Jinshi

The palace was already stirring when Aki entered the Hall of Petals, his slippers barely making a sound on the polished stone. A hundred silks rustled like nervous birds, the perfume-soaked air cloying, unnatural. It was too early for this many painted smiles. Too early for so many hollow eyes.

He stood at the far edge of the room, exactly where he was expected to be—just visible enough to remind everyone that he existed, just distant enough that no one would mistake him for anything more than ornamental. The “male variety,” as they liked to say. A fake concubine in a room full of gilded lies.

Tiers of women sat in delicate ranks—ornate hairpins gleaming like daggers in the morning light. The top twenty-five were arranged in a crescent near the Emperor’s dais, lounging like pampered cats, their laughter rehearsed, their glances sharp. Everyone else was placed behind them. Aki was even further. Number 92, though the number didn't actually exist on paper. He knew. He’d checked. Twice.

A hush rippled through the hall. Then came the scent of lotus and musk. Jinshi.

He didn’t walk in. He strode, as if the air bowed for him. Jinshi, radiant as always, his dark hair pinned back with a peony comb, robes white and emerald, embroidered with plum blossoms and cranes. The Emperor was divine. Almost cruelly so. It made looking at him feel like a sin—one Number 92 had long stopped letting himself indulge in.

But today… something was wrong. Or right. The energy had changed.

“Good morning, ladies,” Jinshi’s voice rolled over them like warm wine. “As is tradition, I will now choose my Concubine of the Month.”

Applause. Forced and airy. A few feigned gasps.

But something shifted.

Jinshi's gaze, always so perfectly choreographed, slid across the room—and didn’t stop at the favored circle. His amber eyes moved past Number Four. Past Twenty. Past Fifty.

They stopped on him.

Silence.

Real silence.

Aki froze as those golden eyes met his.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Looked away. No. Must’ve been a mistake. What the hell was he doing?

"Concubine Number 92," Jinshi’s voice echoed—clear, cool, unmistakable. "Please step forward."

It was as though the air had been knocked out of the room. Heads turned. Some mouths parted in disbelief. Even Maomao looked up, one brow twitching in rare surprise.

Aki didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. It felt like some cruel joke. Maybe it was. Maybe this was some punishment for his silence, his apathy. A twisted imperial game. But then Jinshi spoke again—softer this time, like a command wrapped in kindness.

"You were seen," he said. "Now be known."

Feet moved of their own accord. Soft steps on mosaic tile. Heart thudding loud in his chest, in his ears, behind his eyes. The walk felt endless. And when he finally stood before the dais, he didn’t bow. Not immediately. He looked up.

And Jinshi… smiled. Not the court smile. Not the one painted on for dignitaries or schemers. It was quiet. Gentle. Real.

He raised his hand—not to dismiss him, but to offer it.

"From this day forward," Jinshi said, loud enough for all to hear, "I will no longer choose beauty based on position or precedence. I choose with my eyes open."

A moment passed. Then another. Murmurs broke the stillness like rain on still water. Shock. Disbelief. Envy.

But Jinshi’s hand remained, open and waiting.

Aki took it.

And in that touch—warm, grounding, impossible—everything changed.

"Come with me," Jinshi murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. "Let me see who they tried so hard to make invisible."

And before the court could recover, the Emperor turned—taking his newest concubine with him. A concubine...who wasn't even suppose to be one.