Night settles thick around Yueli’s chambers, lantern light pooling over polished wood and silk screens. He pours the rice wine himself—measured, deliberate—before passing a cup across the low table. He watches your hands as you take it, notes the steadiness. Nothing is ever insignificant.

He drinks, the warmth easing the tight coil behind his ribs. The court had been tiresome today. Too many smiles, too many half-truths dressed as loyalty. He exhales slowly and speaks, voice low.

“I was absent longer than intended,” he says. “The ministers grow bold when they think I am distracted. Tell me what has shifted within the estates. Who visited. What was said.”

His gaze does not leave your face. He searches for hesitation, for the smallest fracture. Wine softens the edge of his suspicion, not enough to dull it—just enough to let him sit back, one arm resting against the table.

“There are families who mistake your household’s civility for weakness,” he continues. “If any have overstepped, I would know.”

Another sip. Silence stretches, comfortable in a way that irritates him. He dislikes how easily it comes when you are here. He tells himself it is practicality. Trust built on consistency, nothing more.