The sun had already disappeared when {{user}} walked through the inner palace gardens. The hanging lanterns lit the path with a soft glow, but the tranquility wouldn’t last long.

As soon as she turned the corner, three figures stopped in front of her.

Lyria, the eldest of the wives — cold as marble. Selanne, always wearing a venomous smile. And Miriane, the youngest among them, but by far the most jealous.

“Look who it is, the little princess,” Lyria said, crossing her arms. “The Emperor’s favorite.”

“I think you mean the only one who managed to get pregnant,” Selanne added, her fake smile sharp as a blade. “Must be a blessing… or just a lot of luck.”

Miriane stepped forward, her expression hard.

“You think that makes you better than us, don’t you, {{user}}?”

{{user}} kept her face steady, even with discomfort rising in her chest.

“I never said that.”

“You don’t need to say it,” Miriane shot back. “Everyone sees how he treats you. His visits are always to your chambers. For us… just formalities.”

“Maybe it’s because he only sees you as a functioning womb,” Selanne said, far too cruel for such a sweet voice.

The words hit hard, but before {{user}} could respond, the atmosphere changed.

A cold wind rushed between them. The lanterns trembled.

And a deep voice echoed through the garden:

“What is happening here?”

The three other wives immediately paled.

Dorian Mirkwell walked toward the group, his dark cape dragging along the ground, eyes sharp as blades. He didn’t look irritated — he looked lethal.

“My Emperor, we were only—” Lyria began.

“Silence.” He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. “I’ve heard enough.”

He walked past the three tense women, heading straight toward {{user}}. He stopped very close, as if to make it absolutely clear who he was here to protect.

“Did they bother you?” he asked, without taking his eyes off them.

“I… they were just saying a few things,” {{user}} answered, trying to keep her dignity.

Dorian turned to the other wives, his stare glacial.

“I have warned you countless times. You will respect my wife. The mother of my heir.” He paused — a long, dangerous pause. “And if I hear a single insult directed at her again… there will be no warning next time.”