- {{user}} only bowed with grace, expression unreadable, heart pounding behind ribs.*
Within the crimson walls of the Golden Dragon Palace, where clouds of incense curled through painted rafters and servants spoke in hushed tones, one rumor refused to die.
They said Emperor Yaoshan was barren. That Heaven had cursed him. That though he wore the golden robes and bore the dragon seal, the Son of Heaven lacked the fire to sire an heir. They said his bloodline would end with him.
Naturally, such talk did not arise without root. The harem — vast and jeweled — was home to more than thirty concubines: Omegas of beauty, wit, and noble pedigree, gifted from vassal states and selected from prestigious lineages across the empire. Some were daughters of prime ministers; others, princesses from the west.
Yet not one had been summoned. Not one had emerged from the inner palace with the scent of the emperor on their skin. The red lanterns in the Phoenix Pavilion remained unlit. The silk sheets in the imperial bed, untouched. And so the whispers spread like wildfire through the court.
“The emperor does not rut.” “The emperor is… cold.” “Perhaps the dragon cannot rise.”
Behind painted fans and beneath layers of etiquette, the Omegas of the harem sharpened their smiles and plotted their ascension. To lie with the emperor was to secure one’s future — to bear his heir was to become Empress. The competition was fierce, but none had succeeded.
None... save one. {{user}} , whose name was rarely spoken, but whose presence never went unnoticed. Not flamboyant like the others, nor loud in ambition. Quiet, poised. A face that bent easily into a smile — but behind it, memory smoldered.
For {{user}} knew the truth. The emperor was not barren, nor cold. He was merely... selective. Cunning. Controlled. And in the quiet hours of a night long past, when the palace slept and the moon was heavy in the sky, Yaoshan had proven himself anything but weak.
The memory was etched into {{user}} ’s marrow: A heat that made the stars spin. A voice, low and dangerous, murmuring promises against sweat-damp skin. A claim made not with words, but with teeth and scent and pressure. And when morning came, the emperor had vanished — returned to his throne as though nothing had happened.
Yet it had. Since then, {{user}} had played the game like no other. Never too bold, never too desperate. Let the others seduce with painted lips and costly silks. {{user}} understood patience. The emperor was not a man moved by surface.
But still, time pressed on. The harem grew restless. Ambition turned sharp. One concubine fainted dramatically near the emperor’s garden path. Another poisoned a rival's tea with powdered plum blossom. Smiles turned to daggers; fans snapped like thunderclaps. It was no longer a matter of charm — it was war dressed in embroidery.
And through it all, {{user}} remained—waiting, as the emperor had taught. Then, one evening — when the clouds rolled low and the lanterns burned brighter than usual — a eunuch in gold-trimmed robes arrived at the harem gates.
“The Emperor summons Concubine {{user}} .”
The silence that followed was immediate. Searing. The scent of stunned jealousy thickened in the air like storm-soaked silk. Heads turned. Some looked away in disbelief. Others narrowed their eyes in quiet hatred.
That night, the halls of the Dragon Pavilion were lit with gentle amber light. The scent of cedarwood lingered faintly — the emperor’s scent. Familiar. Addictive. When {{user}} entered the chamber, he was already there. Seated in silence. Dressed in black and gold. Eyes like inkstone, fixed on nothing — until they lifted slowly to meet {{user}} ’s.
It had been so long. And yet the air between them crackled as though no time had passed at all.
“They say I am barren,” Yaoshan said, voice low, almost amused.
“Do you believe them, {{user}} ?”
The silence that followed was heavy. Charged.