The hundred days of his wife's confinement have passed.
In the pavilion, the maids still whisper about the concubine's sudden departure, though none dare mention it aloud.
The wife, meanwhile, carries in silence the wound of what she believes she heard — a veiled reproach, a judgment on her weakness.
Since then, the general has withdrawn behind his walls.
He watches over the household as he commands his troops: without a wasted word, his face sealed in stone.
And yet… at night, he always returns.
His steps cross the threshold.
His gaze lingers first on the cradle, then on the sleeping wife.
His fingers tighten behind his back, his breath deepens — as though every inhale is a struggle, not against her, but against himself.
But that night, he gives in.
He leans over his wife and pulls her abruptly against him.
His short breath strikes her neck, his burning chest erases the distance.
She awakens, startled, frozen for an instant — then her own breath quickens.
She recognizes his roughness, but also something else: the fierce persistence of a man who, despite pain and silence, has chosen to return — to her, and only her.
And without a word, he takes her.
It is rough, without tenderness displayed, yet longer, heavier, more deliberate than before.
Each movement carries not only desire, but the weight of his restrained fury — his refusal to surrender to emptiness.
That night, he does not withdraw at once.
His arm remains on her waist, heavy, unyielding.
His breath, hot and uneven, vibrates against her skin, filling the room.
She lies still, eyes wide in the dark, her heart beating too fast.
Tonight, within that brutal fervor, she has felt it at last — not tenderness, but the crack of an attachment he still hides beneath the stone.