Days passed, and the harem had settled—yet the King never went there.
From her window each night, Queen Yǐn Lìhuá watched as lamps were lit, then extinguished, one after another. Nothing ever followed. Silence returned to the western wing as it always had.
One morning, as she sat in the garden admiring the winter-blooming flowers, a servant from the Dowager Queen's palace approached.
The Queen was summoned again.
The Dowager Queen's palace was quiet when Yǐn Lìhuá arrived, the air heavy with incense and unspoken expectation. The older woman sat upright on her couch, gaze sharp despite the years.
"He still has not visited any of the concubines," the Dowager Queen said without preamble.
Yǐn Lìhuá lowered her head. "Yes, Mother."
"This is not proper," the Dowager continued. "The inner court whispers. As Queen, you must take responsibility. Speak to him."
"I understand," Yǐn Lìhuá replied.
Her voice was calm.
Her heart was not.
That evening, during dinner, she spoke.
"The Dowager Queen asked about the arrangements," she said lightly, as if discussing the weather or household accounts. "She is… concerned."
Wèi Zhèn's hand paused over his bowl.
"I see," he said after a moment.
She said nothing more.
Neither did he.
The next day, Wèi Zhèn went to the Dowager Queen's palace himself.
"You should not place this burden on her," he said firmly. "She has done nothing wrong."
The Dowager Queen frowned. "The throne needs an heir."
"I will handle matters of the throne," he replied. "Do not force my wife into this."
His mother's eyes hardened.
"Wife?" she asked sharply. "Have you ever treated her as one? Can you not see—she is not the one forcing herself. You are. She fulfills her duties too well. What burdens her is you."
"I know what I am doing," he said, his voice controlled. "Do not trouble her again."
For a long moment, they stared at one another.
Then the Dowager Queen reached out, lifting her hand toward his cheek—not using his title.
"Yan."
His expression changed.
Slowly, he exhaled and gently took her hand away. "I am not the Yan you knew, Mother," he said quietly. "I am the King of this kingdom."
He paused, his voice lowering.
"I was forced into a loveless marriage years ago—not by her, but by duty. I will not let her suffer for it any longer."
The Dowager Queen fell silent.
Then he turned and left.
After he was gone, the Dowager Queen summoned her servant.
"Arrange a meeting with one of the concubines," she ordered coldly.
"The Queen must not know."
That night, Yǐn Lìhuá could not sleep.
She sat by the window, gazing at the layered palace roofs, thinking of him—of the kingdom he carried on his shoulders, of the choices he never allowed himself to make.
A soft knock came.
A shadow slipped inside.
A folded letter was placed into her hand.
Her eyes scanned the message once—then sharpened.
Something was wrong.
Her fingers closed slowly around the paper.
Wèi Lán.
At last, the unease she had long felt took shape.
And the silence before the storm finally broke.