His office was dim, as always—curtains half-drawn, the lanterns burning low, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Scrolls lay in carefully arranged stacks on the massive lacquered desk, flanked by untouched cups of cold tea and half-dried ink on seals of state. Yen was hunched over the latest dispatch from the Southern Border, eyes moving swiftly over the battlefield diagrams with a furrow in his brow. A heavy silence wrapped the space, broken only by the occasional scrape of parchment or dip of brush into ink.
Then came the knock,
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Soft, precise. Expected.
Jang entered with a low bow. "Patriarch. The Elders request an audience."
Yen didn't even lift his gaze from the scroll in his hands. His voice was calm, almost disinterested.
"Let them in."
Jang stepped aside.
The heavy doors creaked open.
The five remaining Elders of House Von Sumidra filed into the chamber like ghosts in deep plum robes, all of them old and sharp-eyed, faces carved from stone and years. They moved with careful steps, eyes surveying the Patriarch who barely acknowledged them.
They bowed in perfect unison. "Patriarch."
Yen flipped the next scroll. "What."
There was a pause. No one spoke first—until Jihan did, of course.
Yen's uncle stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, pacing leisurely before the desk. His steps echoed across the polished floor.
"We came to inquire about her ladyship," Jihan began, smooth as ever. "How is she faring?"
Yen didn't glance up. "Fine."
The Elders exchanged glances—subtle, but telling. A raised brow here. A faint breath through the nose there. Jihan pressed on.
"My lord, you favor your wife dearly. It's obvious to all of us. You've given her presence in court, even allowed her to sit in the war room. Such devotion is... admirable."
The compliment was laced with a quiet disapproval. Jihan's tone was silk, but it was the kind that wrapped around your neck.
Yen turned a page, the parchment whispering as it folded over. His silver eyes scanned the next paragraph. His silence was louder than anything else.
"But her ladyship is frail," Jihan continued. "We all grieved with you after her miscarriages. Twice, our house has lost what could've been heirs. It is a tragedy not only for you, my lord, but for all of us."
Still, no reaction. Just the quiet scratch of a brush across paper.
Jihan didn't miss a beat.
"We've discussed this matter carefully. And humbly… we believe it is time to consider alternatives."
Yen dipped the brush again.
"We suggest you take in a concubine. Or two."
Silence.
Then—he looked up.
Slowly.
His silver eyes lifted from the parchment, and for a moment, they held the emptiness of deep winter. Pale. Piercing. Dead calm.
Yen tilted his head, ever so slightly.
"Did you take in a concubine, elder Jihan?"
The room stilled. The Elders straightened. Jihan's steps faltered.
"When your wife had an affair?" Yen continued, casually rolling the scroll back up. "Or were you too busy wondering if Zion was even yours?"
A strangled cough came from one of the Elders behind Jihan. Another cleared his throat.
Jihan's face remained impassive. A tight, unreadable smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
"Family matters are complex, my lord," he answered, not quite denying it. "But we must think of the future."
"I am," Yen muttered, exhaling sharply as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Which is why I don't need concubines."
The line was final.
But Jihan—ever persistent—stepped aside and gestured toward the door.
Yen's brows twitched.
Then it opened again.
He didn't see the women at first—just the shift in the air, the faint rustle of robes, the subtle scent of perfume.
Then he looked up.
And paused.
Three young women entered, walking in careful formation, eyes downcast, movements rehearsed. Their silhouettes… were familiar.
Too familiar.
Each of them bore something striking—subtle, calculated—to mimic Lily. His wife.
One had her height. Her posture. Even the same soft bend of the neck.
Another wore her hair style in the exact same pattern Lily did each morning—tied at the crown, looped with pearls. They even copied the hairpin he gave her.
The third… was dressed in robes eerily close to what Lily wore on quiet days. She even walked with that same small sway of the hips, the same delicate hands folded over her stomach like she'd trained her whole life to do it.
"We believe familiarity breeds attachment," Jihan said. His voice was lighter now. Proud. "So we selected women who mirror her ladyship's presence. All untouched. All trained. All obedient."
He gestured with an open palm toward each one.
"This one has eyes the color of the same shade. Just like her."
Yen's gaze was like steel.
"This one has the same build. Slender, fragile. You'd hardly know the difference if you touched her."
He nearly twitched—but didn't.
"And this one—" Jihan's grin widened, "—has trained to copy her voice. Even her mannerisms. It's quite uncanny."
The woman with the copied voice stepped forward. She bowed low, glancing up just enough to meet Yen's eyes.
"My lord—"
CRACK!
The brush he was gripping so tight, flew.
It sliced through the air like a blade and hit the wall with such force it buried halfway through the plaster. Dust trickled from the crack it made.
The woman froze, mid-bow, a strangled gasp caught in her throat.
Yen stood.
His chair scraped back with a low, ominous groan.
Before anyone could react, he was in front of her. One hand lashed out, catching her by the neck—enough to choke, enough to paralyze her in place.
He leaned down, voice barely above a whisper.
"Don't you dare speak in her voice again."
Then shoved her aside like she was made of air.
He turned to the woman with the the same eyes like Lily. Yen glared at her.
"Out."
They fled.
All three women.
Like rabbits fleeing a wolf.
The doors stayed open.
Yen turned next to the Elders, his gaze slow and burning.
"Out—all of you."
The shadows exploded.
They leapt from the corners of the room like smoke rising too fast, tendrils lashing out and coating the walls, rising toward the ceiling. The lanterns flickered violently. Scrolls flew. Ink bled over the table like blood spilled across a battlefield.
The Elders staggered back, eyes wide.
Jihan alone held his place. His hands folded neatly in front of him. His expression never changed, even as a curl of black shadow coiled just above his shoulder like it was debating whether to strike.
Then, he bowed.
Deep and measured.
"My lord."
And left.
The doors closed behind them with a thud that echoed like thunder.
Silence fell again.
Yen turned to the wall where the brush still remained, embedded deep in the stone. He walked toward it. Grasped the handle. Tugged once.
The stone crumbled.
Bits of plaster and dust scattered to the floor as he pulled the brush free. He stared at it for a moment—at the splintered wood, the bent bristles.
Then calmly walked back to his desk.
He sat.
And resumed reading.
As if nothing had happened at all.