"You've been eating well."
Yen's voice was quiet. It wasn't a compliment, not really. It was an observation. A diagnosis. A subtle test of progress that only he knew the full parameters of.
His hands, large and always deceptively gentle in these moments, moved along her arms. They glided from her shoulder down to her elbow, then back up again in long, slow strokes. He wasn't just touching her—he was feeling her. Measuring. Inspecting. His thumbs kneaded the inside of her arms, pressing into the flesh with practiced ease, finding softness and muscle and making mental notes.
Then lower—his hands slid to her thighs beneath the silk folds of her robe. He gave them a slow squeeze, and again. His brow didn't furrow, but she could feel the intensity of his focus. The kneading shifted from clinical to familiar to possessive, a rhythm he'd found comforting since they were young. As if her body was a private thing only he understood, something he kept warm with his touch.
"That's good," he muttered, almost absently. His hands moved now with slower reverence, rising up her sides again. Then to her ribs.
His thumbs hesitated there.
Yen always paused at her ribs.
His fingers curled around them, lightly brushing over the subtle ridges just beneath the layer of fabric. A frown tugged at his lips. He never liked feeling them. There was something about the fragility there that unsettled him, made something unspoken and ancient tighten in his chest. She'd grown stronger, yes. But these? They still reminded him of the months she barely ate. Of the winter she collapsed in front of him. Of when her bones had spoken louder than her voice.
He said nothing, but she felt it in the way his touch faltered.
"Lily," he said instead—quiet, thick, like the word meant more than it had a right to.
He moved with sudden purpose.
Strong arms wrapped around her waist and tugged her bodily onto his lap. She let out a soft breath, not startled, just... accepting. She shifted, settling astride him, one leg draped over his thighs, her back slightly arched to accommodate his chest.
And then he buried his face against her breasts. Rubbing his face there.
"I'm never letting you go," he whispered, voice muffled against her robes.
His arms encircled her completely, forearms crossing at her back. He held her as though someone might rip her away if he didn't press hard enough. His breath warmed her through the layers of silk and linen. Her hand instinctively found his silver hair, fingers slipping through the strands, gently tugging as she combed it back. He exhaled, as if she'd pulled the weight of the world out through his scalp.
He was always like this.
Even when they were children, Yen had always turned to her like this—seeking her hand when the estate overwhelmed him, when he's tired, when he doesn't know what to do. She'd gotten used to it. She'd loved it, even. The comfort she could give him just by being still, by holding his hand or brushing his cheek.
That boy had grown.
Now his need had grown into something more—rawer, hungrier, buried deeper into the bone.
The table before them had already been cleared. The lunch was over. Plates taken away. Spoons wiped clean and whisked off on silver trays. The pavilion had returned to silence, filled only with the soft sounds of fabric shifting and the dull hum of wind against the silk sheets surrounding them.
Then—
"Come onnn!" Zion's voice cut through the soft atmosphere like a rock thrown through glass. "Can you both stop it?! I swear to all the gods, you're making me want to go fuck someone. Anyone. Anything that breathes."
His whining echoed off the polished beams, completely oblivious to the atmosphere he was trampling on.
Lily didn't even blink. But Yen shifted slightly—just enough to raise his head and narrow his eyes. The glare was a warning. Zion, of course, didn't heed it.
He strutted into the pavilion, arms thrown wide like some drunken performer at the end of his set, and paused dramatically.
Then—
Crack!
Zion staggered sideways as a blunt impact slammed into his chest, sending him toppling into the cushions near the side pillar.
Arkon had entered.
Not a word spoken. Not a greeting. Just one arm extended from a controlled strike—a palm to Zion's chest hard enough to send him flying.
The silk curtain swayed behind him as the chill from outside clung briefly to his cloak. Snowflakes still dotted his shoulders, melting in slow drips along the polished edge of his pauldrons. Arkon stood tall and unbothered, his posture perfect, eyes unreadable.
Lily moved off Yen's lap with her usual poise, brushing the front of her robe and smoothing her skirt without haste. She seated herself beside him again, never once looking surprised. Her movements were practiced—precise. She always knew how to shift from private warmth to courtly grace in a blink.
Yen exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes, gaze flicking between the two men as if he were surrounded by unruly pets instead of his most trusted comrades.
Lily began preparing the table.
She reached forward, laying down a fresh square of parchment on the lacquered surface before Yen. Her fingers retrieved the ink stone and set it gently atop a shallow wooden dish. She reached for the ink stick next and began to grind it in soft, tight circles against the stone, adding water and pressing in rhythmic turns. The scent of raw ink rose into the air, grounding the moment in something formal—ritualistic.
"Patriarch. Lady Lily," Arkon said with a bow, deep and respectful. His hand curled into a fist over his heart.
Zion followed behind him, dramatically rubbing the spot where Arkon had hit him, muttering curses under his breath.
Yen didn't return the bow. He barely looked up. "Talk."
Arkon straightened and approached the table with quiet confidence. "Borders are confirmed to be a hundred percent stabilized. No ruckus on the routes. All outposts have reported in on schedule. Every pass and checkpoint is under watch. Trade caravans have resumed regular flow."
Yen gave a single nod. "Good."
He reached for the brush Lily offered him, dipping the tip into the now-darkened ink.
"I called you both here to inform you," he said as he began writing, strokes sharp and angled, "about my plan to build canals across the central plains."
Zion perked up, finally interested. "The central plains? That's bold. That's—shit, that's gonna piss off the inland lords."
"They'll shut up when they see the coin flow," Yen said, not glancing up. "Trade will triple. Faster movement of goods. Permanent irrigation routes. And a direct water line into the capital."
Lily turned the map beside him, revealing an already marked design. Red ink traced sweeping lines across valleys and forests, weaving like veins through the center of the map.
"The emperor of Shenzhou responded to me," Yen continued.
Zion's expression changed in an instant. "That bastard?"
"Jackass," Arkon muttered.
"Fucking Shenzhou," Yen said with a breathless laugh.
Lily, without comment, refilled the teacups with elegant precision.
"My wife," Yen added smoothly, "has been managing gatherings and events perfectly. The festival in three months will serve as a gathering point for the northern, eastern, and southern lords. Shenzhou's envoy will be there."
Zion groaned. "Tell me I don't have to sit through that, please. That guy—what was his name again? Fuckface the Fifth?"
Arkon cleared his throat. "Minister Huo."
"Yeah, him," Zion spat. "He tried to buy me."
"You accepted," Arkon said, tone flat.
"I was testing his desperation," Zion defended, and looked at Lily. "He offered a palace. I think I deserve at least a wing."
Another fork embedded itself into the table beside him.
Yen didn't even look up this time.
Lily sipped her tea calmly, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling.
Outside, snow continued to fall, uncaring and eternal.
But inside the pavilion, war plans were already being drawn.
And Lily, seated quietly beside the most dangerous man in the empire, knew this wasn't just a canal plan.
It was the next conquest.