"Who is this?" My voice cut the room like a blade. Heads snapped up so fast someone dropped a tray. "Saint Qing?" a maid squeaked. "She woke!" "Do not crowd," Mu Ruxue ordered. Her hands moved with quiet authority, smoothing the hem of the robe I did not remember putting on. Her eyes measured me as if I were a problem and a promise. I sat up too fast and the world tilted. My fingers found silk, then a small jade bowl of tea. The mirror across the dressing table reflected a face I did not own: high cheekbones, pale skin, a silk birthmark at the nape shaped like a crescent moon. The Saint. The notorious Saint who burned bridges and bodies in the old story. "You are Ouyang Qing," Mu Ruxue said as if reading a ledger. "The sect needs you steady." "Who says I'm steady?" I answered before I could stop myself. My voice sounded younger, colder. The maids flinched. Mu Ruxue did not smile. "You will act as Ouyang Qing," she said. "Do not disappoint us." One of the maids muttered, "The Saint's pulse is weak." "Bring wine and the herbal compress," Mu Ruxue ordered, then lowered her voice. "Do not let the deputy elder know she wakes before the morning review." "Yes, matriarch," the maid replied, scurrying. I watched them go and learned the layout of the room in tiny, hungry bites. The bed was wide but the mattress had sunken on one side