The wife sat with her hands resting on her knees.
A servant, with utmost caution, had told her that the concubine had left the general's quarters, her head bowed in shame.
The wife understood. She waited, straight-backed, unflinching.
The door opened — Yi entered, silent.
She did not look at him, but spoke in a calm, measured voice:
— "They say the night sometimes draws unwanted shadows… This time, they knocked at your door."
He stepped closer, expressionless.
— "She tried. I sent her away."
A breath escaped her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment — quiet relief, almost guilty.
For though the concubine was an imposed rival, she was still a woman, wounded in her place.
Yet her heart beat faster — he had rejected her.
Slowly, she rose. Her eyes shone with a mix of dignity and turmoil. Her voice trembled, yet she continued:
— "Then… let me say what I have never dared."
She bowed deeply, then lifted her face toward him.
— "I fear you. I respect you. But I desire you."
The silence thickened. Yi stood motionless. His dark eyes fixed on her — and faltered, if only for a heartbeat.
She went on, her tone steadier:
— "I do not envy the shadows that seek your favor. I only wish to be the one who lights your nights — not out of duty, but from my heart."
Her words hung in the air — fragile, yet fearless.
Yi turned slightly away, as if refusing to reveal the fracture she had just carved within him.
His hand tightened on his belt, then loosened.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough:
— "You are bold tonight…"
He stepped closer, his shadow enveloping her.
His face remained stern, yet his hand rose to brush her cheek — a rare gesture, awkward, almost harsh in its restraint.
For a fleeting moment, he looked at her as if seeing her for the first time — not as a duty, but as a woman.
His lips moved barely, like a quiet surrender:
— "…and you have defeated me."