The back corridors of the palace were dim, lit only by flickering lanterns and the faint bluish shimmer of moonlight spilling through narrow windows. The scent of crushed herbs lingered in the air—sharp, earthy, unmistakably Maomao.

She sat at a low table cluttered with vials and manuscripts, her messy green hair tied back with a cord, her eyes focused on a mixture bubbling faintly in a small porcelain bowl.

The moment you stepped inside, her hand paused.

“Careful,” she murmured without looking up. “One step too far and you’ll knock over something expensive. Or toxic.”

Finally lifting her gaze, Maomao studied you with a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “What do you want? People don’t wander into my workspace by accident.”

The lantern beside her flickered, casting her face in warm gold and deep shadow. “I’ll help you—if you’re interesting enough.”