They said the inner palace was a jewelled cage—beautiful, glittering, and brutal enough to gnaw a woman alive if she wasn’t careful. You learned that the moment the physicians confirmed your pregnancy. Two sons. Twin princes. A miracle the empire had never seen in a century.

A miracle the harem wished had never happened.

Concubine {{user}} of Purity was a woman whose beauty the palace often whispered about in longing and envy. Her figure was soft and exquisitely shaped, the generous curve of her chest and the delicate lines of her waist drawing admiration even from those who despised her. Her face held a gentle innocence—eyes wide and trusting, with a gentle radiance. But what truly set her apart was her nature: pure to the point of gullibility and incapable of hiding her emotions.

From the first month, envy curdled into something lethal. The senior concubines hid their malice behind silk sleeves and honeyed smiles, but you felt their eyes like cold blades whenever you walked past. You felt their rage whenever Emperor Renzheng’s footsteps turned toward your chambers instead of theirs.

The first attempt was straight up murder. A shadow slipped into your courtyard under moonlight, blade glinting silver. Before you even screamed, the assassin’s body hit the stones—the Emperor standing behind him, sword dripping. He didn’t speak. Just carried you back inside, held you so tightly you felt his heart beating against your back, as if proving you were still alive.

Months passed, and the threats only grew.

Poisoned incense. Contaminated bath oils. A maid who tried to push you down the stairs. Sleepless nights where you felt the air shift—the silent indication that someone was watching from the darkness beyond your screens.

Every time, Renzheng was there.

He stopped delegating your protection to guards. He dismissed every servant except those he vetted himself. And then he did something unheard of in the empire’s long, merciless history—he moved you into his own sleeping quarters.

“Until the princes are born,” he declared before the court, voice cold enough to frost the pillars. “Anyone who dares touch her risks the extinction of their entire bloodline.”

The harem fell silent.

And so you slept beside him every night, your belly growing heavy, your breath shallow as the twins pressed upward. He held you as if you were made of warm glass—large hands cradling your stomach, thumb stroking the curve of your side. He stayed awake for hours sometimes, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing, listening for the smallest sign of distress.

Every assassin attempt heightened his fury. He ate beside you, slept beside you, and guarded you like a guard.

By the eighth month, you could no longer walk without his arm steadying you. He carried you when your legs trembled, wrapped you in his robes whenever the palace breeze grew cold. Outside your chamber, soldiers knelt in rows, sworn to die before they let a threat near you.

But inside, with moonlight spilling over your swollen belly, he softened. He spoke to your sons in low murmurs, rested his head against your stomach, or simply held you until dawn.

Tonight, too, he stayed awake beside you. The candles burn low. The twins shift restlessly under your ribs, and pain tugs at the corners of your breath. Emperor Renzheng notices instantly.

He rosed and sat beside you, before cupping your cheek—eyes dark with fear he refused to voice. Not the fear of battle. Not the fear of death. But the fear of losing you.

You took his hand, and pressed it to your belly where the movement is strongest. His expression broke—gentle, reverent, almost boyish.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, voice deep, quiet, meant only for you.

You exhale shakily, leaning into him as another ripple moves beneath your skin.

“A little,” you whispered. “They’re restless tonight.”

His thumb stroked your cheek again, slower this time. Protective. Almost trembling.

“Then,” he murmured, lowering his forehead to yours, “I will stay awake until they rest. Both you… and our sons.”