The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 57: How Far I’ll Go

Chapter 57: How Far I’ll Go

The Emperor’s low chuckle reverberated through the great hall like ripples across a still pond. "A competition?" he mused, swirling his wine as if this entire night had been lacking just that one drop of chaos. "Let the court be entertained."

Across the hall, excitement shimmered like heat on stone. The young ladies leaned forward with glowing eyes and delicate hands clasped just so. A few older officials adjusted their postures, feigning disinterest. The nobles loved games. Especially the kind that looked harmless.

I set my teacup down and waited, sending up a quick prayer that she wasn’t that predictable.

But sure enough, she rose to her feet as everyone turned to look at her.

Zhao Meiling stood with the elegance of someone born to be adored. Her rose-gold gown caught the lanternlight like fire, the translucent sleeves floating behind her like silk wings. Pearls swung gently from her ears with every step she took, and the soft tap of her heels was the only sound in the room.

She didn’t look at me. Not yet. That wasn’t part of her performance.

"I hope you will indulge me," she said sweetly, bowing before the Emperor. "This is a simple melody—one I learned from my late mother."

The servants moved like they’d been rehearsed. A guzheng, its polished wood gleaming, was brought forward and placed on the raised mat in the center of the hall. Zhao Meiling sat gracefully, adjusted her sleeves, and began to play.

The first note rang out like glass—high, pure, haunting.

I would give her credit. The girl had skill.

Her fingers moved across the strings with practiced grace, delicate and sharp, like a blade covered in flower petals. The melody twisted through the air, rising, falling, folding in on itself like silk in a summer breeze. It was a mournful piece, aching and refined, the kind that made poets weep and mothers sigh.

The hall was spellbound.

The Emperor’s eyes were half-closed, head nodding ever so slightly to the rhythm. Near the front, Zhao Meiling’s father sat upright with a chest so puffed he looked like he might float off the ground. His hands rested on his knees, but every bit of pride in the room bled from his face like steam from a covered pot.

He looked as if every note of praise for his daughter was directed at him, personally.

When the final note faded into silence, applause erupted—polite but enthusiastic. Some of the younger girls clapped with wide eyes, like they had just seen something divine.

Zhao Meiling bowed her head. Demure. Modest. As if she hadn’t been waiting for that exact reaction.

Then she stood, the folds of her gown whispering secrets around her ankles. And that was when she turned to me.

Her eyes sparkled. Her voice was gentle.

"When we were younger," she began, pausing just long enough to ensure the attention sharpened, "my sister was even better than me at the guzheng."

Gasps echoed around the room as everyone turned to look at me.

My spine remained straight, and I didn’t so much as blink.

Zhao Meiling continued, tone soft and shimmering with false affection. "She was so gifted. So naturally talented. I used to beg her to teach me. Perhaps—now that she’s returned—she’ll be kind enough to gift us with a song."

The trap was set.

And she had no idea she’d just stepped into it herself.

I tilted my head slightly and gave her the kind of smile that never reached the eyes.

I smiled, the kind that meant absolutely nothing on the surface and far too much beneath it. Rising to my feet with careful ease, I walked toward the guzheng, my boots soft against the marble. My fingers skimmed the polished wood once—lightly, just once—before I turned to face the dais.

"Unfortunately," I said, projecting my voice with perfect calm, a faint smile on my lips, "living on a mountain didn’t lend itself to keeping up my guzheng practice."

A few quiet laughs rippled at the edge of the room.

"But," I continued, raising my chin slightly, "if it’s acceptable, I’d be happy to offer a song instead."

The hall fell into a curious hush.

Before the Emperor could respond, the Empress herself spoke. "I would like that," she said, her voice smooth and steady. "It has been some time since we heard a song. Most chose to play an instrument or dance. A song is delightfully unique."

Smiling at the woman, I subtly bowed to her, thanking her for taking my side in this.

A single court musician stepped back, giving me space, and the hall was painfully still.

I didn’t look at Zhao Meiling, I didn’t need to in order to see the smug look on her face.

Taking in a deep breath, I filled my lungs. Then I sang.

"They tell me I’m meant to stay in my place,

On the path that was drawn, in the lines I trace.

But the wind calls beyond the tide,

And I’ve never learned how to hide.

I’ve tried to be still, I’ve tried to be kind,

I’ve folded my hands, quieted my mind.

But the edge of the world still sings to me,

Of who I was always meant to be.

If I leave, there’s no one to guide my way,

No stars, no map, no voice to say—

But the ocean calls, and I can’t stay low.

I’ll go where I must go."

The last note faded—not sweetly, not softly—but like a promise that didn’t ask for applause.

When I returned to my seat, I was met with silence, deep and heavy. No one moved, no one so much as shifted in their seat.

Then the Empress nodded once, and it broke.

Light applause. Some hesitant. Some awestruck. And Zhao Meiling—still frozen in place—clapped with a smile that made her eyes look made of glass.

"Not bad for a mountain girl," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. "Frig, it’s been a while since I sang that song."

Zhu Deming leaned in slightly. "That wasn’t a court song." He made it sound like a statement, but I couldn’t help but smile at the question in his eyes.

"No," I replied, looking down at my cup. "It was my favorite song as a child. It was written by a man named Dis Ney. I really can’t take credit for it at all, even if I did change some of the words."

Zhu Deming nodded his head as he shifted back in his seat. "I liked it, it was..." he trailed off like he couldn’t figure out the words. But I still knew what he wanted to say.

Just as I reached for another sip of tea, a voice rose, low and clear.

"One of my favorite songs," said a young woman, sitting near the Third Prince, fanning herself with a lavender colored fan.

I looked up, studying her for a moment. Her expression was polite but unreadable, and she was dressed in soft yellow silk trimmed in white, her hands folded lightly in front of her, the fan now still.

"Oh?" I replied with a faint smile of my own. "I didn’t think anyone else knew it here." That was when she smiled.

"Do you know Let It Go? It’s another one of my favorites."

My fingers paused around the teacup, the words hit me like a brick to the temple. I didn’t respond, not immediately. The noise of the hall faded into a low hum in the back of my mind.

I looked at her again—really looked. The way her mouth curved, just slightly off. The shape of her eyes, too sharp for innocence. The confidence she wore like a second skin.

I knew that face.

Not from this life. Not from this world.

But from home.

Her gaze met mine, steady and cool, and for one suspended breath, I wasn’t in the palace. I was back in a dark university dorm room, humming to myself as I scrambled to remember what properties each herb had. Not even the massive headphones could cancel out my roommate’s singing. She was obsessed with Let It Go to the point that I had it stuck in my head more often than not.

I was only at that university for a few years, long enough to get my degree, but I lost contact with her.

And yet, here she was.

Something flickered between us. Not a smile. Not warmth. Not yet.

Recognition.

Just that.

I set my cup down without a sound.

And across the room, the Princess dipped her head ever so slightly.

The game had just changed, and neither of us had to say a word.