Queen Yǐn Lìhuá woke before the bell.
The sky beyond the lattice windows was still pale, the palace suspended in that quiet moment before morning fully arrived. She rose without summoning her attendants, dressing herself with practiced ease. Every fold of silk, every hairpin placed just so—five years of being queen had taught her precision, if nothing else.
When she entered the dining hall, King Wèi Zhèn was already seated.
He wore his court robes, dark and formal, his hair bound neatly. His expression was calm, distant, the same one he carried into court and war alike. They shared their meal in silence, the kind that had become habitual rather than awkward.
He stood first.
"I'll be late tonight," Wèi Zhèn said. "Court matters."
"I'll have dinner prepared regardless," Yǐn Lìhuá replied gently.
He paused, his gaze lingering on her face for a fraction too long—then nodded and turned away.
She watched him leave, her expression unchanged.
Later that morning, Yǐn Lìhuá sat by the window reviewing the household accounts. Ink brushed smoothly across the page as she checked figures—grain distribution, servant wages, palace maintenance. Everything was in order. It always was.
A servant entered quietly and bowed.
"Your Majesty, the Dowager Queen summons you."
Her hand stilled.
"I understand," she said calmly.
She changed into more formal attire, her movements unhurried, her composure flawless. When she finally stepped out, she looked every bit the queen the palace expected her to be.
The Dowager Queen, mother of Wèi Zhèn, sat beneath a painted screen of cranes and ancient pines. Her gaze was sharp, assessing, filled with concern masked as authority.
"Lìhuá," she began, "it has been five years since your marriage."
"Yes, Mother," Yǐn Lìhuá replied softly.
"There is still no heir."
The words landed cleanly, without embellishment.
Yǐn Lìhuá lowered her eyes. "This is my failure."
The Dowager Queen sighed. "The throne cannot remain uncertain. If you cannot bear a child, then concubines must be brought into the palace."
Silence followed.
After a brief moment, Yǐn Lìhuá spoke. "I will speak with His Majesty. I will follow his decision."
The Dowager Queen studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. You are a sensible queen."
The walk back to her chambers felt longer than usual.
Stone paths echoed beneath her steps. Servants bowed, unaware of the weight pressing against her chest. Her posture remained straight, her pace steady.
Only when she reached her room did she pause.
Her fingers tightened against the silk of her sleeve.
Concubines.
She had always known this possibility existed. From the moment she entered the palace as a bride from a small kingdom, she had known what was expected of her.
Queens did not have the right to jealousy.
Queens did not complain.
They endured.
Yǐn Lìhuá lifted her head slowly, her expression smoothing back into calm restraint.
That evening, when Wèi Zhèn returned, she would ask him.
Not as Rouyan.
Not as a woman in love.
But as Queen Yǐn Lìhuá, wife of the king—bearing a question she already feared the answer to.