The double consort ceremony was held under a full moon, as tradition dictated—because if you're going to marry off two women at once in a cloud of political chaos, you might as well make it celestial.
Silks shimmered. Lanterns floated. Incense burned like hope and passive aggression.
It was the only excuse we had to move freely near the Wei ancestral shrine and the only chance to retrieve the box hidden beneath it. The one buried deep in the floorboards. The one that might hold the truth we'd been chasing for months.
And we found it.
Wrapped in layers of silk and sealed with an old family sigil, the wooden box was smaller than I'd imagined. No grand chest of secrets. Just a simple thing, wedged beneath warped boards and crumbling dust. But inside were letters. Journals. Orders signed and sealed. Documents that confirmed what we'd feared, and what the court had long buried.
And we still couldn't use it.
Because no one would listen—not while Wei Wuxian remained heirless, his position still precarious, his claim to power easily contested. In the eyes of the court, he was a prince too vulnerable to back. And until that changed, this box meant nothing.
We had the truth but we had to wait.
It was also the night Wei Wuxian married Lady Wang Yufei...
And Yuling.
Yes, our Yuling.
Palace maid. Secret ally. Reluctant decoy wife.
She played her part flawlessly, swanning through rehearsals like she'd been born under a lucky star and taught etiquette by ghosts. Chin high. Smile perfectly. Every bow angled just right to imply demure obedience and subtle judgment.
Too bad our plan hit a snag. We never expected Yufei to be named consort.
Originally, Yuling was going to be the "unexpected second," shocking the court and scandalizing the Queen. But now? Yufei's name was inked into the registry, wearing a smug expression and lavender silk.
Which meant one thing: We couldn't touch her.
Not directly. Not without dragging the Wang family into a public scandal—and we needed them intact until we had enough to crush them completely.
But make her life miserable? Oh, that we could do. And it started immediately.
The moment Yufei learned she'd be in the same ceremony as a palace maid, her face went from "gracious and composed" to "one bad lyric away from a public meltdown."
Her jaw twitched. Her hand clutched her fan like she might snap it in half. Her maid tripped trying to keep up with her as she stormed out of rehearsal.
She may have been the daughter of a high-ranking minister. But in that moment? She looked exactly like a woman realizing she'd have to share a wedding aisle with her tailor.
Technically, her rank now sat above both mine and Yuling's. But we had a plan.
If we could clear Yuling's name, wipe the stains from her file, and reveal what really happened the night she was disgraced. Her status could be restored.
And then? She'd be equal to Yufei. On paper. In the court. And in the Everyone's eyes.
Now it was no longer a ceremony. It was a race. A quiet war under the silk fans and jeweled hairpins.
Who would conceive first?
Because whoever gave Wei Wuxian an heir would be elevated to the top of the consort ranks.
And Yufei knew it.
That's why Wei Wuxian had been avoiding her like the plague. He dodged her in the corridors. Pretended to fall asleep at meetings. At one point, he actually vaulted over a garden wall just to avoid sharing tea.
In the meantime?
We were prepping Yuling with what Lan Wangji affectionately called "the heir-making method"—which turned out to be a surprisingly detailed combination of spiritual balance, fertility timing, tea with the consistency of pond water, and a lot of deeply awkward conversations.
Later That Night...
Let me preface this by saying:
There is no dignified way to prepare three adjacent palace rooms for a divine heir-making operation.
None.
And yet—here we were.
Room One: Wei Wuxian, alone with a table full of incense, a medicinal tea that allegedly "improves spiritual flow," and a scroll of deeply awkward instructions about how to channel essence through breath and movement.
Room Two: Me.
Stationed in the middle like a command post with maps, timing charts, and a specially designed collection vial inlaid with silver lotus etchings. Classy.
Room Three: Yuling. Lying on a silk-padded bed, breathing slowly, trying not to hyperventilate from a mix of nerves and jasmine incense.
And then there was Ming Yu.
Seated on a stool beside me, arms crossed, face carved from stone, and the kind of internal agony only a deeply jealous man pretending to be emotionally stable can produce.
"You don't have to be here, you know," I told him flatly.
"I know," he replied through gritted teeth. "I'm staying."
I sighed. "You're choosing to suffer."
"I'm choosing to supervise."
"You're choosing to glare at the walls while I inseminate someone else with another man's divine spirit juice."
Ming Yu's eye twitched. "I said I'm staying."
Right.
Across the partition, Wei Wuxian was struggling. Badly. There was no moaning. No humming. Just a lot of pacing and the unmistakable sound of him swearing under his breath in three dialects.
"He's cracking under pressure," I muttered. "We're going to be here all night at this rate."
A knock on the side panel. Lan Wangji stepped into the room like a blessing wrapped in silence and judgment. "He is… nervous," he said simply.
"I can tell."
I handed him a cup of goji-infused tea with the kind of calm only someone teetering on the edge of hysteria could fake. "Go. Set the mood. Be supportive. Maybe tell him to imagine something pleasant. Like Yufei getting banished."
Lan Wangji nodded, unbothered, and disappeared into Room One.
Two minutes later? A moan. Not a dramatic one. Just a soft, frustrated sound of success finally arriving after great mental struggle.
Ming Yu closed his eyes and muttered something that sounded vaguely like a dying prayer.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I want to die," he said quietly. "But I'll survive."
I rolled my eyes and yelled toward Room One, "You better pace yourself or we'll be here all night!"
No response. Typical.
I turned back to the box in front of me and picked up the vial—a delicately etched container designed to preserve "divine essence" for precisely sixteen minutes before it lost potency.
I straightened my spine, grabbed the ceremonial cloth wrap, and stood.
"Time to explain to her and get her pregnant," I said.
Ming Yu made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
I gave him a look. "You wanted to be here."
"I didn't say I liked it."
Then I stepped into Room Three, where Yuling sat, pale and wide-eyed, like she was about to be offered as tribute to a mildly flustered volcano god.
I knelt beside her, vial in hand.
"All right," I said gently. "This is going to be… deeply weird."
She nodded. "I trust you."
"Good. Because I barely trust myself."
I knelt beside Yuling, the etched silver vial cupped in my hands like I was about to bestow her with an ancient blessing—or stab her with a tiny ceremonial dagger.
She looked at it. Then at me.
And suddenly, the full weight of what I was about to do hit me.
I took a breath. Professional. Calm. Like a palace-trained spiritual fertility technician who definitely wasn't winging this entire operation with the help of three incense sticks and divine chaos.
"All right," I said gently, "I'm going to insert the vial. You need to stay relaxed. It's small, but it'll hurt a bit going in."
Yuling's eyes widened. "H-Hurt?"
"I said a bit. You'll be fine." I sighed. "I feel like I'm about to do a pap smear with spiritual consequences."
She blinked at me. "What's a pap smear?"
"Never mind."
I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. "I didn't want to use oil or jelly—we don't know what affects the divine sperm velocity, and I'd rather not kill off the next chosen heir with a sesame-based lubricant."
Yuling went pale. "That's… fair."
Then an idea struck me. And I instantly regretted it.
I stared at her for a moment too long. Then whispered, "Have you ever… you know… done the solo act?"
Her face exploded in red. She looked at me like I'd just insulted her entire bloodline. "M-Mei Lin!"
"Look," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "This is scientific. Technically, reaching climax during insemination increases your chances of pregnancy. The nerves, the muscles, the flow—it helps. There are scrolls. Probably."
"Probably?!" she squeaked.
I inhaled. Regretted everything.
"I can, uh… administer that part, too. If you get close. I mean, only if it helps. You'd have to let me know the timing. When you're… y'know… almost there."
Her hands flew to her face. "I'm going to die."
"Honestly? Same."
Even my face was on fire now. I was sweating through silk and shame. A full-body secondhand embarrassment seizure. Then I said the one thing I knew would push her over the edge:
"This is how we beat Yufei."
Something in Yuling snapped. Her hands dropped. Her back straightened. Her expression cleared like storm clouds parting for vengeance.
"She thinks she's going to waltz into this palace and win with cheekbones and embroidery? No. I'm going to get that heir."
"Right," I said, blinking. "So you're in?"
She nodded fiercely. "Tell me what to do."
Now it was my turn to panic.
Because now I had to get the timing right.
I took a deep breath, and tried to pretend I'd been trained for this. Like this was part of my royal consort duties and not something I was absolutely going to relive in my nightmares.
"All right," I said softly. "You need to relax. I know that's ridiculous advice right now, but the more tense you are, the harder this is going to be."
Yuling nodded, still flushed, but determined.
"I'll step out and give you a moment to prepare," I added. "Just… lie back, let your legs relax, breathe deeply, and…" I coughed into my sleeve, "maybe do a little pre-work if that helps."
"I—okay," she said faintly, like she was still processing the fact that she was about to get magically impregnated via an ancient royal vial.
"Let me know when you're ready. But remember—don't do anything until I say 'go.' I have to time it right."
"Right," she whispered.
I slipped out of the room like I'd just done something illegal, clutching the silk door flap behind me and exhaling like I'd just sprinted through a thunderstorm.
And of course, Ming Yu was standing right there.
Leaning against the hallway post like he'd been carved into the architecture, arms folded, expression locked somewhere between righteous horror and volcanic jealousy.
He didn't say anything. Not a single word. But the grimace on his face? That said everything.
"You heard all that, didn't you?" I asked flatly.
A slow blink. "Every word."
I covered my face with both hands. "I hate my life."
"I hate this hallway," he muttered under his breath.
There was a beat of silence. Then I peeked up at him.
"Do you want to help?" I asked, only half-joking.
He gave me a look. "Do you want me to die?"
Fair.
I sighed. "I'm doing this for all of us, you know. For the plan. For the throne. For the—"
"I know," he cut in, voice tight. "Doesn't mean I like it." Then he looked away.
And for the first time since I met him, Ming Yu looked like he wanted to punch a moonbeam out of sheer helplessness. Poor guy. Jealousy never looked so stoic.
With another sigh, I turned toward Room One and called out:
"All right, Prince Wei! You may proceed with your sacred duty!"
There was a loud thunk, possibly Wei Wuxian banging his head into a wall.
Then, faintly: "Could you not yell that through the whole palace?!"
"You want divine conception or not?! Pick up the pace!"
Behind me, Ming Yu groaned and muttered something deeply unholy under his breath. I patted him once on the arm, more pity than comfort. "Just remember: this was your idea, too."
And then it started. A low moan from Room One. Not the shy kind. Not the "oops, slipped" kind. The kind that was intentional. Loud enough that I was pretty sure Yuling heard it two rooms away. Loud enough to make a servant passing by think Prince Wei was having a transcendent marital moment with his new consort.
Exactly what we wanted.
Theatrics for plausible deniability. And, well… a little bit of revenge. Ming Yu immediately pressed the heel of his palm to his temple and shut his eyes tight, like he was trying to physically press the sound out of his memory.
Probably reciting sword scripture in his head just to survive.
As for me?
My face went red. Not blushing—flaming.
Because no matter how professional, how spiritually scientific this whole process was supposed to be…the human body has ears.
And Wei Wuxian moaning like a war god in a silk robe did something deeply inconvenient to my nervous system. My heart thudded against my ribs. My skin prickled. I could feel the need humming low in my stomach, sharp and completely, utterly inappropriate.
I swallowed hard, mentally slapped myself, and focused on the task at hand.
Just as it hit its peak—a sound that honestly bordered on divine performance art—I stood up like a woman possessed.
I grabbed the vial, hands steady, and reached for the small ceramic funnel resting in the sterilized tray nearby. The air in the hallway was heavy with incense, tension, and the muffled sounds of divine release.
And then—One final moan, cut off with a gasp, and then… nothing.
The door to Room One creaked open an inch. A pale, elegant hand emerged from the gap. Lan Wangji's hand. Carrying a small porcelain cup like it contained the elixir of life—and judgment.
He set it silently on the floor, then closed the door without a word.
I stared at the cup. Inhaled. And made a yucky face so profound it could've been painted in the next scroll of palace myths.
"This is the worst thing I've ever done," I muttered, picking it up between two fingers like it might explode.
Ming Yu looked at me. Then the cup. Then the vial. His jaw twitched. "I'm going to be sick," he said, voice low and tight.
"Focus," I snapped, already pouring the contents through the funnel like I wasn't holding someone's very fresh legacy in my hands.
He gagged quietly beside me.
I ignored him.
"Here we go," I murmured.
Then opened the door.