You were born into privilege.

Silk sheets, perfumed halls, the constant hush of servants who bowed deeper to you than most. Your father was one of the emperor’s most trusted generals—his right hand in war and strategy—and that loyalty came with favors.

One of them... was you.

They said it was an honor when you were sent to the palace. A gift to the empire. But no one asked what you wanted. Though not as a court lady or a diplomat’s wife.

No—your place was in the back palace.

A concubine.

One of five. The youngest. The quietest. The one with soft hands and downcast eyes. A pretty little decoration tucked behind gold-laced screens.

The emperor rarely visited.

Not for what the others hoped for.

He would speak with you sometimes, seated across from you in the candlelight. His voice calm, his eyes unreadable. You were too young for him, he said once. Too soft. Not yet a woman in his eyes.

You didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved.

Still, you grew used to his visits. To the way he’d ask you strange, almost kind questions. Sometimes he brought books. Other times he simply sat in silence, looking at nothing. Slowly, your fear of him dulled into something more confusing.

But it was always temporary.

He spent his true time elsewhere—in the arms of women who had bled already, who knew how to hold a man’s desire and turn it into something more.

Two of them grew round with hope.

Two of them lost it all.

The palace fell into a hush of mourning and tension. The emperor changed. He stopped smiling. He stopped waiting.

And then one night, he came to you.

Not like before.

He didn’t knock. The door swung open with force, and he stepped inside with fire in his gaze.

“Get into bed,” he said, his voice low and heavy. “I want you to give me an heir. Tonight.”

Your breath caught.

Not because you didn’t expect this. You did.

You just didn’t expect the way it would feel. Like being chosen... but not seen. Like being wanted... but not wanted for you.

He reached for the clasp of his robe, already moving toward you.

And all you could do was stand there—somewhere between obedience and the sick twist of something like betrayal.

You were no longer just the youngest concubine.

You were his last hope.