Lumen. Dead of night.

The rain came down in sheets.

It hammered against the bluestone pavement, splashing up muddy water.

Clara Whitmore stumbled forward and went down hard, her knees smashing against the stone steps until skin tore open.

She didn’t care about the pain. She dragged herself on with both hands and knees.

The whip marks from the High Dungeon were still bleeding. The rough prison garb stuck to her back, and every tiny movement yanked at torn flesh.

The wounds had been soaked pale by the rain, the curled skin packed with grime from the dungeon floor.

The vermilion gates of the Chancellery were right there, barely a dozen steps away.

Two stone lions stood in the stormy dark, silent and cold, looking down at the blood on the ground.

She had to knock on that door. She had to see Father and Mother, see her brothers, tell them the truth.

She had been framed.

She had not tried to crawl into the bed of the Vice Minister of War. Percival Dunmore had done this to her.

She fought back to save herself. It was not because seduction had failed and she flew into shame and rage. She truly was not that filthy.

Swallowing the metallic taste rising in her throat, Clara dug her fingers into the edge of the step and forced half her body upright.

Behind her came a mess of hurried footsteps.

The sound of boots crushing through puddles drew closer and closer.

"Over there! Don’t let that bitch get away!"

A rough voice cut through the curtain of rain, thick with killing intent.

Clara bit through the tip of her tongue, forced herself to straighten, and reached for the gate.

Her fingertips had only just brushed the freezing bronze ring—

A rush of wind hit from behind.

A heavy club, swung with brutal force, smashed into her lower back.

The crisp crack of bone breaking was swallowed by thunder.

Clara’s mouth opened, and a great mouthful of blood sprayed across the red gate, running down along the bronze studs.

Her whole body flew like a torn sack and crashed into the mud.

At once, both legs lost all feeling.

Her lower body went limp, completely useless. Only her upper body still twisted and struggled in vain.

"Run, then. Why’d you stop?"

A burly man with a fleshy face strode up, planted his foot on the back of her hand, and ground down hard.

Her finger bones shifted out of place.

Clara convulsed in agony. Not even a scream could come out. All she could manage was ragged wheezing, like a broken bellows.

"This woman’s tougher than she looks. Took that much torture in the High Dungeon and still made it this far."

Another man spat on the ground. "If the client hadn’t paid so damn much, I wouldn’t be out in this storm doing dirty work like this."

Her sight was blurred by blood and rain.

Clara struggled to lift her head and stared fixedly at that shut gate.

Why was no one opening it?

With all this noise outside, there was no way the guards inside hadn’t heard.

She was the true daughter of the Chancellery. The flesh-and-blood child of her parents.

Even if she truly had done wrong, were they not even going to give her a chance to beg for help?

Then came the sound of hinges turning.

A weak light flickered in Clara’s eyes.

Her lips parted, wanting to call out Father, or Mother.

The gate opened a narrow crack.

A pair of red embroidered shoes stepped over the threshold, gold-thread peonies stitched across them. They landed on the clean stone step, carefully avoiding the puddles below.

An oil-paper umbrella painted with peach blossoms opened overhead, shutting out the savage rain.

Vivienne Whitmore stood there in a dazzling soft gauze dress, the hem spotless.

A white fox-fur cloak draped over her shoulders, making her look delicate and precious beyond touch.

At her side, a maid held up a glass lantern, its warm yellow glow lighting her fine makeup.

The men at once lowered their clubs and retreated to either side, heads bowed in respect, barely daring to breathe.

Vivienne lowered her eyes and looked at Clara writhing in the mud. A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Little sister, why are you in such a miserable state in the middle of the night?"

Clara’s pupils widened. She stared at that face, so familiar and yet so strange.

She desperately crawled forward, elbows scraping bloody tracks across the ground, reaching for Vivienne’s skirt.

"Sister Mengrou... save me... go call Father and Mother... I was set up..."

Vivienne did not move.

She raised a hand, covered her nose with a handkerchief, and took half a step back, neatly avoiding that mud-and-blood-stained hand.

"Call Father and Mother?" Vivienne let out a soft laugh, bright and crisp, unbearably piercing in the storm. "Clara, were you beaten stupid in the High Dungeon? Why do you think this gate stayed shut all this time?"

Clara froze and lifted her head.

Muddy water ran into her eyes, stinging so badly she could barely bear it.

Wh-what did that mean?

"Father and Mother are in the front hall drinking tea. Second Brother is sitting beside them shelling walnuts."

Vivienne slowly turned the umbrella handle, and beads of water spun from the ribs. "The guards already reported it earlier. They said some fugitive who looked like a beggar was dying at the gate. Father said not to dirty the Chancellery grounds. Just beat her to death and throw her onto Carrion Hill."

Clara felt as if someone had grabbed her heart and crushed it in their fist.

She didn’t believe it.

"I am the legitimate daughter of the Chancellery..." she ground out, every word soaked in blood and tears. "I am the real daughter... you can’t treat me like this!"

Vivienne bent down. The lantern light fell across her face, making it look eerie and warped.

"The real daughter?" Vivienne sneered, reaching out to lift Clara’s mud-smeared chin. Her nails dug hard into flesh. "These years since you came back, did Father and Mother ever truly look at you? Did any of your brothers ever take you out to dine at a restaurant even once?"

Clara was forced to tip her head back, a pained whimper catching in her throat.

For three whole years, she had tried so carefully to please every one of them.

In the dead of winter, she had gone herself outside the city to pray for a safety talisman for Mother, freezing her hands until they were covered in sores, and Mother had only frowned at the rough talisman paper before tossing it to a servant.

When Father fell ill, she had stayed up three days and nights to boil his medicine, and when he finally woke, the first thing he asked was whether Vivienne had been frightened.

As for her brothers, their hearts and eyes had room only for Vivienne.

Vivienne, the fake daughter who had stolen her place, needed only to shed a few tears—or even just sneeze once—and the whole household would fuss around her in distress, summoning Imperial Physicians to the manor overnight.

"What is blood worth, anyway?"

Vivienne gave a cold laugh. "I grew up on Father and Mother’s knees. My brothers held me in their palms. Music, chess, calligraphy, painting, poetry—what am I not among the best at in all Lumen? And you? A wild girl raised in the countryside, barely knowing a few words, even the way you hold chopsticks reeks of poverty. What gives you the right to compete with me?"

Clara lay on the ground, fingers clawing hard at the bluestone.

Her nails split and flipped, blood running everywhere.

She hated.

She hated herself for craving that tiny scrap of family affection.

She hated herself even more for not seeing this family’s cold-blooded hearts sooner.

"Little sister, stop being foolish. At a time like this, you still think Father, Mother, and your brothers would save you? Have you forgotten? From the day you climbed into Brother Tianyou’s bed, they already cut ties with you."

"Even if they won’t acknowledge me..." Clara gasped, spitting out a mouthful of bloody foam, "I never climbed into his bed... I didn’t drug anyone... I was framed..."

Back then, after she returned to the Chancellery, Vivienne had coaxed her into attending a birthday banquet together.

At that banquet, she had been drugged with an aphrodisiac and ended up tangled with Percival Dunmore—Vivienne’s own betrothed—who had also been drugged.

Because of that, her name was ruined. Her parents cursed her for being shameless and severed ties with her.

Percival Dunmore had been forced to marry her, and from then on he tormented her in every possible way, making her life worse than death.

Even this time, it was because he sent her onto the bed of the Vice Minister of War that she had landed in the High Dungeon of the High Court and suffered endless torture.

She had cried out her innocence hundreds, thousands of times.

No one had ever believed her.

"I know."

Vivienne smiled sweetly, leaned close to Clara’s ear, and laughed softly. "Because the person who drugged both you and Brother Tianyou back then was me. I led the two of you into the Warm Chamber. My own people stood guard outside the door, waiting for me to bring everyone over and catch you in the act."

For all these years, no one had known the truth.

The thought alone filled Vivienne with such satisfaction she could barely hide it.

"Why?!" Clara broke down. "Why would you do this to me?"

She had always suspected that what happened that year had been Vivienne’s scheme, but she had never had proof.

Now hearing her confess it with her own mouth, Clara wanted nothing more than to tear into her flesh and drink her blood.

"Because I never liked Percival Dunmore in the first place!" Vivienne said with a bright, charming laugh. "But I couldn’t directly break the engagement with the Dunmores. That would hurt the relationship between the two families. So I had no choice but to let you take my place."

"These years married to Brother Tianyou haven’t been easy, have they?" Vivienne covered her lips and laughed so hard her body shook like a flower in the wind. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she added, "Oh, and this time too—it was because I complained in front of Brother Tianyou that he sent you to the Vice Minister of War’s bed, all to clear the way for my Moyun."

She spoke lightly of every careful plot she had laid, her face shining with smug delight.

Clara felt as if all her organs were being twisted together.

So this—every bit of it—had been a trap Vivienne built piece by piece.

"Why? Why treat me this way?" Clara asked through the blood flooding her mouth.

She was the one who had been robbed of everything.

Why, then, did Vivienne still hate her this much?

"You brought this on yourself!" Vivienne’s nails dug viciously into her cheek. "Who told you to come back and claim your family? Since our identities were switched, you should have accepted your fate. But no—you had to come back. And with that face of yours too. What if one day Father and Mother suddenly remembered that you’re the one they really gave birth to? Then what would become of me? Only when you’re thoroughly dead can I rest easy as the young lady of the Chancellery."

"Aren’t you afraid... I’ll tell the truth?" Clara spat out another mouthful of blood and fixed her eyes on that beautiful face.

"Tell it? Tell who?" Vivienne laughed so hard the umbrella in her hand nearly slipped. "Do you really think you escaped the High Dungeon tonight by yourself?"

Clara went still.