Lily stirred.
A quiet groan escaped her lips as her lashes fluttered open, lids heavy with exhaustion. Her body felt strange—empty, hollow, foreign. Her hands flew instinctively to her belly.
But the curve was gone.
Her breath hitched. Fingertips pressed into skin that was flat. Cold. Wrong.
"No…" she whispered, panic swelling like bile in her throat. Her eyes darted around, wild and disoriented—until they landed on him.
He was there.
Yen sat slumped in a chair beside her, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between his legs. His eyes—usually so sharp, so sure—were bloodshot, rimmed with red, sunken and dry like he'd long since run out of tears. Dirt smudged his face. His robes were stained—blood, ash, and soil crusted into the fabric.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't left.
"Yen," Lily croaked, relief and terror colliding in her voice. "Yen…" Her voice cracked as she reached for him, trembling.
But before she could speak again, he cut in.
"Dead." His voice was flat, distant, scraped raw. "It was a daughter."
Lily froze.
The air punched out of her lungs.
Then—
She tried to sit up, but her body betrayed her. Agony flared up her spine and she collapsed back into the pillows with a sharp cry, her chest heaving as a sob tore from her throat. She covered her face with both hands, as if shielding herself could undo the truth.
"No," she whimpered. "No, no, no—"
Yen didn't move. He just stared at her, his lips slightly parted like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"It's no one's fault," he said quietly, like he was reciting a spell. "No one." His head shook slowly. "No one." He repeated it like a mantra, as if saying it enough could make it real.
"I was almost there…" Lily choked through the sobs, her voice barely a whisper. "I waited—I waited for you—"
Yen's shoulders curled forward. His fingers dug into his knees. He looked like a man on the edge of breaking.
"The physician," he said, each word thick with guilt. "He told me you were stressed. Exhausted. I kept telling you to eat, to rest, to sleep—" His voice cracked. "We were warned. You were always fragile during pregnancy. I knew. I should've—"
He swallowed the words.
"I'm sorry."
That did it. Lily broke. Her sobs turned jagged, almost painful to hear. She cried so hard it sounded like something inside her was tearing.
Yen moved then—swiftly, silently. He climbed onto the bed and gathered her into his arms. She didn't resist. Her fingers curled around his jaw like a lifeline, her face pressed hard against his chest.
"I won't leave you again," he whispered.
And she wept harder.
His embrace tightened. He held her like she was the last thing tethering him to the world.
At some point, he carried her—still trembling, still crying—to the bath. He stepped into the water fully clothed, uncaring of the soaked fabric weighing him down. One by one, with gentle fingers, he undressed her, then himself, until their skin touched beneath the warm water.
She was limp in his arms, still sobbing.
Yen picked up a cloth, soaked it, and began scrubbing the blood from her skin. Every inch. The dried streaks down her legs, the stains on her arms, the dark crust beneath her fingernails. His touch was tender but shaking, and his eyes—his eyes wouldn't stop staring at her face. Like if he looked away for even a second, she might vanish.
And when she didn't stop crying, when her tears kept falling without end, he finally wrapped both arms around her and held her close.
His voice was low. Shaky. Unhinged.
"From now on," he muttered into her wet hair, "you eat. You sleep. You walk only when I say. You do as I say."
He pulled back, just enough to look her in the eyes—his wide and trembling, hers bloodshot and glassy.
"Understand?"
There was no command in his voice. No threat. Only desperation.
He was begging her to live.
-----
"I buried her."
That was all Yen said. Nothing more. No explanations. No lies to soften the blow.
And Lily never asked again.
She just… mourned.
Silently. Religiously.
Every night, like clockwork—once the candles were snuffed, once the halls quieted and the silk drapes stopped rustling—she would sink into that same, fragile sorrow. The kind that didn't wail or scream. The kind that just sat there, hollowing her out from the inside.
A week passed.
The palace remained still. Chilly. Too clean. Too quiet.
Morning light streamed through the tall, frost-glazed windows. Lily stood beside the dressing mirror once more, her fingers deftly fastening each golden clasp on Yen's coat with mechanical precision. Her hands didn't tremble. Her eyes didn't wander. She didn't forget a single button or misalign the ceremonial sash.
There were no tickle punishments.
He hadn't teased her once this week.
"Say it," he murmured, as he always did.
Her lips parted without resistance.
"I love you."
Not a whisper. Not a plea. Just… flat obedience.
Yen leaned down. She tilted her chin up, eyes glassy, letting him take her mouth with his. The kiss was soft—deliberate. He tasted the silence on her lips. The absence of her.
When he pulled back, he opened his arms.
"Come."
Without hesitation, she stepped forward. Into him.
Her body folded into his hold like it always did.
Her cheek pressed against the warm fabric over his chest, and for a moment, he closed his eyes. His arms tightened around her, his breath fanning into her hair.
"Stay here, hm?" he whispered, planting a kiss on her temple.
He let her go.
He walked past her, heading for the door—but something, something, made him glance back.
She wasn't watching him leave.
She was walking toward the armchair in the corner, the one beside the hearth. A soft light touched the bundle draped over the armrest—a half-finished baby blanket, delicate and pale blue, its yarn curled like forgotten threads of hope. She knelt beside it. Touched it.
And then, like she was speaking to someone who wasn't there—
Someone who should have been there—
She whispered, "Daddy's coming back for lunch."
Yen stopped in his tracks.
His brow twitched.
His eyes locked on the blanket. Then shifted to her—her face bowed in calm reverence, her fingertips gently smoothing the yarn as if brushing a child's cheek.
His lips parted. A breath caught in his throat.
But no words came.
He looked at the blanket again. A beat too long.
And then, without a word, he turned.
His hand found the heavy brass doorknob. Gripped it too tightly.
The doors groaned softly as he closed them behind him.
Arkon was already waiting in the hall, stoic as ever. He bowed without speaking, stepping aside.
Yen exhaled—short, strained. The sound of someone who'd just walked away from something bleeding but still breathing.
Then he walked.
Arkon followed.
And the door behind them stood shut, muffling the echo of a woman talking to a ghost.