Wèi Zhèn returned to the palace as dusk settled over the roofs, the last light of day clinging to the eaves like reluctant gold.
Queen Yǐn Lìhuá was already waiting.
She stood inside his chamber, posture straight, hands folded neatly before her. The lanterns had been lit, their glow soft and warm, chasing away the chill that lingered from the stone floors. When he entered, she stepped forward instinctively, as she had done for five years.
"You're back," she said quietly.
He nodded, fatigue faintly visible in his eyes. "Court dragged on."
She helped him remove his outer robe, her fingers practiced and gentle as she unfastened the clasps. The scent of ink and cold air clung to him—proof of a long day spent among ministers and disputes. She draped the robe aside and lifted his lighter garment, adjusting it over his shoulders.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she said, as if discussing household matters, "I was summoned today."
His gaze flicked to her in the polished bronze mirror. "Summoned?"
"By the Dowager Queen."
Her fingers paused briefly at his collar before continuing. "She asked… about an heir."
The words fell carefully, each one measured.
Wèi Zhèn's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. He said nothing, allowing her to continue.
"She said that if I am unable to bear one," Yǐn Lìhuá went on, her voice steady though her breath was not, "then concubines should be recruited."
Her hands stilled.
The silence between them deepened, heavy and expectant.
He turned to face her fully now, studying her face as if searching for something—hesitation, refusal, pain. But she stood composed, eyes lowered, expression calm.
"What do you want?" he asked finally.
She lifted her gaze.
"I will follow your decision," she replied. "I only came to inform you."
He frowned slightly.
This was not what he had expected. Not a plea. Not resistance. Not even sadness, outwardly.
He disliked the thought immediately—concubines, inner court unrest, forced intimacy born of duty rather than choice. Yet he saw no demand in her eyes, no request she wished him to refuse.
So he said the words he thought were safest.
"Do as you please."
The moment they left his mouth, her fingers tightened against his robe.
Just for an instant.
The fabric creased beneath her grip before she loosened it at once, stepping back as if nothing had happened. Her face remained serene, but the movement had been too quick, too restrained.
Wèi Zhèn saw it.
He said nothing.
Turning away, he walked toward the inner desk, putting distance between them—distance he had always believed was necessary.
They ate dinner quietly.
The dishes were familiar, his preferences remembered down to the smallest detail. He noticed, as he always did, but did not comment.
When he rose to leave, she stood as well.
"I will be leaving at dawn tomorrow," he said. "There's a dam in the northern province that needs inspection. I'll be gone for fifteen days."
She nodded. "I'll have everything prepared."
He hesitated, then added, "Don't overwork yourself."
She inclined her head. "Safe travels, Your Majesty."
He paused at the doorway, as if something lingered unsaid—but then the doors closed behind him.
Yǐn Lìhuá remained standing long after he left.
Only when the lanterns burned lower did she finally sit down, her hands resting in her lap, fingers slowly curling inward.
Fifteen days.
Plenty of time, she thought, for silence to grow heavier.
And for words never meant to wound to do exactly that.