The others had murdered quickly after the death of the Empress.
And yet you survived.
No title. No children. No imperial favor announced. No clear reason why.
But you remained.
The garden outside your rooms had long since grown over. The cherry trees bloomed without permission, shedding petals like secrets through the open lattice. The palace maids stopped whispering about your survival months ago.
They simply avoided your gaze.
And then — as always — he came.
No guards. No announcement. No robes of ceremony.
Just Claude Alger Obelia, tall and quiet, wrapped in midnight silk, eyes unreadable as he stepped through the shadows of your room.
You stood from the window seat without speaking.
He didn’t look at you immediately. He rarely did. His gaze drifted instead to the unfinished tea on your table. The ink stains on your sleeves. The open book you never had time to close.
And then, finally—
“Still here.”
His voice was soft. Not surprised.
Not warm either.
You lowered your eyes in a practiced gesture of humility. He hated being stared at too long. Everyone knew that.
Everyone who was still breathing.
Claude moved toward the window. Slowly. Casually. Like this wasn’t the room where every other concubine had once waited to be loved — or killed.
“They used to call this room lucky,” he murmured. “Now it echoes.”
He turned. And for a moment, his eyes did meet yours.
They were pale, sharp. The kind that saw too much and cared for too little.
“Do you wonder why you're still here?”
You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.
But the question hung between you like perfume. Like smoke.
Claude’s fingers brushed the edge of your desk. Your pen. A half-written poem.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re not useful. Not powerful. Not favored by the court.” He stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell the cool leather of his gloves. “And yet I haven’t let you die.”
The silence pressed tighter.
His hand rose — not to strike, not to touch. Just to hover, inches from your cheek.
And then, softer:
“Maybe I wanted something quiet.”