In no time, Lingcai had changed, like a cloud slipping past the sun.

The emcee had laid out a white evening gown, plain as frost, yet noble as moonlight on jade. As a bridesmaid’s dress, it must never outshine the bride.

A big white bow was sewn at the front, like a moth’s wings. The fabric on both sides rose like streamers and joined two white straps. The whole gown hung off her shoulders by those straps, light as a crane on a reed.

But the size, at a glance, was made for a child, like a lantern made for a handspan palm.

When Lingcai stepped from the changing room, she looked left and right like a sparrow. She didn’t see Scarlet Leaf. She didn’t see LilyBell either.

"Where did they go..." The whisper drifted like a dry leaf. No one answered.

With Scarlet Leaf gone and even LilyBell missing, she sat backstage at random, like a pebble beside a river of footsteps.

She studied herself in the full-length mirror, like peering into a still pond. Thank goodness, it didn’t scream last‑minute stand‑in.

Staff bustled past like an ant trail, wedding tasks weaving like loom‑threads. Lingcai felt a hollow chill, like wind in an empty gourd.

The liveliness was theirs, like a festival across the street; I had nothing, like a candle after rain.

Just then, a gentle, faintly sultry voice brushed her ear like silk: "Hello, little sister. Are you the stand‑in bridesmaid?"

She looked toward the sound like turning to a bell. Waiting there was a face carved fine as porcelain. Pale blue eyes held depths like a lake. A pale neck showed clean collarbones like twin swallows. Black hair bore a white veil like new snow, marking her as the bride.

This, without doubt, was the woman Duke Prinn was marrying, like a star at the heart of the night.

Lingcai blinked, startled as if snow had flashed. Then she nodded, like a reed bowing to wind. "Yes. I’m just a substitute, but if you need anything..."

A wedding is once in a lifetime, like a single plum blossom on a branch. Even Lingcai showed a rare warmth.

The bride covered her lips and chuckled, like a bell behind gauze. Then she introduced herself: "I’m Anielle. From today, I’m Duke Prinn’s wife. Please look after me."

Though dressed as a noble, Anielle’s manner felt close as spring sun, with no hauteur, easy to like.

Lingcai let herself relax, like a cat settling into sun, and tried for poise. "No, I should say, please take care of me today."

Anielle had thought this little girl would be shy as a fawn. Lingcai’s calm courtesy surprised her, and affection budded like a rose. She poked Lingcai’s cheek with a light touch.

"..."

"..."

"Ah... sorry, that was rude. But you’re adorable," Anielle smiled, like dew on petals.

Lingcai flushed, embarrassed as a cherry. She nodded back. "Wish you a happy wedding."

Hurried footsteps came like rain on tiles. A slightly scatterbrained figure appeared with a brown leather makeup case slung across her shoulder.

"Excuse me! Which one’s the stand‑in bridesmaid! I’m the makeup artist! Anyone who’s seen her, call me!" The voice bounced like thrown pebbles.

Anielle gave Lingcai an elegant smile, like a crescent moon, then stood and waved the flustered makeup artist over. "Over here, come."

Clatter, clatter, clatter. The case rattled like a drawer of spoons as she ran.

When the makeup artist reached Lingcai, Lingcai felt a flicker of recognition, like déjà vu smoke. She stared a moment, then blurted, "It’s you?!"

It was Qiancao, the palace maid, standing before her like a familiar shadow. She still wore the black‑and‑white maid dress, almost unchanged, save the strapped makeup case.

Qiancao, upon seeing Lingcai, also froze like a startled rabbit, as if afraid to believe it.

Surprise touched Anielle’s face, then a gentle smile returned like tide. "So you know each other? That’s wonderful... Tell me if you need anything."

But Qiancao’s next words snapped Anielle’s smile still as ice: "Little Princess, Your Highness—never thought it’d be you—ehehe..."

As she spoke, Qiancao lunged in like a playful pup and rubbed Lingcai’s face, a foamy, cheek‑squishing “face‑wash.”

If Scarlet Leaf saw that, whenever she returned, Lingcai wouldn’t live past tonight, like a moth near a lamp.

So Lingcai shoved Qiancao aside without ceremony, then slapped the chair beside her, a thunderclap on wood. She bluffed, "Warning you. Don’t come any closer. One more step, and you’re fired, got it?"

"Yeees—if it’s the Little Princess’s order, then it can’t be helped—You’re just like always." Qiancao pouted like a sulky duck, yet withdrew her hands.

Lingcai only copied Kelor from memory, like tracing a dragon’s outline. She hadn’t expected it to work this well.

But beside her, the duchess—Anielle—had a smile turning cool, like frost edging glass. Panic pricked through her, yet she rose and bowed respectfully to Lingcai.

"Please... forgive my earlier discourtesy," she said, voice thin as paper. "I never imagined you were Her Highness. For someone so noble to stoop as my bridesmaid is three lifetimes’ fortune."

By the time Lingcai registered it, not only Anielle but everyone nearby had dropped to their knees like wheat before a wind.

Hands stilled on tasks, and the air went still as a pond at midnight.

Lingcai’s right eyelid twitched twice, like a drumbeat.

She hadn’t thought a throwaway line to handle Qiancao would snowball into this, like a snowball becoming an avalanche.

If she said now she wasn’t the princess, the awkwardness would be fatal, like a swallow hitting a window.

Under pressure, Lingcai could only act the part, yet she dared not overdo it, like walking a ridge.

"You... all get up," she said, letting the words fall like pebbles. "Do your work. Whatever you think I am, keep it to yourselves." "Treat me like a normal person, okay? Don’t waste time. Good?"

A flicker of fear crossed Anielle’s face, then steadied like a lamp in wind. But her manner lost its ease and grew cautious, like a deer at a stream.

"Your Highness. We were remiss. Please forgive us. Allow me to inform my husband and prepare a higher reception for you..." Her voice felt like a folded fan.

Lingcai wavered with guilt, like a fish tossed by waves. "N‑no need. I didn’t even bring a gift..."

Anielle shook her head, firm as a pine. "I know you’re buried in affairs. Your presence is our greatest favor. I’ll inform him now."

With that, Anielle lifted her skirts and left in quick steps, like a bird that dared not perch.

Lingcai could not know why Anielle feared her, like a blindfold hiding a blade.

She’d never imagine that Anielle, and her soon‑to‑be husband, Duke Prinn, were the culprits smuggling arms to the rebels. Like moles under the garden.

On the way to her husband’s room, Anielle’s mind swarmed with question marks, like bees.

Why?

Wasn’t Princess Korol off investigating the arsenal, like tracking a wolf in snow?

By rights, the cannon molds had been cleared like footprints swept. Even following the trail should cost her time and blood. Why did the princess appear here?

Was it a lucky guess, or coincidence, like two birds crossing paths? Or had she failed to erase some thread of evidence, like a loose hair on silk?

Anielle had never met Princess Korol, yet her brilliance was long‑told, like a zither song carried by wind. The instant she took Lingcai for Her Highness, a chill ran through her.

That "Happy wedding" now rang in her ears like a taunt wrapped in lace.

But Lingcai could not know any of it, like a fish unaware of the net. Seeing fear in Anielle’s face, she muttered in doubt.

That princess always thinks she’s so wise, like a rooster crowing at dawn. People hear her title and just get scared. What sort of person is that?

"Heh, give me a break," Lingcai grumbled to herself, like embers under ash. "She only knows how to slap tables to scare people. Brilliant, my ass."

—I can hear you!

Kelor’s voice flared in Lingcai’s mind like a bell in a temple, so sharp it made her flinch.

She glanced around in a panic like a startled quail, and only when she found no trace of Princess Korol did she exhale.

"...Now I understand why others fear her..." she murmured, like someone walking past a grave.