The sun had barely crowned the capital when Yen entered the council chamber.
The grand hall fell quiet the moment he stepped through its arched threshold. The shadows thinned from his path as if they feared touching him. His presence was gravity—dense, silent, and undeniable.
Twelve chairs surrounded the crescent-shaped marble table, and all were filled. Ministers, generals, envoys from the provinces—all silenced mid-whisper, their parchment scrolls and polished rings stilled under his gaze. A few had risen to bow. The rest followed a beat late.
"Sit," Yen said, voice calm.
They obeyed like ripples following a thrown stone.
He moved without hurry. And yet, it was fast. Efficient. Deliberate. His robes barely made a sound, but the silver chain around his waist swayed with each step like a pendulum measuring his patience.
The first scroll was already extended toward him, a financial report from the coastal provinces. He didn't need to read it. He had already reviewed the contents three nights ago.
"Approve the canal reconstruction," he said. "Triple the budget for defense placement along the southern trade route. Have General Vos send scouts. Quiet ones."
"Yes, Your Majesty," came the immediate reply.
He didn't look up. His eyes scanned maps and numbers, but his mind was elsewhere—already in the next province, the next outcome, the next consequence.
He flipped through war reports with the same ease someone might flip a book for leisure. His attention was a scalpel—sharp, exacting, cold. None dared interrupt. Even the ministers who had once believed themselves bold now only spoke when addressed.
And when he turned to them—slowly, measuredly—he didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"You've been hoarding grain," he said to the Minister of Agriculture.
The man froze. "I—I assure you, Your Majesty—"
"I didn't ask for assurances. I asked for integrity." Yen's voice held no anger. Only weight.
The man swallowed. Behind him, a shadow moved against the far pillar.
"Confiscate it," Yen said, eyes already on the next scroll. "Let the public think it's a gift of generosity. Rewrite the report before noon."
The man bowed so low he nearly hit the table.
Yen continued without pause. Meeting after meeting. Order after order. There was no delay, no indecision. His empire moved because he pushed it forward like a machine, oiled by obedience, silence, and fear.
But even in this room, amidst maps and ministers, one thought persisted in the back of his mind.
Lily.
His wife's face flickered beneath every breath he took.
The sound of her voice. The way she used to interrupt him. The way she no longer did.
He blinked. Controlled. Contained. The meeting continued.
Hours passed before he finally stood, chairs scraping back in practiced submission. He dismissed them with a flick of his hand and made his way down the corridor with two guards trailing behind him.
They didn't speak. They knew better.
He reached his office—tall doors carved with the imperial seal. The guards remained outside as he stepped in and shut the door behind him with a muted click.
It was colder here. The scent of ink and polished wood lingered like memory. His desk was already stacked with reports, his schedule arranged in tidy, precise rows. Two letters waited with the seal of the Southern Court. Another bore Lily's insignia.
Yen's eyes lingered on that last one for a moment too long.
Then he moved.
Fast. Efficient.
He skimmed, signed, corrected. With every stroke of the quill, he built the empire higher—fortified it, sharpened it, made it bend toward his will. The world outside could rage and rot, but within these walls, there was only his order.
There were no wasted motions. No hesitation. His shadows, even now, flicked like blades along the walls, reacting to his breath.
But when he looked out the window, across the gardens below, where Lily now roamed…
His hands paused.
She was in white. Walking slowly. Alone. Her hair loose, her eyes tilted upward. There was sun on her face—but she didn't smile.
Yen watched her from behind the glass. A cold distance between them that not even his power could crush.
He clenched his fist once.
Then returned to work.
Because even obsession had a schedule.
-----
Evening settled like ink bleeding through parchment, thick and quiet. The halls were dimmed with warm lantern light, and the scent of jasmine oil lingered in the air like a ghost refusing to leave. Yen sat across from her at the table, still dressed in half his council robes, sleeves rolled up, collar loosened. His eyes never left her.
"Eat," he said gently, but the gentleness was taut—thin like a blade's edge. He dipped the spoon into the stew and raised it again, steadily, toward her lips.
"I ate snacks," Lily said quietly, barely meeting his gaze. "I'm full."
He didn't speak. Instead, he leaned forward and dragged her chair closer with one hand, the legs scraping softly against the stone floor. His other hand steadied the spoon. He brought it to her lips again, unbothered. Unyielding.
"Yen—"
He didn't flinch. His expression didn't change. Just a small flick of the wrist, urging.
Reluctantly, she parted her lips and ate. He fed her slowly. Methodically. Bite by bite. Not rushing—but not stopping either. As if this were not nourishment, but obedience.
When the bowl was empty, he set the spoon down with care. Not a single drop spilled.
Afterward, he reached across the table and took her hand in his, intertwining their fingers with eerie tenderness. His grip was warm and firm, like a tether. He said nothing as he led her through the corridors toward their chambers, their joined hands swinging ever so slightly with each step.
The moment the door closed behind them, Yen was already undoing the fastenings of her robe.
She stood still as he undressed her piece by piece, his fingers slow and reverent, dragging the fabric down her shoulders. She didn't meet his gaze. He didn't ask for it.
In the bath, the silence stretched on. The water was warm, scented with rose and sandalwood. Steam curled around their skin like invisible hands. Yen washed her body with a soft cloth, trailing it down her spine, across her arms, behind her knees. His touch was thorough, unhurried. Almost worshipful.
Lily lifted her arms when prompted. Closed her eyes when his fingers ran through her hair.
They dried in silence. He pressed a towel into her back as he kissed her shoulder. His lips trailed up to her neck, then her cheek, then finally her mouth. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of tea and clove.
In bed, it didn't stop. He wrapped around her like he was starving—kissing her again and again, nose buried in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin like it grounded him. His fingers roamed lower, ghosting down her sides, across her hips. And then—
He paused.
The scent of her menstrual blood was faint but unmistakable.
Yen's nostrils flared. His lips stilled on her shoulder.
But he continued anyway.
Lily's body stiffened when he moved again—touching her, slipping a hand between her thighs despite the evidence of her bleeding. He didn't seem to care. Or maybe he did, but not enough to stop.
She scrambled, her palms pressing against his chest. "Y-Yen," she gasped.
His golden eyes blinked slowly down at her, wide and glassy with something—want or madness or both. That same madness she'd grown to recognize, that devoured all reason and blurred his understanding of boundaries. The same look he had when he started controlling everything—when he snapped, grinned, and whispered twisted sweetness into her mouth as if it were prayer.
"I don't…" Her voice trembled. She cupped his face, desperate to anchor him. "I don't want it. You promised… when I'm on my cycle, you said you wouldn't."
His gaze didn't leave hers, but the heat in it faded. Just a flicker—but enough.
His head tilted slightly to the side, almost like a curious animal pausing in its prowl. And then, after a long moment, his hand withdrew. Slowly. His touch left her skin, and she let out a quiet breath she didn't know she was holding.
Because no matter how far he fell into his own madness—he still, somehow, kept his promises.
He shifted beside her, pulling her against his chest instead. One arm wrapped tightly around her waist, the other resting possessively over her stomach. He nuzzled into her hair, breathing her in again.
No more words.
No more touches.