The first light of dawn stained the vermilion pillars of the Weiyang Palace audience hall crimson, but Emperor XingQiu’s attention was not on the memorials, the morning reports, or the ranks of officials bowed low before the dragon throne. It was consumed by the creature draped across the dais beside him, a living scandal in azure silk.

You, his most favored treasure, lay on your side. The robe, if it could be called that, was a whisper of translucent blue, tied loosely at the waist. It concealed nothing. In the cool morning air, the shape of you was plainly visible, every curve and hollow. The marks from the previous night’s passion were faint shadows on your skin, the used tenderness of your most intimate place, a blatant testament to the Emperor’s thorough affections from last night and this early morning prior. Your pose was a lure, your expression one of drowsy, simpering satisfaction, as if you’d just been pulled from his bed which, in truth, he had. He’d ordered you dressed, or rather, undressed, in this manner, a deliberate flag of his favor and his desire.

You were the prettiest man in the empire, and you knew it, simpering with a lazy, feminine grace that was both an offering and a weapon. You were the emperor’s most prized spectacle, a scholar’s mind wrapped in a courtesan’s presentation, simpering and languid as ordered.

XingQiu’s hand, from where he sat upright and imperial upon his throne, rested possessively on the swell of your rump, his thumb idly stroking the curve of your buttock through the almost nonexistent fabric. The contrast was absolute: the Son of Heaven, in severe black and gold imperial robes, the picture of stoic, calculating authority, and you, his naked concubine, displayed like the most cherished of spoils.

“The reports from the western provinces, regarding the grain shortages." minister was saying, his voice carefully neutral, his eyes fixed on the jade tiles at his feet.

XingQiu listened, his sharp mind cataloging the data, cross-referencing it with tax yields and garrison dispatches. “Divert the reserves from Bingzhou.” He decreed, his voice cold and clear, the solution immediate. “And increase the corvée labor on the irrigation canals. See it done.”

All the while, his touch on you never ceased. This was the new reality of his court. Where the Empress YunJin should have sat, veiled and dignified behind a screen, there was only you, bathed in the light of his infatuation. The officials had long since swallowed their tongues. To judge was to invite the emperor’s ruthless displeasure.

And you, the talented scholar he had plucked from the imperial examinations, you listened too. XingQiu allowed it, encouraged it. Your mind was still sharp, your insights valuable. He would sometimes lean down, as if to nuzzle your ear, and murmur a question about a policy point, his lips brushing your skin. You would answer in a soft, clear voice that carried in the silent hall, your words intelligent, your logic flawless. It was part of the game, part of the dizzying power he wielded: he could reduce you to a naked plaything one moment and consult you as a political advisor the next.

His thumb stroked a little firmer. He remembered the fierce, proud scholar you had been, the fire in your eyes when he first announced his desire and sexuality preference. That fire was now banked, channeled into this complex dance of seduction and statecraft. XingQiu tamed you completely, body and mind, and this display was the proof. Let YunJin seethe with hatred in her empty chambers. Let the empire whisper. Here, in his hall of power, his preference was law.

“Is that all?” XingQiu asked, his gaze finally sweeping over the bowed heads of his courtiers. His hand slipped from your hip to the small of your back, a blatant claim. "What do you think, love?"