Yi sat at his desk, rereading military reports.
A young servant entered, knelt, and bowed his head.
— "My lord… forgive my boldness. But this morning, I saw your wife in the courtyard. She spoke to… the concubine."
Yi barely lifted his eyes, his face impassive.
The servant hesitated, then continued.
— "Madam was still weak… but her words were sharp as steel. She spoke of her rank, your bond, your children. The concubine could not answer. She bowed, ashamed."
Silence. The servant kept his head lowered.
Yi slowly set down his brush, his gaze distant. His face remained austere, yet his jaw eased slightly. A long breath escaped his lips—almost a stifled laugh, but one burdened with restrained emotion.
Yi murmured to himself:
— "Even in weakness, she carries a strength I had not seen."
His fingers brushed the edge of the parchment, but he did not resume writing. His thoughts lingered on the image of his wife—fragile still, standing proud before the shadow of the palace, facing her rival without anger or noise. A whisper of respect rose within him, quiet, almost secret.
He remained still for a moment, then picked up his brush again.
But his gaze had changed: in his eyes burned a faint glimmer of admiration, and perhaps a silent pride.
He now understood that his wife was no longer merely a gentle presence—she had become his true equal, capable of guarding their home.