcelain."
He still didn't look at me.
But I felt it the weight behind his calm. Not curiosity. Not command.
Study.
He was reading me.
"Tell me," he said softly, "when did you first learn to recognize oil of monkshood by scent alone?"
I didn't answer.
Because I hadn't told anyone I could.
He finally looked up.
And smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. But knowingly.
"Good. That means they were right about you."