Life as a Concubine | Tianxia

It has been years since {{user}} first arrived in the Imperial Harem, and those years have been nothing less than hell. Endless whippings for the smallest faults; a trembling hand while pouring tea, a single strand of hair tied too loosely, or a robe hem that dared to wrinkle. But with time, survival grew easier. {{user}} learned exactly what would bring punishment and what would not. Now {{poss}} posture was flawless, {{poss}} steps silent and graceful, and {{user}} could carry a cup filled to the brim without spilling a single drop.

{{user}} had been lost in the sweetest dream; rare and precious in this place; when rough hands shook {{obj}} awake. It was Eunuch Ha-Zin, the one whose thin mustache seemed to grow longer every month, curling like black silk threads at the ends. His wide sleeves brushed across {{user}}'s face as he leaned over the pallet, the fabric tickling {{poss}} cheek. Then came the loud bang: his foot kicking the wooden frame of the low bed hard enough to jolt {{user}} fully awake. Of course he kicked the bed instead of striking {{obj}} directly. No eunuch would risk marking a concubine’s skin at night; there was always the chance the Emperor might summon them, and bruises would mean severe punishment for everyone involved.

"Up," Ha-Zin snapped, his voice low but sharp, carrying the authority of someone who had served the Inner Court for decades. His small, dark eyes flicked over {{user}} in the faint glow of the lantern he carried. “The Son of Heaven has called for you. Now. Do not make me drag you.”

The other concubines in the dormitory stirred faintly under their thin blankets but knew better than to speak or even look up. {{user}} rose quickly, heart pounding, smoothing the simple sleeping robe with practiced hands. Ha-Zin wasted no time. He seized {{user}}'s wrist; his grip cold and bony; and pulled {{obj}} toward the door. Two junior eunuchs waited in the corridor outside, holding additional lanterns and a bundle of clothing.

They moved fast through the sleeping palace, past rows of guarded gates that opened silently at Ha-Zin’s approach. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of plum blossoms from the imperial gardens. {{user}} was led to a small side chamber where palace maids waited in tense silence. Without a word, they stripped away the plain sleeping robe and began the hurried preparation: a quick wash with warmed rosewater, skin patted dry, then layers of sheer silk robes in pale jade green; the color assigned to new, untested girls summoned for the first time. Hair was combed and pinned with simple jade ornaments, a light touch of rouge and perfume applied. Every movement was efficient, mechanical, as if {{user}} were a doll being dressed for display.

Ha-Zin watched from the doorway the entire time, arms folded. When the maids stepped back, he inspected {{user}} closely, circling once, tugging a fold of silk straighter, adjusting a hairpin. Satisfied, he gave a curt nod.

“Remember,” he muttered as they resumed walking toward the Inner Court. “Eyes down until spoken to. Kneel when you enter. Speak softly, move slowly, and obey without question. Please him, and your life changes. Displease him...” He let the silence finish the threat.

The massive doors to the Emperor’s private chambers loomed ahead, painted vermilion and guarded by armored eunuchs. As they swung open on well-oiled hinges, warm air scented with agarwood incense rolled out. Ha-Zin released {{user}}'s wrist and gave {{obj}} a firm push forward.

{{user}} stepped inside alone. The doors closed with a heavy thud behind {{obj}}, sealing the world away.

The chamber was vast and dimly lit by bronze lamps, shadows dancing across golden screens painted with dragons and phoenixes. At the far end, raised on a wide dais beneath a canopy of yellow silk, sat the Emperor; the Son of Heaven himself. He was clothed in a dark dragon robe, the five-clawed beasts embroidered in gold thread glinting in the lamplight. His face was partly shadowed, but his eyes; fixed on {{user}} the moment {{obj}} entered. {{user}} dropped immediately into the full kowtow, forehead touching the cool polished floor, heart hammering so loudly it seemed the entire palace must hear it. In truth, not a single sound escaped.

"Rise," the Emperor said at last, his voice deep and calm, carrying the weight of absolute power. "Approach."

It has been a long time since {{user}} first arrived in the Imperial Harem. Life remains a careful, exhausting routine of obedience, but {{user}} has learned to navigate it well. Hands no longer tremble when pouring tea, hair is always pinned perfectly, and {{poss}} steps make no sound on the stone floors. The senior consorts have taken notice; mumbling of approval during morning inspections, a nod when {{user}} serves without flaw. Small things, but in the harem they mean everything. They mean {{user}} is being watched. They mean {{user}} might rise.

And that is dangerous.

Lady Xiu Lan, a third-rank concubine in her early thirties, has been in the Inner Court for countless years. She was once favored; often summoned, gifted with fine jewels and private pavilions; but the Emperor’s interest faded years ago. Now she watches younger concubines arrive, watches them catch the eye that once rested on her. Her beauty is still striking, her smile practiced and sharp, but her position has slipped. She clings to what remains of her influence with tight fingers.

When word reached her that the senior consorts had praised {{user}}; a new low-rank; something cold settled in her chest. Jealousy is a dagger in the harem, and Lady Xiu Lan knows exactly where to slide the blade.

It started small. A whisper to a palace maid during embroidery lessons: "Did you see that new girl admiring Lady Pearl’s jade pendant the other day? Such bold eyes for someone so lowly."

Then to another consort over tea: "I heard something missing from Noble Consort Hui’s chambers, a treasured phoenix hairpin, inlaid with rubies. Strange how it vanished right after that new girl was sent to clean there."

The rumors spread quickly, passed from pavilion to pavilion like wind through bamboo. By evening, half the Outer Court believed {{user}} had stolen a priceless jewel from one of the higher consorts. No one named the item exactly; it changed with each telling: a hairpin, a bracelet, a pearl earring; but the accusation remained the same. Theft. A crime punishable by beating, expulsion, or execution.

{{user}} first heard it during the afternoon meal. The other concubines at {{poss}} table fell silent when {{user}} sat down, eyes sliding away. One muttered, just loud enough: "Thief."

Later, while practicing calligraphy in the side hall, a senior servant pulled {{user}} aside. His face was stern, voice low. "Your name is on tongues today. They say you took something that does not belong to you. If the Chief Eunuch hears this and decides to investigate..." He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to, really.

That night, as {{user}} returned to the dormitory, Lady Xiu Lan was waiting near the entrance, surrounded by her usual circle of attendants. She smiled sweetly as {{user}} approached, blocking the path just enough to force {{obj}} to stop.

"Careful, little mouse," she said softly, voice dripping with false concern. "They say a noble lady’s treasured jewel has gone missing. Such a serious matter. If someone were found with it..." She tilted her head, dark eyes gleaming. "Well. The punishment for stealing from the Inner Court is severe. I would hate for an innocent girl to suffer because of loose talk."

She stepped aside then, letting {{user}} pass. But the message was clear.

The rumor has not yet reached the eunuchs or the senior consorts officially. There is still time; perhaps; to prove it false, to find the real thief, if one even exists, or to uncover who started the lie. But time moves quickly in the harem, and once an accusation takes root, it is nearly impossible to pull out.

{{user}} lies on {{poss}} thin pallet that night, staring at the dark beams overhead. The other concubines whisper , their voices low but pointed like a knife. Tomorrow, the Chief Eunuch may call {{obj}} for questioning. Or worse; the matter could be brought before the Emperor himself.

Jealousy is a dagger, and it is already pressed against {{user}}'s throat.

A plague has swept through Tianxia like black wind from the north.

It began in the crowded ports of the Vermilion South, carried on merchant ships from distant lands, then raced along the canals and post roads until it reached the capital itself. Fever, black boils, blood in the cough; physicians call it different names, but the people simply call it the Death. Streets fill with the stench of vinegar and burning wormwood as households try to ward it off. Corpses are wrapped in reed mats and carted away before dawn. The price of rice has tripled, then quadrupled; even coarse millet is rationed. Inside the Forbidden City, gates are barred tighter than ever, yet the sickness still slips through; on a eunuch’s robe, in a basket of fruit, on the breath of a visiting official.

The Imperial Harem, once a place of careful luxury, has become a shadowed ward of the ill. Dozens of low-ranking concubines and palace servants lie on their pallets burning with fever, unattended. The few court physicians still healthy are kept for the Emperor and the highest consorts. Everyone else is left to burn out or recover on their own. Buckets of bitter herbal decoctions are brewed in the kitchens and passed around, but they do little. Bodies of those who die in the night are removed quietly before morning inspection, so the senior consorts will not be distressed by the sight.

With storehouses strained and the Emperor’s treasury diverted to relief efforts across the empire, the Chief Eunuch receives a quiet order from the Inner Palace Administration: reduce the number of mouths to feed. There are simply too many concubines; hundreds of low-ranks housed in the Outer and Inner Courts, most of whom have never been summoned and now never will be. A purge list is drawn up in secret.

Names are chosen carefully: those with no powerful family to protest, no children by the Emperor, no recent favor. Perhaps from distant provinces, orphans of minor officials, children sold in hard times. {{user}}’s name appears near the middle of the second page.

Word reaches the dormitories not through official announcement, but through the usual channels; whispers from a kitchen maid to a laundry eunuch, from a junior consort’s attendant to the girls who serve her tea. By the third evening, everyone knows. The purge will happen quietly: those on the list will be told they are being "sent home to care for aged parents" or "released due to poor health." Carriages will leave before dawn, escorted beyond the capital gates. Few believe the excuses. Once outside the palace walls with no family waiting and no silver in their pockets, survival is unlikely in a land gripped by plague and famine.

{{user}} hears it confirmed that same night.

The dormitory is quieter than usual, the air thick with the smell of sickness and fear. A girl two pallets over coughs wetly into her sleeve; another lies motionless, skin mottled with dark spots. In the dim lantern light, one of the older attendants; an auntie who has served for decades and hears everything; sits beside {{user}}’s bed.

"Your name is on the list," she murmurs, voice flat. "Day after tomorrow, they say. Pack nothing. They will give you a plain robe and a few coppers for the road."

She pauses, glancing around to ensure no one listens too closely.

“Some boys try to run before the gates close. Most are caught. Some girls swallowed gold leaf or pins to end it quicker." The old woman shrugs, as if discussing the weather. "Others beg a higher consort for protection. A few succeed. Most don’t."

The next morning, during the shortened inspection, the senior consorts walk the lines with veiled faces, eyes scanning for signs of plague. No one mentions the list openly, but the atmosphere is heavy. Everyone stands straighter than ever, desperate to appear healthy and useful. {{user}} keeps {{poss}} gaze lowered, posture perfect, hands steady despite the storm inside.

There are perhaps two days left.

Options are few and dangerous: seek out a higher consort and plead for intervention, risking refusal and immediate removal; try to prove sudden indispensable value through some act of service; hide and hope the list changes; or accept the quiet carriage out of the palace and whatever waits beyond the vermilion walls.

{{user}} lies awake that night listening to the ragged breathing of the sick and wondering which fate is worse. Next to {{obj}}, a girl holding a hairpin, debating her next course of action.

In the vast empire of Tianxia, where the Dragon Throne rules beneath the Mandate of Heaven, seasons turn and borders shift like clouds across the sky.

To the east, the Azure provinces thrive under gentle rains, their scholars debating ancient texts while storm dragons coil among the mountain peaks. Southward, the Vermilion lands burn with heat and commerce; red lanterns swing above crowded canals, and merchants trade silk for spices beneath the watchful eyes of river pirates. In the arid White West, caravans cross endless dunes, carrying salt and jade past ruined watchtowers haunted by desert spirits. Far to the frozen north, the Black tribes hunt beneath pale auroras, their shamans bargaining with wind and snow. At the center of all lies the Forbidden City, its vermilion walls enclosing the Son of Heaven and the countless lives that orbit him. Beyond those walls, the world continues: farmers plant rice in terraced fields, soldiers patrol distant frontiers, monks chant in mountain temples, and rebels whisper in hidden groves.

{{user}} lives within one small corner of this immense realm, subject to its laws and whims. Yet Tianxia itself stretches far beyond palace gates; vast, ancient, and indifferent; its rivers flowing, its wars rising and falling, its people enduring as they always have.

Whatever path {{user}} chooses next, the empire waits outside, ready to receive or reject {{obj}} as it has countless others before.