The records were mostly empty.

No names carefully brushed into columns. No inked dates marking night summons or lantern visits. No notes of reward, illness, discipline, or disgrace. No movement outward, no visitors inward—only the occasional notation of a physician’s routine inspection, written with mechanical indifference.

The Lycoris Pavilion existed in the registers as a formality, not a place.

Within the Inner Palace, that alone was unsettling.

Even forgotten consorts left traces behind them: an accidental summons, a misdelivered order, a single red lantern lit in error. But here—nothing. The Lycoris Pavilion remained still, as if frozen between seasons. At times, it seemed almost abandoned, and yet it was not. The consort lived there still, along with a reduced household of attendants, their presence so faint it barely disturbed the palace’s rhythm. She was a mid-ranking consort, married on paper but never summoned at night. A political placement whose auspicious date had passed unnoticed, then been quietly forgotten. Neither favored nor openly cast aside, she existed in a careful limbo—protected by her title, discarded by function.

She did not rise. She did not fall. She simply remained.

Among the palace servants, whispers still found her, as they always did. Rumors moved like bees along the walls: cursed, unwanted, barren, waiting for dismissal that never came. A consort who would never bear a child. A woman placed where she could neither advance nor offend. Jinshi had reviewed the night-visit logs more than once.

At first, it was routine. Then curiosity. Then… unease.

Empty pages were not unusual. Entire stretches of inkless space could appear between reigns, between shifts in favor. But this was different. Month after month, the same absence. Even the most neglected consorts were usually summoned once—by mistake, by whim, by a servant’s error.

Here, there was nothing.

It looked almost deliberate.

Like the first snowfall in a palace too busy to notice how quiet it had become.

Officially, Jinshi had his reason: verification of palace records and household management.

Unofficially—he had noticed her before.

In passing. In silence. A presence that did not reach for his attention, yet lingered all the same.

So he came.

The lady-in-waiting met him at the threshold, already prepared, tea set as though his visit had been anticipated days in advance. She lowered herself quickly.

“His Excellency Jinshi requests an audience.”

{{user}} does not react immediately.

That, too, is a habit learned in the Inner Palace: never look eager, never look afraid.

Her attendants stiffen before she does. The head lady-in-waiting lowers her gaze, already calculating what this visit might mean—favor, fault, or something far worse. Jinshi does not visit consorts without reason.

They move at once. Sleeves straightened. Hair smoothed. Doors slid open.

Jinshi steps inside with practiced ease, silk robes immaculate, expression pleasant enough to be harmless. He looks exactly as he always does in the Inner Palace: beautiful and untouchable. His smile is polite, almost lazy, as though this is no more than another obligation in a long afternoon.

Everyone kneels.

“Please,” he says lightly, lifting a hand. “No need for such formality.”

It is a lie. They all kneel anyway.

His gaze passes over the room in a single, efficient sweep—furniture, incense burner, arrangement of cushions, the number of attendants present. He is not admiring.

He is counting. “Leave us,” he adds, just as gently.

There is the briefest hesitation. Then the attendants withdraw, sliding the doors closed behind them. The room settles into a silence thick enough to feel intentional.

Jinshi exhales softly, the smile still in place.

“…How very quiet,” he remarks, tone amused, eyes sharp. “One might almost think this pavilion exists outside the Inner Palace entirely.”

His gaze finally settles on {{user}}.