A breeze stirs, butterflies flutter. The window is bright and clean, reflecting the red glow of the moon. White silk curtains sway with the wind, one end trailing gently beside them. Before a bronze mirror, the lady combs her hair, adorned in floral elegance. Her flowing tresses and rosy complexion are lovely—yet there comes no tenderness from her lord. Fifteen years now since she married into the general’s household; they once shared deep affection and mutual joy. But why has he forgotten her so swiftly? In that moment when the red candles cast a warm glow upon the silk bed, and the swan-paired cloth was gently taken down—there, his face captured her heart completely. She had always believed their love would be unshakable, that she would willingly yield her pride to him. Yet now, as her youthful beauty remains untouched, her affection has faded—replaced one after another by new maids entering the household, who have frozen her once-tender spirit. Her cries and protests fall on deaf ears; only then does she realize how coldly her beloved has truly been. The very thought of adapting to his expectations merely proves her own foolishness. Whether she be proud or fierce, it matters little—when the warmth of her youth cannot be restored, she will rather become someone who tires you, just so that you may remember her. “Mother… Mother…” The soft, tear-streaked call returns the lady’s scattered thoughts to the mirror before her. She turns back to find the lingering sorrow transformed into a gentle smile. Thud! The finely crafted wooden door is thrown open with force, and a yellow-gold figure bursts in like a gust of wind—hurrying straight toward her, embracing her tightly. “Little Moon, what has happened?” The lady lifts her daughter’s chin gently; the deep black eyes catch the shimmering tears upon her face. She gasps aloud, startled. “Who hurt you?” A flush spreads across her delicate cheeks as she raises her voice from a soft tone to one full of warmth and urgency. In this quiet estate, her children are her only solace—especially her daughter, her treasured pearl. To have someone dare insult such a beloved child is unthinkable—it seems sheer suicide. “It’s the young girl from the North Wing,” Little Moon says, her eyes wide with determination. Though she fears the strange spells of that girl, today's indignity will not be swallowed easily—she vows to make it right. “The North Wing?” The lady frowns, brows creased. “Isn’t that the most remote part of the estate? How could a young girl from there possess such strength?” “Mother,” Little Moon stands, stepping forward, “it’s Cold Wanyan.” She points firmly. “It’s the lowly maid born to her—Cold Wanyan who refuses to acknowledge us!” Crack! The lady takes a step back—the comb from the dressing table falls gently off her arm, making a crisp sound that startles Little Moon. “Mother,” she asks, eyes wide, “what is wrong?” The mother’s face pales; her voice trembles with concern. Why does she react so strongly to the name Cold Wanyan? “No matter—nothing at all.” The lady shakes her head, desperately trying to hide the flutter in her gaze. In her mind, images of Xiao Lian flash by—the once bright, unworldly young maid who now seems to hold such fierce accusation. Four years ago, she was just a lively, childlike girl. She had always admired her, but it was one thing after another—she could not bear that she should become the general’s child. The very idea of losing her husband to someone else now fills her with rising fury. Anyone who challenges her claim must now be seen as an adversary. Her children—only three in total—must remain hers. “A witch?” Little Moon, still young and trusting, does not grasp the complexity behind her mother’s expression. She recalls that strange fire incident, feeling uneasy. “Witch? What nonsense!” The lady smooths a hand over her daughter’s forehead with gentle affection. “She is only three years old—how could she possibly overpower you?” Once, Cold Wanyan had seemed to bear no strength at all, always meek and submissive. Yet now, it seemed impossible that she could withstand such hardship. When Xiao Lian's porridge was poisoned, her unborn child remained safe—no illness at all. The child not only survived but also drew the general’s attention. Now that the general is aware of the situation, he cannot act against her easily. Still, for Cold Wanyan to grow and thrive without being mistreated seems a daunting task. Among so many maids in this grand household, she has always been treated as the one who suffers. “Mother,” Little Moon says, her voice rising with frustration. “It is true—she truly is a witch.” She didn’t expect such disbelief from her mother. With firm steps and a pout, she continues. “She can summon fire. Just days ago, the general’s beloved forest burned down—her handiwork. Today, when I went to visit her kindly, she not only beat Qingtang but also surrounded us with flames, blocking every path. The servants will bear witness.” She clasps her mother’s arm and coos softly, appealingly. Though she hasn’t seen the forest burnt by Cold Wanyan herself, today’s ability to create fire from nothing—while she was present—must be proof of it. “Can she really summon fire out of thin air?” The lady naturally doesn’t believe in her daughter’s sincerity. After all, a mother knows best—the daughter has always been stubborn and unwilling to accept injustice. How could she have gone willingly to see such a frail child? Yet, the claim that Cold Wanyan beat Qingtang and surrounded them with fire seems far-fetched—how can a mere three-year-old girl conjure such magic? Still, her daughter’s confidence is unwavering—so perhaps it holds some truth. “Come,” she says thoughtfully, calling out to the attendants outside. “Madam,” a young attendant in a blue floral dress steps forward and curtsies gracefully. “What may I do?” “Summon Qingtang and all the servants who were with her today.” “Yes, Madam.” The woman bows and departs. “My daughter,” Little Moon sits beside her mother, pressing her lips together. “I believe Cold Wanyan is not the same girl she used to be.” “What do you mean?” The lady asks, surprised—what exactly does her daughter see now? “She wasn’t always timid,” Little Moon continues. “She used to be so shy and easily overwhelmed. But today… today she is bold. In fact, sometimes I feel she resembles…” She pauses. “Like what?” “Like—you.” Little Moon looks into her mother’s eyes, then closes them, speaking firmly. “Like Father.” “Nonsense!” The lady frowns, clearly disapproving. “How could that low-born girl possibly resemble the general? You and your brothers—only you and your siblings are truly like him. That girl is just a mere outcast, after all.” “It’s not her appearance,” Little Moon insists, eyes bright. “It’s the way she holds herself—the presence she carries. She is not merely proud; she commands an aura of strength. When she summons fire, it feels as though she could simply take your life at any moment. For our safety now, we must always keep a safe distance.” “Then go,” says the lady, watching their expressions. They are genuinely afraid—not just pretending. With a calm gesture, she waves them away. “Retire,” one servant says. “Retire,” another replies. They bow and slowly depart. “Mother,” Little Moon declares with renewed vigor, “now you must believe me—she truly possesses magic.” The lady remains silent. This is so strange—the girl once so timid—how has she transformed into such a powerful presence? Can she really be a witch? A breeze flows from the window, stirring the silk curtains as though a ghost had silently arrived. The lady suddenly stumbles—her breath catching in her throat. Could it be the spirit of Xiao Lian—seeking vengeance upon her? Crack! She slides off her chair and falls to the ground. “Mother!” Little Moon gasps, quickly kneeling beside her. Rising with a steady gaze, the lady looks at her daughter—her eyes now shimmering with sharp resolve. One by one, she speaks: “The girl must be removed.” Hah! It is now two in the morning.