The Unwanted Emperor | Royal Plague #3

In the Great Yong Dynasty, the heir to the throne did not choose his wives for love.

He chose them for power.

Crown Prince Li Wei’an had five.

Four were born into silk and privilege.One was born into dust.

It had always been tradition — since the founding of Yong — that the Crown Prince would take one common-born woman into his household. A symbol. A gesture to show the people that the imperial family remembered them.

It was never meant to be more than that.

Some commoner wives in past generations had risen beyond their station. A few had borne sons. One had even become Empress Mother.

But that was history.

This generation was different, or so everyone believed.

The First Wife, Crown Princess Shen Yulan, daughter of the Grand Chancellor, ruled the inner palace with quiet precision. Her posture was flawless, her speech measured, her smile controlled. She understood politics the way others understood poetry.

The Second Consort, Guo Meilin, was the daughter of a decorated general. Sharp eyes. Sharper tongue. She favored red silk and spoke as though every word were a command.

The Third Consort, Xu Lihua, gentle-faced and soft-spoken, belonged to the Minister of Rites’ household. She rarely raised her voice, which made it all the more dangerous when she did.

The Fourth Consort, Han Qiaorong, came from a wealthy merchant clan elevated to minor nobility. She was clever with accounts, rumors, and favors. Smiles were her currency.

Together, they formed a polished wall around the Crown Prince.

Elegant.

Untouchable.

Complete.

Almost.

Her name was Lin Zhaoyue.

Orphan. Seamstress. Daughter of no one important. Chosen by the Ministry as the ceremonial commoner bride.

When she arrived at the palace gates at sixteen, she carried only a wooden trunk and hope too large for her thin frame.

On her wedding night, Crown Prince Li Wei’an had bowed politely.

“You may reside in the West Courtyard,” he had said.

And that had been the last time he had entered it.

Four years passed.

Zhaoyue remained untouched.

Unvisited.

Unclaimed.

And yet, she loved him.

Not the Crown Prince.

Not the future Emperor.

But the man she had seen only once in the lantern light of their wedding chamber.

He had not been cruel.

Only distant.

That was enough for her heart to weave dreams from scraps.

Every winter robe the Crown Prince wore against the cold northern winds, stitched by Lin Zhaoyue’s hands.

Every inner layer of silk that brushed his skin, mended and reinforced in her courtyard.

Every calming chrysanthemum tea served in his study, blended from herbs she dried herself.

Every sweet lotus pastry he favored, perfected after dozens of failed attempts in her small kitchen.

But when the garments were presented, they came through Shen Yulan’s attendants.

When the tea was poured, it was Xu Lihua’s maid who knelt.

When the pastries were served, Han Qiaorong smiled sweetly beside them.

None of the noble wives knew the true origin.

They assumed palace staff prepared such things.

And the Crown Prince, never asked. He praised efficiency. He appreciated refinement. He never questioned the source.

*

While the inner palace shimmered with jade screens and perfumed incense, Zhaoyue’s courtyard remained simple.

White walls.

Plum trees.

Wind chimes.

She woke before dawn each day. Oversaw her servants gently. Sewed until her fingers blistered.

Listened for footsteps that never came and when festival days arrived, she dressed carefully.

Waited patiently.

Smiled brightly.

Even if no invitation followed.

*

Among palace servants, rumors circulated.

“She is foolish.”

“She believes he will notice her.”

“She should fight like the others.”

But Zhaoyue never competed, she did not know how and perhaps, she did not wish to.

*

Li Wei’an was not a cruel man. He was simply raised without softness. From childhood, he had been told:

Affection clouds judgment. Attachment weakens rule. Sentiment destroys dynasties.

So he treated his wives as political extensions of their families.

Respectful.

Measured.

Distant.

He visited the main residences according to rotation.

He never visited the West Courtyard.

It was not hatred.

It was irrelevance.

And Yet… In the quiet hours of winter, when snow blanketed the palace roofs, he sometimes paused in his study.

There was something different about the warmth of his robes.

Something grounding about the tea.

Something… familiar about the scent of plum blossoms that clung faintly to his sleeves.

He never traced the thread back.

Because he never thought to look.

And in the West Courtyard, beneath a blooming plum tree, Lin Zhaoyue stitched another robe.

Smiling.

Unaware that her devotion would one day shake the entire dynasty.