Lily returned, footsteps soundless across the polished stone floor. Her arms were bare, goosebumps prickling over her skin from the cool air that had settled in the vast office. She clutched a folded cloth in her hands, stained slightly with dried tea and her own blood. She said nothing. He hadn't called her back. But she knew better than to stay away long.
Yen didn't look up as she approached the folding screen set beside his desk—a lacquered divider painted with soaring white cranes and curling clouds. It offered no real privacy, just enough separation for what little softness she was allowed.
She stepped behind it.
There, half-hidden beside his massive writing table, was her modest haven—a low velvet-lined sofa with embroidered cushions, narrow and curved like a chaise meant for reclining but rarely used for rest. It was placed intentionally close to his desk, always within reach, always within sight.
She sat without a sound, smoothing her skirts over her thighs, and folded the cloth in her lap. Her posture was proper. Straight-backed. Head low. She dabbed at the cut on her palm, the one she got from collecting the broken shards earlier. The bleeding had stopped, but the sting remained, a reminder of how easy it was to fail him.
She glanced at him once.
Yen hadn't acknowledged her.
He was hunched over the wide lacquered desk, dark sleeves rolled to his elbows, brush in hand as he scratched neat characters across a scroll. His shoulders were broad, still damp with the sheen of sweat from earlier. His silver hair, tousled, caught the dim lantern like pale metal.
The room was built like a war chamber disguised as a royal study—high ceilings with sculpted beams, stone walls lined with tall bookshelves and scroll racks. There were weapons mounted above the archways, artifacts and gifts from conquered territories displayed in solemn silence. But in the very heart of it all was him, and next to him—always—was her.
Behind the heavy silk curtains at the back of the office was a resting alcove. Cushions, furs, and a wide low bed. A place to retreat. Yet he rarely used it—only when she was in it first.
Yen was a man who conquered on his feet.
She folded the bloodstained cloth one last time and tucked it beside her. A small silver kettle rested near the corner of the sofa—always hot. Without a word, she reached for a porcelain cup and poured him fresh tea. Her hands shook slightly. Not from fear. From habit. From never quite knowing which version of him she would get.
She rose and crossed to his desk.
Yen reached for the cup before she had fully set it down, brushing her knuckles with his fingertips without meaning to. He drank without glancing her way.
She returned to her seat behind the screen, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
It was quiet for several minutes. Only the sound of his writing, the soft hiss of parchment, and the occasional clink of ceramic.
Until the doors swung open with a low creak.
Three men entered the war chamber.
All three bowed at once.
"Patriarch. Lady Lily."
Yen didn't look up. "Report."
The men straightened.
The one in the center spoke—tall, sharp-featured, wrapped in a crisp officer's cloak. His voice was practiced and cool.
"General Arkon and Commander Zion are returning from the front lines, my lord. The eastern border has been cleared. They are expected within a week."
There was a pause.
Yen's brush did not still.
But his eyes shifted slightly, narrowing with thought. A flicker of calculation passed through his gaze. And then, the barest nod.
"Good."
That was all he said.
Lily's expression softened faintly, just for a moment. A small smile ghosted her lips before she caught herself and bowed her head. Her fingers curled against her thigh.
Arkon. Zion.
They weren't strangers. They were blood. But more than that—companions from the time before this. From childhood.
Arkon was Yen's first blade—silent, disciplined, sharp as his name. His loyalty had never wavered. He rarely spoke, but when he did, the weight of it was iron.
Zion was… different.
Zion had been wild from the start. Loud, clever, reckless. The black sheep of the Von Sumidra line. He mocked tradition. Mocked protocol. But he fought like no one else. And somehow, in that chaos, he was useful. Even irreplaceable.
They had all grown together.
She hadn't seen either of them in years.
Not since their wedding.
She kept her smile hidden.
"Are they both unharmed?" she asked quietly, the question soft but steady. Her voice barely broke the silence, but all three commanders turned slightly in acknowledgment. She was not just a shadow in the corner—not entirely.
One of the men answered, respectful.
"Yes, my lady. Both in good health. The General has taken minor wounds, but nothing severe. Commander Zion, as always, seems invincible."
Yen's brush paused for half a second.
He dipped it again, continued writing, but the air had shifted slightly.
A little heavier.
Lily bowed her head again and folded her hands neatly. Her throat felt tight.
Yen finished the line he was writing, placed the brush down, and rolled the scroll with practiced ease.
"The banquet will be moved forward," he said flatly. "Let them arrive in time for it."
The commanders bowed again.
"Yes, Patriarch."
Yen leaned back in his chair.
His silver eyes finally lifted.
"Dismissed."
They turned on command and filed out silently.
The doors thudded shut behind them.
Silence returned to the war chamber.
Yen reached for the tea she had poured earlier, sipping it without hurry. He stared ahead, but not at anything. His gaze was unfocused, like a beast listening for the sound of far-off hooves.
Lily remained still behind the screen.
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She knew what silence like this meant. A storm behind his temples. A weight behind the breath he exhaled through his nose.
She smoothed her skirt again, though it didn't need it.
And when his voice came, low and quiet, it made her blink.
"You smiled."
She froze.
It was not a question.
It was an accusation dressed in silk.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her lips parted, then closed. She wasn't sure what he expected her to say. Or if he expected anything at all.
She stood slowly, stepped from behind the screen. Her eyes lowered.
"I apologize, my lord."
Yen turned his head to look at her. Fully. His expression unreadable.
He didn't speak.
Just watched her. The way her shoulders were tense. The way her pulse trembled in her throat. The way she wouldn't meet his eyes.
He tapped the rim of his teacup once.
Then set it down.
"Why would you apologize." He let out a breathless laugh. "Hah."
And just like that, he returned to his parchment.
As though the room hadn't gone colder. As though her apology hadn't frozen in her chest.
She returned to the sofa behind the screen. Her hands, folded neatly once more, pressed into her lap.
She did not smile again.