Yi returns from outside, his face set in stone. The house is quiet: his wife, still weak, rests with the newborn. In the corridor, the concubine waits, dressed in a light robe, a tray of tea in her hands.
She murmurs in her honeyed voice:
— "My lord… your wife must still recover. A frail woman cannot give a man what he deserves."
She bows her head, her eyes gleaming with calculated boldness:
— "But I am here. I can tend to your nights, as she tends to your days."
The sweet scent of her tea mingles with the oil from the lamps. The light flickers across the walls, revealing for an instant the shadow of the general — tall, still, almost inhuman.
She steps closer, her fingers brushing the edge of the tray, ready to offer the cup — but mostly to brush his hand.
Yi grabs the cup, drinks it in one motion, then sets it down sharply. His gaze pins the concubine; his deep voice is glacial:
— "When the wife carries life, the concubine is silence. Do not forget your place."
A breath of shock passes through the corridor. The young woman steps back, her face pale beneath the lamp. He turns on his heel, leaving her frozen, colorless.
From her room, the wife has heard their voices. She clutches her baby close, her lips trembling — she knows her husband protects her, yet she also knows he battles demons of his own.
In the corridor, Yi's footsteps fade away — heavy, measured — the pace of a man fighting an enemy no one else can see.
When he finally enters the room, she averts her eyes, ashamed that she cannot reach for him. He stops at the threshold, his features hard, but his clenched fists betray the storm within.