The morning mist had not yet lifted when Wèi Zhèn prepared to depart.
The palace gates stood open, horses already waiting, banners stirring gently in the cool air. Ministers and guards gathered in neat formation, ready for the journey north.
"There's no need for you to come," he said when he noticed her.
Queen Yǐn Lìhuá stood at the steps, dressed simply, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. Her hair was tied back, unadorned save for a single pin.
"I know," she replied softly. "I still wanted to see you off."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "I'll return soon."
"Safe travels," she said.
He mounted his horse without further words. As the procession moved forward, she remained standing, watching until the banners disappeared beyond the palace walls.
Only then did she turn back.
That same morning, the Queen summoned her attendants.
Preparations for the recruitment of concubines began quietly, efficiently—just as all matters in the inner palace were meant to be handled. She discussed requirements, lineage, age, conduct. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.
Later, alone at her desk, she picked up her brush and wrote the announcement herself.
The words were formal. Detached.
Each stroke of ink landed precisely where it should, as if her hand no longer belonged to her heart.
When the letter was sealed and handed to a servant, she dismissed them with a nod.
She did not turn away immediately.
Instead, she stood by the window, watching the servant disappear down the stone path, the paper carrying her decision far beyond the palace walls.
That was when the memory surfaced.
Unbidden.
Unforgiving.
She had worn red that night.
The silk had been heavy, layered, unfamiliar against her skin. Candles burned bright, their flames trembling as her hands trembled with them. She had sat on the edge of the bed, fingers clenched tightly together beneath her sleeves, heart pounding with anticipation and fear she did not yet know how to name.
When Wèi Zhèn entered, she stood at once.
He had come closer.
Close enough that she could hear his breathing.
She remembered bracing herself—remembered thinking this was what was expected of her. What she had been prepared for since childhood.
But instead, he reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small blade.
Before she could speak, he cut his palm.
Just slightly.
Blood welled instantly.
He pressed it onto the cloth laid out for that purpose—the cloth meant to prove her purity to the court.
"This is for appearances," he said calmly.
She remembered staring at him, confused, frozen.
"You will always be protected," he continued. "You will never lose your position as queen. No one will dare touch you."
Then, after a pause—
"But I cannot love you."
His voice had not been cruel.
That was what hurt the most.
He turned and left.
The door closed softly behind him.
Her knees had given out.
She slid down onto the floor, the red silk pooling around her like spilled blood. She cried then—quietly at first, then without restraint, her face buried in her sleeves, shoulders shaking as the candles burned lower and lower.
That night, something inside her broke.
And something else hardened.
She had never cried like that again.
The Queen straightened slowly by the window, the present pulling her back into place.
Her face was calm.
Her hands steady.
She turned away from the memory and returned to her duties—because silence, once learned, was difficult to unlearn.
And because love, once unspoken, learned to survive quietly—or not at all.