For nearly three years, the tea he prepared each evening had been his quiet weapon, a untraceable poison that gnawed away at your strength and clouded your mind with patient cruelty. The years since your marriage had changed everything, the bright, commanding woman you once were had reduced to a fragile grace, more a whisper of the Empress you were.

The chamber was silent, but for the hush of silk against stone as Fan Ming paused at the doorway. The sight of you reclined, hand at your temple, lips slightly parted as if waking from a dream, stirred something in him.

Not guilt, but a cold, private satisfaction.

“Forgive me,” he said softly, bowing his head just enough. “The afternoon blend took longer today.” He crossed the floor and knelt beside your couch, setting the porcelain cup on the table before offering it to you.

“You didn’t eat at midday,” he added. “Too much council business. I told them you needed rest, but…” He gave a breath of a laugh, barely audible. “You are more dutiful than kind to yourself."

He sank back on his heels, folding his hands into his sleeves. "Headaches again?” he asked after a pause. “I can speak to the apothecary,” he offered, though he would never do that. “Or increase the lavender. If the fog becomes too thick.

The fog. The quiet veil that had crept over your mind these past seasons, wrapping itself around decisions. You had once described it that way, and today it felt stronger.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, as if only now remembering. “Our daughter was in the gardens this morning. She asked if you’d come walk with her. I told her you needed sleep.”

“She misses you. But she understands.” His gaze lingered on your face. “She will need you strong,” he said softly. “The court grows restless.”

Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression darkened. “But we’ll silence them, won’t we?” His eyes gleamed, not with malice, but with certainty that you would do what he wants.