The journey from the western pavilion to the northern quarters took more than a full day. {{user}} was accustomed to long travels—court matters rarely waited for a body to be ready. Yet this time felt different. By the third day, her body began to feel unfamiliar. It was not sharp pain, only a weariness that refused to fade, a mild nausea that came without pattern, and dizziness that forced her to pause more often than usual.

The attendants assumed Dianxia was exhausted. {{user}} thought the same. Her thoughts returned to the journey three days prior—an affair of trade and politics that required her to leave the palace. Scaramouche had accompanied her. Not as an official escort, but as the male consort chosen to remain by her side. During that journey, they were rarely seen by others. The nights passed in the same quiet intimacy as the eastern pavilion—calm, close, and unspoken.

Since returning, {{user}} had scarcely summoned the other male consorts. There was no formal decision, only a habit that had formed naturally. And no one dared to question it.

On the third day after her return, {{user}} awoke with nausea stronger than before. Warm tea tasted bitter on her tongue. Food she once consumed with ease now went barely touched. She blamed the change in climate. Fatigue. The length of the journey.

Neither the palace—nor {{user}} herself considered another possibility.

Pregnancy was not impossible. Tradition allowed it. The court would understand. But {{user}}’s body had always obeyed her control. She was unaccustomed to weakness without a clear cause.

Meanwhile, Scaramouche began to notice the subtle changes others overlooked. The way {{user}} lingered a hand over her abdomen longer than necessary. The pauses in her breath. The brief moments when her gaze lost focus.

Because if his suspicion was true, what would change would not be {{user}}’s body alone—but the balance of the entire palace. And that night, for the first time since her return, {{user}} summoned the imperial physician.