It was supposed to be like that.
Simple.
She just needed to wait.
Wait, like she always had. Wait like she'd been taught to—quietly, obediently, faithfully. He would come back. He always came back. That's what he said. That's what he swore with his lips pressed to her temple and his hands warm on her belly.
He promised.
And for a while, that had been enough. The nights passed with the rhythm of his memory—her hand on her stomach, whispering to their child the same words he left her with. Two more months. Just two. She could survive two months without him. She had before.
But now—
Now something was wrong.
So wrong.
The pain struck like a knife, deep and low, ripping through her spine and curling into her womb. She'd been sitting by the window, watching the dusk settle in violet bruises over the garden, when the first wave hit her like a hammer. Her hand snapped to her stomach, breath caught in her throat. And then she felt it.
Warm.
Wet.
Too warm. Too wet.
Lily looked down and saw blood blooming across the front of her nightgown—dark, angry, alive.
No.
Her body froze. Mind blank. Then chaos.
A choked sound left her mouth—barely a whisper, barely a scream. Her knees buckled as she stumbled from the chair, one hand bracing the wall, the other cradling her belly like she could hold the life inside her from slipping out.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway.
"Y-your Majesty!"
Colla's voice cracked as she came sprinting through the doorway, eyes widening in horror as they landed on Lily—half-collapsed, blood trailing down her legs, staining the marble like war.
Lily looked at her, wide-eyed, trembling, pain lancing up her spine in sharp, electric bursts. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Only the broken shape of a name.
Yen.
-----
They were on their way back to the palace. Almost there.
The war was behind them now. The sky was clear. The scent of the fields was fresh with spring. Yen rode tall on his steed, the reins loose in one hand, while the other tucked small wildflowers into the folds of his robes—lavender, lilies, little white ones he didn't know the name of. All of them for her.
For Lily.
He was humming again—her lullaby. The same gentle melody he sang to her belly every night before he left. Soft. Repetitive. Like a promise made flesh in music. There was something boyish about him in that moment. Casual. Light. Like a man coming home, not from bloodshed, but from some harmless journey—because in his mind, it was over. The worst was over.
Arkon watched him in silence. His jaw tense. His fingers twitching.
That was when the messenger crow landed on his shoulder.
The seal on the note was Colla's. His heart sank even before he read the words.
> The Empress had a miscarriage.
No ceremony. No pleasantries. Just death wrapped in ink.
Arkon crumpled the paper slowly, like it might vanish if he crushed it hard enough. Then he looked at Yen—still smiling, still tucking flowers into his belt like a fool in love.
He wanted to tell him. He didn't know how.
So instead, he stepped closer and tapped him on the back.
Yen turned, humming tapering off mid-note. One brow lifted in quiet question.
"...Faster," Arkon said. His voice was level, betraying nothing. "Her Majesty must be waiting."
And that was all Yen needed to hear.
His smile widened.
He clicked his tongue, spurred his horse forward, and the company surged ahead. But Yen didn't wait. As soon as the palace came into view—its towering gates like arms waiting to welcome him home—he dismounted mid-gallop, boots hitting the ground with a thud. He ran, flowers falling from his robes like petals marking his trail.
He sprinted through the corridors, heart pounding harder with each step.
Lily. Lily.
His instincts began to twitch. Something was wrong. The air tasted off—bitter at the back of his throat. Servants scattered at his arrival, bowing low, too low, their eyes refusing to meet his. No cheers. No warm welcomes. Just hesitation. Just fear.
His brows furrowed.
His ears twitched.
His nostrils flared.
Blood.
Not old blood. Not iron from battlefields.
Fresh blood. Familiar blood. Lily's blood.
His gut twisted. That same sick coil he'd been ignoring for days during the ride back—it now bloomed into full panic.
He ran faster.
The halls blurred around him. People parted like shadows. He didn't speak. Couldn't. His lungs felt full of smoke.
And then he saw it—his chamber doors flung wide. Voices shouting. Frantic.
He burst through.
What he saw stopped the world.
Lily lay sprawled on their bed, her face deathly pale against the blood-soaked sheets. Her hair clung to her forehead with sweat. Her nightgown, ripped and drenched, stuck to her skin like a second wound. She wasn't moving.
The sheets—gods, the sheets.
They looked like they'd been soaked in war.
"Lily," he breathed, the word cracking apart in his mouth. He staggered forward, blind to everything but her.
Her stomach—flat. Too flat.
No.
He turned sharply.
Colla stood nearby, arms wrapped around something small. Her cheeks were wet, and she couldn't speak—her throat clogged with sobs.
Yen's gaze snapped downward. To the bundle in her arms.
A child.
No. No. No.
He turned back to Lily, dropping to his knees by her side.
"Lily—wake up, I have your flowers," he whispered, voice shaking. He lifted her gently, gathering her in his arms, blood seeping into his sleeves. His hand smoothed over her sweat-soaked face. "I picked them up myself."
The physician's voice came from behind, measured and cautious. "Your Majesty, the Empress must remain still—she's lost too much blood—"
But Yen didn't let go.
He rocked her. His hands trembled as they tried to clean the blood from between her thighs, trying to undo what had already happened. "No, no, no," he kept muttering, a litany of denial.
Arkon was at his side now, quiet as stone. He placed a firm hand on Yen's shoulder.
"Yen."
The name was all it took.
Yen stilled. His jaw clenched. His eyes burned. Slowly, with shaking limbs, he lowered Lily back onto the pillows. His body screamed to stay near her, but something heavier called him to turn.
To Colla.
She stood frozen, weeping openly. When he reached out his arms, she moved without a word.
And into his grasp, she placed the child.
Yen looked down.
A daughter.
So small. Wrapped in white cloth that was already soaking through with red at the edges. Her skin was pale, but her lips were slightly parted like she might still sigh if he just waited. She had Lily's mouth. Her tiny fingers were curled like she'd been trying to reach for something—someone—before it all ended.
Yen fell to his knees, the child still in his arms.
He didn't weep. Not at first. He only stared. Like if he looked long enough, she might open her eyes and cry. Might reach for him. Might breathe.
She never did.