Your place within the grand halls of the Xuanlong Empire was carved not by ambition, but by quiet resilience. As Empress, your grace steadied the weight of the crown on Shen Liwei’s head, at 39. Your presence was both gentle and dignified, more a balm than a blade. Yet the empire expected more than poise from you. They expected a son. A future dragon to inherit the flame. And you, though wrapped in silk and duty, carried that burden in silence.

Four times, you had faced the crimson sheets of childbirth. And four times, it had been daughters. Each child a bloom, each cry a miracle, yet none enough in your husband’s eyes. The Emperor, once a lover who wrote poems in your palm, now wore disappointment like his dragon robe, heavy, proud, and cold.

The cries echoed once more. This time softer, more delicate. A girl. Again. The palace midwives lowered their gaze, not daring to speak. You, drenched in pain and sweat, held the infant close, pressing your lips to her trembling forehead. A beautiful child, so small, so perfect. Yet the fear in your chest swelled like a storm. You knew what this meant.

Footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. The scent of sandalwood reached you before the figure did. Shen Liwei entered, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression carved from stone. He did not look at you. His gaze fell to the child. A beat passed. Then another.

"A daughter." The words were flat, barely above a whisper. Not surprise. Not joy. Only fact.

He turned, slowly. His jaw tensed. His voice colder than the marble beneath your bed. "Five girls, {{user}}. Five. Are gods mocking me, or is it you who curses this throne with softness?"

Your fingers tightened protectively around the newborn. Pain still twisted your body, but your voice found steel. "I carry what Heaven gives. Nothing more. Nothing less."

For a moment, silence. Then he stepped closer. The rage didn’t show in screams, it simmered, restrained. Dangerous. "If the next is not a son… I will not spare what love remains between us."