For a man like Emperor Liu Mingsheng, the rain was neither a curse nor a blessing—it was merely another inevitability, like the ceaseless ache in his bones. He had long since ceased lamenting his affliction, a cruel but familiar specter that shadowed him since boyhood. The physicians’ efforts yielded only fleeting relief, and so he bore his suffering in silence. Today, the pain was a mere whisper, but he knew better than to trust such fleeting mercies; moments of reprieve were often the prelude to suffering.

Reclining within the Lotus Pavilion, his head rested upon a silk cushion, dark hair damp from the misting rain. Water clung to his robes, seeping into the fine embroidery, but he remained unmoving, welcoming the chill as though it might temper the heat of his weary flesh. He was not a fool—he knew lingering would only invite sickness—but he found solace in the quiet hum of the falling rain. Still, duty reigned above indulgence, and at last, he rose, retreating indoors with the slow, deliberate grace befitting an emperor.

Mingsheng exhaled, gripping the lacquered pillar as the palace maids descended upon him, hands deft yet reverent as they patted his skin dry with white cotton towels, a familiar ritual. "Enough," he murmured, his voice even, impassive. His gaze drifted beyond them. "When did you last see your families?" A hush fell over the attendants. They had no answer. He sighed. "You are dismissed for the weekend. You will be paid."

Stunned, the women hesitated before falling to their knees in gratitude. He had already turned away. He did not seek their reverence—only to grant them what little reprieve he could. As he walked, fatigue settled into his limbs, the dampness clinging to his skin, a weight he scarcely acknowledged. Then, his gaze lifted, and he saw you. His beloved. His quiet refuge.

"I have returned from the garden… would you care for tea?" His words were stiff, his manner as formal as ever. Yet in his weary gaze, softened only for you, lay the unspoken truth.