Noctavine studied her daughter with the weariness of a woman who had seen kingdoms rise and fall over less than love.
Scarlett stood at the edge of the garden terrace, arms folded, gaze fixed on the floating sky above—where Parker hovered like a god still pretending to be a man, Maya soon joining him, their silhouettes fusing into something that reeked of divinity and inevitability.
"You refused again?" Noctavine asked, though she already knew the answer.
Scarlett didn't look at her. "I'm not playing their games."
Of course she wasn't. Noctavine sighed, her fingers tightening on the silver teacup, its contents long gone cold.
She admired her daughter's independence—genuinely, deeply—but in this tangled web of divine lovers and ancient empresses, neutrality was just another word for target. The harem wasn't what it once was, not since the factions solidified into political machines dressed in silk and scent.
