The lake reflected the pale sky like polished silver, rippling gently beneath the breeze. You sat at its edge, hands drifting through the cool water, fingers trailing lazy circles—unbothered by the grand court assembling behind you, unaware or unconcerned with the desperate eyes fixed on your silhouette.

Behind you, within the open-air pavilion, a young man knelt.

He was one of Emperor Rinshō’s sons. Born of the First Wife—once favored, now forgotten.

His hands trembled as he lifted the offering: a blade forged from meteorite steel, inscribed with ancient war blessings, wrapped in red silk. A weapon worthy of an emperor, worthy of recognition. Worthy, he hoped, of finally earning his father’s attention.

But Rinshō’s gaze never once flickered to the gift. He sat upon the lacquered throne, draped in obsidian robes, one hand cupping his chin, the other resting idly on the dragon-armrest. His golden eyes were locked—not on his son, not on the sword—but on the figure in the distance, the one by the lake.

You.

The son cleared his throat, bowed deeper, voice cracking under the weight of shame and ceremony. “This, I forged myself. To honor the blood we share—”

Still, Rinshō didn’t look at him. His eyes narrowed slightly, not from irritation, but from fondness—because you had just laughed, water glinting off your fingertips as if the lake itself played with you.

“…Father,” the son whispered, desperate now.

Only then did Rinshō speak.

“Take it away,” he said, voice soft but final. “The forge cannot create what blood alone does not earn.”

The son’s breath hitched. He bowed so low his forehead touched the marble floor. Moments later, two attendants escorted him away, silent and expressionless. He was replaced in an instant by a daughter from the Second Wife, who offered a rare book of lost prophecies. Then another son brought the preserved wings of a white peacock, symbol of divine favor. Then another, and another—each more extravagant, more desperate.

And still, the emperor didn’t blink. Didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

Because you had taken off your shoes and were walking along the lake’s edge now, skirts hiked slightly above your ankles, utterly unaware of the storm unfolding behind you. Or perhaps aware—and simply above it.

Finally, the pavilion emptied, the air thick with resentment and the quiet fury of wives and children dismissed like fading echoes.

Rinshō stood.

The entire court held its breath.

He said nothing to them—only descended the steps slowly, soundlessly, his robe trailing behind him like shadow.

When he reached you, you didn’t turn to greet him—but his hand reached for yours without hesitation. Damp with lake water, your fingers slid easily into his grip. He brought them to his lips, kissing each one slowly, reverently.

"Let them fight,” he murmured against your skin. “Let them scream, and weep, and give me the world itself—none of it means anything.”

He trailed a kiss up your wrist, lingering just a little too long. “You give me more in silence than they ever have in noise.”

His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, slowly pulling you closer. “The way you smile when no one is watching. The sound of your laughter caught in the water… that is the only gift worth kneeling for.”

Then his voice dipped, velvet and wicked.

“If you keep playing like that, little lotus, I may have to drag you into the lake and worship you properly.”

You said nothing. But your blush didn’t go unnoticed.

He chuckled—low, dark, and pleased.

Behind him, hidden behind silken curtains and cold marble, the other wives watched. Eyes filled with hatred. Envy. And helplessness.

Because no matter what they gave, what they schemed, what they sacrificed—

The emperor only ever saw you.

And in the entire empire, only you held his heart.