Colla stood frozen in the hallway, a tray of food trembling slightly in her hands—the one he had ordered. Her breath hitched as she watched Yen carry Lily in his arms, not like a prince rescuing his bride, but like a man cradling the last remnant of his sanity. Without a word, Colla stepped aside, spine rigid, eyes downcast. There was nothing she could do now. He had decided.
Yen didn't slow down as he entered the royal kitchens. His boots echoed off the polished stone, and the room stilled the moment he walked in. Steam hissed from simmering pots, but even the flames seemed to shrink in his presence.
"What do you want to eat?" he asked Lily softly, not even bothering to look around as he dragged a chair with his foot and set her down like glassware—delicate, fragile, breakable. He crouched before her, fixing the tilt of her sleeves, adjusting the way her legs bent—like a doll misplaced on its shelf.
He was still wearing his full regal robes. Crimson and black. Gold-threaded embroidery still dusted with dirt from the grave.
The cooks and maids stood silently, watching from behind counters and hanging pans, unsure if they were witnessing devotion… or delusion.
"Leave us." Yen's voice was a blade disguised as a whisper. "I'll cook for my wife."
They obeyed instantly. No bow. No fuss. Just a quiet exodus like rats abandoning a ship that hadn't yet begun to sink—only smolder.
"Shrimp?" he offered, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smile, already peeling garlic with steady hands. "It's your favorite."
Lily stood from the chair, shaky, unsure if she should speak or run.
"Sit. Down."
It wasn't loud. But the tone made the copper pots tremble.
She sat back down like gravity itself had shifted.
"I'll eat now," she said, trying to regain some footing, some sense of self. "I'll take care of myself. You don't have to force me."
Yen hummed, tilting his head slightly, his back still turned. "Hm? Let me take care of you." His voice was low, velvet-wrapped steel. "Can't let a stubborn wife neglect herself."
Then, under his breath, so quiet it could've been a thought:
"You can't even conceive properly."
The knife didn't stop moving. Neither did his breath. But Lily did.
The air left her lungs as if he'd knocked the wind out of her from across the room. That single sentence splintered something in her chest. Her hand curled over her stomach before she could stop it.
"...Was it really my fault?" she asked, her voice fragile as glass.
Yen snorted softly, still peeling shrimp with terrifying efficiency. "No, no. Not anyone's fault." But his tone was bitter. Not toward her. Not even toward fate. Toward himself. "I just have regrets."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, gentle and misplaced, like flowers on a battlefield.
"But don't worry," he whispered. "I'm here now."
The lullaby began again. A low hum, warbling through the air like smoke from a dying candle. That same cursed lullaby she used to find comfort in, now a siren song pulling her under.
His hands moved faster. Garlic. Shrimp. Oil sizzling. The scent hit her like a storm—garlic, soy, and something sweet, and her stomach betrayed her with a growl so loud it echoed.
Yen paused. His grin returned.
He scooped rice and plated the shrimp gently, setting it beside her with the care of a man offering his heart on porcelain. She stared. Hesitated. Then, slowly, picked up her spoon.
A bite.
Then another.
Then another.
Yen watched with the reverence of a starving priest seeing a goddess eat. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, satisfied.
But the moment her spoon scraped an untouched clump of rice, he stiffened.
"Finish it."
"I can't," she said, voice shaking. "I'm already full."
His hand reached for the spoon.
Panic flared in her chest. She grabbed it first, shoving the last portion into her mouth with haste. It hurt going down. Her throat strained. She chased it with water, swallowing shame like bile.
"There. See?" Yen said softly. "You eat. Not everyone has the privilege."
He cleared the plates. His hands were steady again. Gentle. Possessive. He took her hand into his.
They walked side by side through the kitchen's quiet emptiness. But her steps began to slow as he spoke.
"I'll handle your office. You'll no longer attend court. But you can still host parties. Manage events. Formal gatherings." His grip on her hand tightened as they turned into the main corridor. "I will restrict your vicinity to the west garden. You'll have breakfast, lunch, and dinner with me. Starting now."
Lily's breath caught.
She stumbled slightly. "You're caging me," she whispered.
He didn't stop walking. Didn't even blink. "Control makes it perfect."
"Yen…" her voice cracked. "You're not a dictator."
He glanced at her, lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "Maybe I am."
She looked up at him—the boy who used to give her wildflowers after sword practice, who promised to love her forever under the willow tree. Who smiled with the sincerity of someone who believed he could fix the world just by holding her hand.
But now that smile had warped. Now it held too much knowing. Too much loss. Too much power.
Maybe it was in those promises that it all began.
The descent.
His fall into madness.
And her slow drowning in it.