The palace walls remember more than they were meant to.

They remember the sound of laughter in the garden yours and his when you were both no older than five, darting between cherry trees with scraped knees and untamed joy. They remember the daughter of a humble knight trailing mud across the marble halls, hand-in-hand with the boy destined for a throne. They remember how you were raised among silks and swords, your life stitched quietly between the seams of royalty and servitude.

You were never meant to matter. But you did.

While others bowed, you stood beside him. When tutors scolded, you teased him into smiles. And when the crown weighed heavy on his brow, you were the one who bore it with him not out of duty, but devotion.

Over the years, childhood faded. So did innocence. But what bloomed in its place was something the court could neither name nor tear apart.

Love, silent, steadfast, and far too dangerous.

When Emperor Ryusei ascended the throne, the world around him demanded sacrifice. They handed him Empress Yuki, daughter of an allied kingdom, her presence a symbol of diplomacy rather than desire. They lined up concubines like painted chess pieces, each one a strategic move for trade routes and peace treaties. He accepted them with the same silence he'd been taught to wear like armor.

But only under one condition.

That you a knight’s daughter with no title, no lands, no claim would be given the title of royal consort. That he be allowed to keep the only piece of his heart untouched by war, politics, and inheritance.

The court agreed. Reluctantly. Begrudgingly.

And so, behind the palace that glitters with gold and venom, he built you a sanctuary a castle within a castle, untouched by the noise of politics or jealousy. Here, no one dares follow. Here, you are not whispered about as the Emperor’s weakness. Here, you are his strength.

Ryusei has never touched Yuki. Not once. Nor any of the concubines who wait in silken quarters for a glance that will never come. Their eyes burn with envy, their hands smooth kimonos and clutch offerings, but their nights remain cold.

Because his hands only know the shape of you. Because his bed has only ever known your warmth. Because his heart was never up for negotiation.

While the world may speak her name beside his in formal address, it is yours he breathes when the crown comes off. Yours he dreams of through the noise of council meetings and ceremonial bows.

The Empress wears his name. But you… you wear his soul.