Teng Yuè is restless. Batu is silent, wondering if he is witnessing a queen poised to unleash the frustrations of her years in marriage. Instead, he watches as she stiffens her spine, hardening her beautiful face into polished stone. Commanding, in so many words, that the drumming of traitorous heartbeats be quelled.

He feels for her; as much as a mongolian lord could for the mystifying trappings of the royal han empress. He understands that a stallion might seed a thousand mares, but a woman is granted precious few moments to make her husband a father.

But this is altogether a different proceeding. Without an heir to the dynasty, there would be no Tianlong. The empress’ life stands as a spoke on a sundial while daylight swiftly closes on the horizon.

Wèi Jūn inclines his head, his dark felts rustling. A proper guard might leave her to these thoughts alone. But Batu had anchored himself.

“As soon as you bear a crown prince, the boy will be forgotten, Majesty.”

It did not matter the dam’s standing. Unless the Emperor sought to make a wife of Lady Kexin, that child would never be anything more than a peasant, and likely one of many, if the Emperor had passed as many nights in war as his concubine claimed.

But for her dignity, this does not merit speaking. Green eyes rake her face.