The teahouse was nothing special at first—just a dusty old building tucked between a bakery and an abandoned shrine. But to Ziyan, it was a beginning.
For days, the four of them worked from morning to dusk—scrubbing floors, repainting walls, repairing cracked beams. Feiyan bruised her knuckles lifting crates. Shuye bartered for secondhand furniture and bowls. Ziyan drafted schedules and staffing plans. And Lianhua, precise as always, calculated every coin that left their hands.
By the end of the first week, the bruises on Feiyan's body had begun to fade—but not her fire. "If we survive this," she said one night, "remind me never to open a shop again."
Shuye chuckled from the counter, stacking a set of mismatched teacups. "We haven't even opened."
"Exactly," Feiyan muttered.
They named it The Hollow Reed—a quiet name, soft and unassuming, like the kind of place you'd walk past without a second glance. Just as they intended.
As the shelves were filled and the scent of osmanthus and roasted rice tea began to settle into the wood, they began discussing the menu. Osmanthus, always—Ziyan insisted. "It reminds me of home," she said, fingers resting on a ceramic jar.
"Yecheng, right?" Lianhua asked.
Ziyan nodded. "We used to make stuffed lotus leaves in the fall. My mother said if I learned to cook like her, I'd make a good wife."
Feiyan laughed lightly. "And did you?"
Ziyan smiled faintly. "I burned every batch. But I was proud of them anyway."
There was a pause.
"I used to think I'd marry a decent man," Ziyan continued softly, "run a small household. Maybe teach the village girls to read. I didn't want much."
"But now?" Shuye asked.
Ziyan looked down at her palm. The Phoenix mark had stopped glowing days ago, but she could still feel its weight—like a promise unspoken.
"Now," she said, "I want to change the world. Even if it kills me."
The room fell quiet.
Feiyan raised her teacup. "Then let's start with a good cup of tea."
The next few days were filled with practical trouble. Lianhua ran into issue after issue: tea leaves tripled in price due to rising tariffs. Dried fruits from the West were scarce, and imported porcelain was out of reach.
"The war with Xia is draining everything," she said, frowning over her ledger. "No one wants to trade with Qi right now. And what's left is being hoarded."
Shuye leaned over her shoulder. "How bad?"
"We have enough to open. But if we don't bring in regular coin in the first two weeks, we'll start losing money."
Feiyan groaned. "Can't we just blackmail a corrupt official or two? That's faster."
Lianhua didn't look up. "If you'd like to bring heat down on the business and lose all our customers, go ahead."
Ziyan smirked. "We're doing this the right way. For now."
There was tension beneath the laughter. Everyone felt it.
Duan Rulan had given them one of her quieter contacts—a former steward turned supplier who helped them secure small quantities of tea and utensils. But the favor couldn't be stretched too far. Even her influence had limits.
Still, they worked. Ziyan taught Shuye to brew lotus-infused green tea. Feiyan sharpened her knives and cleaned rice until her arms ached. Lianhua drew up rosters and budgeting plans that would've impressed any court accountant.
On the fifteenth night, they sat around a single candle, exhausted.
"We open tomorrow," Ziyan said, voice quiet. "Ready?"
"No," Shuye admitted.
Feiyan cracked her neck. "If no one shows, I'm setting fire to the curtains just to say we gave them a show."
Ziyan laughed.
Lianhua didn't.
She was staring at the wall, eyes distant.
Ziyan leaned toward her. "Something wrong?"
Lianhua was quiet for a moment. Then: "I was supposed to inherit a silk shop."
The others turned to look.
"My parents ran a small dyeing house. Honest work. We had good cloth. I was learning how to manage orders, deal with vendors." Her voice stayed flat, but her fingers curled in her lap. "Then Li Jun's men came. Said we had violated trade laws. Falsified weights. They seized everything."
Feiyan's brows furrowed.
"My father tried to fight it. He disappeared. My mother... she fell ill. I couldn't afford her medicine. I sold myself, thinking I'd buy her time."
Ziyan reached across the table, placing her hand gently on Lianhua's wrist.
"And now that you've taken him down...?"
"I don't know," Lianhua whispered. "I thought it would feel like something. But it's just quiet. Empty."
Ziyan's hand stayed where it was.
"That's because revenge ends things," she said. "But now... now you get to choose what begins."
Lianhua looked up slowly.
"We want you with us," Ziyan said. "Not just for your numbers. But because you're one of us now. You don't have to decide everything today. But the door's open."
Feiyan nudged her shoulder. "Besides, you're too scary with numbers to let go."
Shuye smiled softly. "And you're the only one who can keep track of all the coin Feiyan spends on wine."
Lianhua let out a small breath. It might have been a laugh.
"Then I suppose," she said quietly, "I'll see how this goes."
The Hollow Reed opened at sunrise.
It wasn't crowded. Just two merchants, a tired traveler, and a quiet clerk from the Ministry.
But the tea was warm, the rice fragrant, and the four of them moved like a team—awkward at times, but steady.
And when Ziyan looked out at the street, seeing a young mother take her first sip and sigh in relief, she felt something strange bloom in her chest.
Hope.
For now, it was enough.