Good luck hides where bad luck coils; bad luck leans where good luck roots, like mist twining a mountain. Something like that.

In four neat words: the old man lost his horse—who knows it wasn’t a blessing, like rain after drought.

“That’s eight characters,” someone muttered, dry as old parchment.

“Is it?” she blinked, quick as a sparrow.

Half a month drifted by since the attack on Princess Korol’s return to the capital, like leaves floating past a bridge.

The follow-up investigation stayed mute, a pond without ripples under a stone sky.

The view swung to a remote palace corner, a shadowed alcove smelling of dust and ink.

In that corridor’s nook sat a room of about twenty square meters, small as a sparrow’s nest.

It split into two levels: a bunk above for rest, a desk and shelves below like roots gripping soil.

Books and glassware piled at every table corner, sprouting like weeds after rain.

In the room’s heart stood a big Alchemy cauldron, black as a moonless well.

Kelor had it hauled here after learning Lingcai was an Alchemist, like a queen setting a chess piece.

The cauldron came from the Royal Capital Alchemists’ Academy’s old warehouse, its skin scabbed with age like bark.

Old things, most days, prove stubbornly durable, like stones weathering a river.

After the attempt, Lingcai was parked here to idle, a boat moored to a silent dock.

She had earned merit for the realm, a bright feather on a cap in the wind.

Princess Korol pinned her a cushy title—Royal Alchemy Chief Consultant—tea and pastries traded for wages like easy tide.

By rights it should be bliss, but Lingcai’s heart felt caged, a bird tapping cold bars.

“I want to go home, I don’t want anything—please let me go,” she begged, clutching Xueyu’s leg like driftwood.

Xueyu rolled her eyes twice, two pale moons, and snorted: “Just stay put; this is for your good, like shelter from hail.

“It’s easier to earn in the palace than outside, like fishing in a stocked pond.

“No room and board fees; land here is gold by the inch, and you still call twenty square meters small?”

The place sat not far from the Princess’s quarters, like a lantern near a shrine.

So Xueyu dropped by off and on, more watcher than nurse, a shadow at dusk.

“I know, I know. I’m grateful, but my mother needs care... and my fiancée...” Lingcai muttered, voice thin as smoke.

“You’re a woman; where’d a fiancée come from?” Xueyu groaned, patience fraying like rope.

“I told you days ago,” Lingcai said, aggrieved like rain on eaves.

“I was a male Alchemist; a human transmutation experiment slipped, and now I’m stuck a girl.”

“Enough. Forget the fiancée; after this long she’s likely remarried,” Xueyu said, words like pebbles flicked at a pond.

She patted Lingcai’s shoulder, then grabbed her collar and chucked her into the book pile with a rustle like dry leaves.

“Besides, in that body, your... function’s gone. With what exactly would you marry?”

Xueyu wracked her brains to soothe and keep Lingcai, schemes curling like vines.

Her mind had its tally: the assassins’ aim and trail stayed fog, a marsh before dawn.

Outside the palace, the Princess still risked another strike, like a candle in wind.

Better to use a double to take the blow; safer by a city wall than by a lone road.

A ready-made double sat at hand; letting her go would be throwing away a sword in a storm.

“Look, you’ve already died once for Her Highness,” Xueyu coaxed, voice sweet as syrup and sharp as needles.

“If you leave unpaid and untitled, we’ll look like villains under noon sun.

“And don’t fret about home. Princess Korol already sent word and silver, like warm coal in winter.

“We wrote you’re employed in the palace; the money will see to your mother. So stay and rest easy.”

Be confident; you aren’t like villains—you are, the thought hissed, a snake in the grass.

But the door swung open with a snap, a gust through paper screens.

In walked Kelor, no one else, her presence like a blade glinting at dawn.

She took in Lingcai hunched in the corner and Xueyu’s rueful face, and one eyebrow climbed like a hook.

Finger leveled at Xueyu, her tongue lashed like a whip: “Why d’you bully her for sport?

“If you’re that idle, get out there and catch me an assassin, fast as lightning!

“If you can’t, go cool yourself somewhere shady!”

She finished flaying Xueyu, then cut a glance at Lingcai in the corner, eyes heavy as rain.

“And you—what’re you scared of? If she bullies you, hit back, thunder for thunder.

“By rank, you outrank her.”

“...I’m afraid you’ll make me a stand-in again,” Lingcai mumbled, voice burrowing like a mouse.

The words lit Kelor’s temper like dry tinder: “Who said that?

“When did I say you’d be a double again? What are you even scared of?”

Xueyu kept silent, guilt sitting on her tongue like a stone.

“Who knows what you’re plotting!” Lingcai went on, grievance puddling like rainwater.

“Maybe you won’t catch them and, on a whim, drag me outside the walls as bait—

“Parade me around to lure them out, then sweep them up in one net.”

After that, the room went strangely still, a snowfall muffling bells.

Déjà vu rolled in like a familiar fog.

“...” Xueyu opened her mouth, then shut it, words slipping like fish.

“...Uh,” Kelor bit her tongue and blinked hard, lashes fluttering like moth wings.

“Say that again?”

“I’m not saying it. I didn’t say anything!” Lingcai wanted to slap her own mouth, heat rising like steam.

“I underestimated you; you’re a real big-brain,” Kelor said, a weary pride brushing Lingcai’s hair like a palm.

“Just this once—name your price when it’s done.

“I’ll send you home, I swear by steel.

“You want to marry back home? I’ll pay for the house—built to a prince’s specs, brick by brick.”

“Big-brain is an insult,” Lingcai yelped, jerking back like a startled hare—and thunked against the shelf.

“Relax. We won’t throw you into danger this time, not a toe,” Kelor soothed, voice like velvet over iron.

“If we’re drawing the assassins out, we’ll drown them in troops like a tide.

“You just sit in the carriage and play the part, a doll behind curtains. Done.”

After a round of sugar and string, Lingcai refused everything, a stone refusing the stream.

She plugged both ears and squatted in the corner, unmoving as a lump of coal.

“What now? Maybe we drop it,” Xueyu sighed, helpless as smoke.

Lingcai hid under the shelf like a kitten; even yanking felt wrong, like pulling thorns.

“What do you think?” Princess Korol folded her arms and leaned on the desk, a cliff over sea.

She watched Xueyu, then shook her head, wind through pine: “Then let her go home.

“Forcing people backfires like a bowstring.”

With that, Kelor swept her sleeve and turned to leave, a crane taking off.

Xueyu stood dumbfounded, doubts buzzing like wasps—since when was the Princess this gentle?

At the threshold, Kelor’s tone slid cold, a knife along ice: “By the way, the assassins remember your face.

“Be careful on the road out of the capital; beyond these walls it’s a dark river.

“You’ve got no guards; you might get cut down mid-way, no time for last words.

“As for not being the Princess, explain it to them carefully.”

“I was wrong. I’ll do it, I’ll do it now!” Lingcai flipped like a fish and dropped to her knees with a thud.

“No. We must send you home; I’ll be the bait,” Kelor insisted, standing tall like a banner.

“If word spreads that a Princess is craven and threatens a commoner, that’s rot in the orchard.

“To be a stand-in, you must volunteer.”

“I volunteer! I volunteer! Being bait shouldn’t trouble Your Highness,” Lingcai blurted, not stupid when storms gather.

“...You heard her—she volunteers,” Kelor smiled, a fox’s crescent.

She winked at Xueyu: “Bring the inkpad. To keep you from denying it later, we’ll sign and stamp. Please.”

That last please hit the floor like a hammer.

Lingcai pulled a funeral face and pressed her palm to paper, a red leaf falling.

“...If I die, I’ll hate you both for life,” she muttered, breath cold as winter.

“I’ll haunt you even as a ghost.”