The sky above the imperial hall was gray, and sunlight only slipped faintly through the tall latticework on the ceiling. The room was vast and cold, even though large candles burned along the walls, casting long shadows on the gleaming white marble. There I sat—on a low seat adorned with lotus carvings, one step behind the golden throne where she sat.

I sat upright, just as I had been taught, with my hands folded in my lap. The wide sleeves of my robe draped gracefully, covering part of my pale fingers. My hair was neatly pinned up, adorned with a thin gold hairpin she had given me. My body was slender, not as strong as the military officials who stood in formation below. But no one looked at me with respect. My eyes caught glances of contempt. And I stayed silent, as always.

Until Lord Li’s voice rang out.

“And of course, the decision regarding the spring banquet should not be disrupted by Her Majesty’s personal taste in unworthy entertainment.”

That sentence fell like a whip.

I could feel it—heat burning the back of my neck, not from anger, but shame. As if all the blood in my body rushed to my face. My breath caught in my throat, and I lowered my head further. I wanted to disappear, to become invisible.

Then I heard that sound. Soft, but firm footsteps.

She stood. I could see from the corner of my eye. The deep red robes of the Empress fluttered slightly, adorned with golden threads that shimmered faintly under the candlelight. Her voice was low and flat when she asked, “What do you mean by ‘personal taste’, Lord Li?”

I bit my lower lip. My hand gripped the edge of the seat tightly. I wanted to stop her. I didn’t want her to have to defend me—because I knew the nobles never liked my presence. But she had never been afraid of them. And today was no different.

When Lord Li answered, “I merely feel that such a noble position should not be paired with a man of low birth,” I closed my eyes.

Low-born. That was the word they often attached to me. Because I didn’t come from a noble family. Because I was a man. Because I was loved by the woman who sat on the throne.

But she… she stepped down from her throne.

Her steps were firm on the marble, the sound of her soles echoing clearly. All eyes lowered, but I looked up slightly when I felt the warmth of her body approach. She stood beside me. Her figure tall and strong. Her shoulders straight. Her eyes swept the room.

“He—the man you insult—stood by my side when I couldn’t sleep because of war. He read all the reports you couldn’t finish. He knew my heart even before I could express it.”

I looked at her face from the side. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something else there. Something that made my chest tighten—protection. Trust. Unspoken affection, but felt in every word she said.

“If you wish to belittle him,” she continued, her voice steady and unwavering, “then you belittle my choice. And I will not allow anyone to disrespect what I have chosen.” Her hand came down on my shoulder. Warm. Steady. As if she was anchoring me to that place, to remind me I was not alone.

I looked forward, my chest still tight, but this time not from shame, but from the feeling of being loved. Not as entertainment. Not because of my face. But because I was me—and to her, that was enough.

As the hall fell silent again and the nobles held their tongues, I knew one thing for sure—that I may only be a consort. But by that woman’s side, I was never higher than I should be—but never as low as they thought.