Mingyu had always preferred precision to noise.
Noise belonged to the court—the bickering of ministers, the rustle of robes hiding cowardice, the sharp inhale of a man desperate to be remembered for words instead of results.
Precision belonged to survival. Precision meant a ledger balanced down to the grain.
Precision meant armies moving on signal rather than whim. Precision meant the empire still standing when storms blew themselves out.
And yet, even in his own palace, he found himself surrounded by noise. Not the noisy kind of courtiers, but a subtler, more dangerous sound: the silence of men who loved his wife and thought no one noticed.
That silence was louder than any petition.
He sat in the shadow of a column outside her chambers, posture relaxed enough to be overlooked by passing servants, but every sense sharpened.
He didn't belong here tonight, not that he wouldn't be sleeping in her bed tonight, just like he has every night.
