After leaving the iron-scented training grounds,
Di Yan returned to the innermost chambers of the palace—his private residence.
Unlike the killing intent that lingered outside, this place was warm and heavy with incense. The air carried a languid stillness, almost dreamlike.
His gaze was immediately drawn to the figure seated beside the bed.
She was a woman of gentle elegance.
Long black hair flowed smoothly over her shoulders, a few loose strands resting against her pale forehead. Her skin resembled fine porcelain—flawless, luminous. Her features were delicate, almost painterly, yet a faint sorrow shadowed her brow, as though she bore the weight of too many unspoken burdens.
She wore a loose, light-colored kimono that draped softly over her mature figure. The fabric outlined her form with quiet grace rather than bold display.
At that moment, she sat with her head lowered, slender fingers guiding a needle through dark cloth. She was sewing a robe—clearly sized for a young man.
Her expression was focused, maternal.
Yet beneath that calm lay a trace of grief.
Uchiha Mikoto.
Once the wife of the Uchiha clan head.
When she heard footsteps, she startled slightly and looked up. Upon recognizing him, she quickly set aside her needlework and rose to her feet.
Hands folded before her, she bowed gently.
"Your Majesty."
Her posture was refined—but carried the ingrained restraint of someone long accustomed to yielding.
Di Yan stepped forward and lightly lifted her by the shoulders. In the same motion, he drew her into an embrace, as naturally as though it were routine.
He lowered his head, voice softened.
"Mikoto… what troubles you today?"
His fingers brushed the faint crease between her brows.
For a brief second, her body stiffened.
Then it relaxed.
She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes clouded with sorrow.
"I'm worried about Sasuke."
Her voice trembled despite her effort to remain composed.
"Ever since he left Konoha… since he followed Orochimaru… there has been no word."
"He's still so young. I don't know what hardships he's facing…"
Her words faltered. Her eyes reddened.
A mother's worry was the deepest wound.
Di Yan's gaze flickered with calculation—but his expression remained warm.
"Do not worry," he said gently. "I have informants watching Orochimaru's movements."
"Sasuke is alive. He is growing stronger."
"When the time is right, he will return."
His certainty offered fragile reassurance.
Mikoto nodded faintly, resting her head against his chest, drawing comfort from proximity more than words.
But soon she felt his hand move along her waist and back—subtle, deliberate.
She trembled slightly, cheeks flushing.
"Your Majesty… you are the Emperor now. Must you still behave as you did back then?"
"Back then?"
He tightened his embrace, leaning closer.
"And what time are you referring to?"
Her face turned crimson.
"When you were staying in our home…"
She lowered her eyes, voice barely audible.
"You were just as restless."
He smiled faintly.
Yes.
He remembered.
—
Years ago, his position had been precarious.
Born of a low-ranking attendant, unwanted by the former Daimyo, he had grown up in isolation.
Opportunity never came unbidden.
He had to create it.
Thus, he requested to study in Konoha.
And more specifically—to reside in the home of Uchiha Fugaku.
The political implications made the request acceptable.
So he entered the Uchiha district.
By day, he maintained the image of a noble youth among academy students—Kurenai Yuhi, Obito Uchiha, Kakashi Hatake.
By night, he observed.
Learned.
Waited.
When war came, many of his peers were sent to the battlefield.
Fugaku and Itachi departed as well.
The vast Uchiha residence was left with only Mikoto and young Sasuke.
And him.
A restless youth with ambition.
He had sought power.
The Sharingan.
The Uchiha bloodline.
In his impatience, he made choices he could never undo.
That night marked a turning point neither of them could escape.
In the aftermath, guilt and confusion weighed heavily upon Mikoto.
Di Yan had stepped into that vulnerability—offering reassurance, companionship, understanding.
Gradually, dependence replaced resistance.
What began as turmoil evolved into entanglement.
—
Returning to the present, he tightened his hold slightly and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"How can you blame me?" he murmured.
"Blame your beauty."
"You make restraint difficult."
Mikoto's lashes trembled as she closed her eyes.
In this gilded cage, she lived suspended between roles.
Mother.
Companion.
Bound by past choices that neither of them could undo.