The Hollow Reed had no magic to it. No enchanted tea leaves or ancient artifacts hidden in its walls. But still, it survived.
Barely.
The first week saw only a trickle of customers—most curious, some suspicious. Many didn't return. A few left coins. Others left insults about the steep price or the "Southern flavor." Ziyan smiled through it all. But behind the counter, her hands trembled when counting the till.
"This is harder than slitting a noble's purse strings," Feiyan muttered one morning as she scrubbed pots in the back kitchen. "At least thieves don't complain about how hot the tea is."
"It's a learning curve," Lianhua said evenly, stacking jars of dried chrysanthemum and ginger. "We're selling familiarity in a city that fears change."
"Poetic," Shuye said, wiping sweat from his brow as he lugged another sack of rice up the back stairs. "You could write that on the wall."
"I already did," Ziyan mumbled, tapping a chalkboard near the door with a hopeful list of specials.
Every day was long. The hours ran from before sunrise until well past moonrise. Shuye delivered tea orders to the nearby merchants, trying to charm guards into silence. Feiyan trained local boys to help with kitchen work. Lianhua micromanaged their budget to the last coin, calculating tea leaf costs against street rumors of price hikes. And Ziyan? She kept the register. Watched the customers. Listened to every voice that passed through the doors.
They weren't just selling tea. They were collecting whispers.
After three weeks, something shifted.
A city courier became a regular, always ordering the rice porridge with pickled plum. A well-dressed woman from the Ministry of Personnel took quiet notes in the corner. Rumors reached Duan Rulan's circles that "a humble shop" had started serving the kind of customers who preferred to go unnoticed.
By the end of the month, the Hollow Reed was still modest. But it was breathing.
And they were, for the first time, not drowning.
One crisp morning, just as the steam was rising off the first batch of osmanthus brew, Ziyan noticed a boy by the door.
Barefoot, cloaked in threadbare rags, he looked like a ghost that had slipped through the alleys. His face was hollow from hunger, and his eyes—those were what caught her.
Too sharp for a child.
She turned to serve a customer.
The moment her back was turned, he moved.
It was quick—his hand dipped past the tray at the counter and snatched a bun. He was halfway to the alley before Feiyan barked, "Hey!"
The boy bolted.
Shuye ran after him.
Ziyan stepped out into the morning light—just as Shuye caught the thief by the arm near the shrine post.
"Let go!" the boy snarled, kicking furiously. "I didn't take anything!"
"You dropped this, then?" Shuye held up the half-eaten bun.
"Let him go," Ziyan said calmly.
"What?" Feiyan emerged, panting. "He stole—"
"I said let him go."
Shuye released the boy, frowning. Ziyan stepped closer.
Her palm burned.
The mark flared—not with pain, but with heat, like sunlight piercing her skin. She looked at the boy.
And then the world changed.
In an instant, visions slammed into her mind:
A mercenary camp. Flames. Screams. A boy kneeling in mud, blindfolded, stabbing at a post over and over again while men barked commands. A silver crest—Qi's imperial guards—charging in. A man with red hair falling, bleeding out. An imperial commander with a ruined banner. And a small child—no more than ten—watching it all burn.
Ziyan gasped.
The boy had been trained—not as a soldier, but as a weapon. A tool. Someone molded into something useful, then discarded when no longer needed.
And now, he had nothing.
She knelt before him, palm still burning.
"What's your name?"
The boy didn't answer.
Feiyan crossed her arms. "He probably doesn't have one."
Lianhua appeared in the doorway, gaze sharp. "He's not just a street thief."
Ziyan's voice was soft. "No. He's something else."
The boy looked at her finally, defiant. "What do you want?"
"Nothing," she said. "Only to know if you want to eat without stealing next time."
His eyes flicked between her and the others.
"Why?"
"Because you're like us," she said. "Someone who's lost everything."
A silence stretched out. Behind them, the scent of tea drifted into the alley. Customers murmured. Life continued.
"Come back inside," Ziyan said. "You don't have to trust us. Just sit. Rest."
The boy hesitated.
Then, slowly, he followed.
Later that evening, after the last cup had been served and the shutters drawn, the boy sat by the kitchen fire, arms wrapped around his knees. He hadn't spoken since that morning. But he hadn't left either.
Ziyan joined the others at the table, tired and aching.
Feiyan scoffed. "Are we taking in strays now?"
Shuye looked over his shoulder. "He moved like someone trained. Not street-trained. Military. But unrefined."
"More like broken," Lianhua said flatly. "And yet... still alive."
Ziyan nodded. "He's been through more than he should have. And the Phoenix mark doesn't lie."
Feiyan grunted. "Neither do empty stomachs."
"We're doing fine now," Shuye added. "A few more days like today, we'll have enough to hire another server."
Ziyan glanced back at the boy.
"He won't stay unless he wants to," she said. "But if he does, we give him a name. A place."
"And if he's dangerous?" Lianhua asked.
Ziyan's voice didn't waver. "Then we teach him not to be."
They all fell silent.
Outside, the city groaned beneath the weight of war and hunger.
Inside, by a flickering lantern and an old clay stove, something fragile was beginning again.