ANERIA
CROWN CASTLE
The man whose gaze could silence legions stood before her, his eyes the color of fresh blood beneath candlelight. He did not speak, not at first. Instead, he studied her as one might a painting of uncertain value, curious but not yet impressed. "I... please forgive me, Your Majesty," Aneria stammered, her voice trembling like the flicker of a dying flame. "I had no ill intent. I only... I only..." Kaida Keres Vuskasin, Emperor of the Firon Empire and slayer of kings, raised one hand in quiet command. The gesture was sharp, immediate, and final. Aneria swallowed her words along with the lump in her throat, lowering her gaze to the stone beneath her knees. The table's iron legs blurred in her vision, her breath short and shaky. "Look at me, child," the Emperor said. His voice was not raised, but it held the weight of mountains. Aneria hesitated, her body fighting itself, but finally obeyed. Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her eyes to meet his. These were the same eyes that had watched Seath Village burn. The same man who had stood untouched while her mother screamed beneath a Firon blade. The man who had taken her freedom, her home, her name. Kaida stepped closer, the soft rustle of his heavy black robes louder than her breathing. He reached out, his fingers lifting her chin with a gentleness that made her skin crawl. Then he lowered himself into the carved lionwood chair beside her. "Do you know why I summoned you?" he asked, reclining back as if they were old friends and not conqueror and conquered."To serve His Majesty," Aneria said, her voice brittle as ice on the edge of thaw. Her hands twisted in her lap, betraying her nerves. The Emperor exhaled through his nose and shook his head, slow and deliberate. "No. I summoned you because once, long ago, I believed there was something in you. Something rare. A spark. A fire. That is why I did not kill you with the rest of your village. But now all I see is a frightened little girl who cannot even meet my gaze without shaking." His words sliced her open. Aneria said nothing, for there was nothing she could say. She lowered her eyes again and bit her tongue to keep from trembling.Kaida turned away, reaching for the massive map spread across his desk. With ink-stained fingers, he circled a region in the eastern range, marking yet another place in his relentless hunt for relics of power. "Are you searching for mines?" Aneria asked quietly, her voice barely more than a breath. Kaida glanced up. "Mines?" "With magic stones," she added, nervously twisting her fingers. "Are you looking for them?" He gave the smallest nod, though his eyes remained on the parchment. "What do you know of such things?" "There are magic stones in the caves near the Ertic Mountains," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "My father told me. He found them by accident while hunting, but I don't know if they are still there."
Kaida froze. The inkbrush in his hand hovered mid-air. Then he moved, eyes darting to the map as his fingers traced the terrain toward the Ertic range. "No such deposits have ever been recorded there," he muttered. "What kind of magic stones?" "I don't know," she admitted, her voice steadier now. "But he said the air shimmered like summer heat, and his torchlight flickered blue. That the rocks whispered when he passed." "And why," Kaida said, turning his full attention back to her, "do you tell me this? Of all people in this world, why me?" Aneria's chest tightened. The truth lay heavy in her throat, but she forced it out. "Because it is my duty to serve the empire I was raised in." Silence followed, long and sharp like the pause between lightning and thunder. The Emperor narrowed his eyes. "Had another said those words, I might have called it treason. But from you, a frost-born girl, daughter of a slain man, I choose to believe it." He looked back to the map and circled the Ertic Mountains with a slow, deliberate hand. "If we find what you claim, you will be rewarded."The words struck her like a stone to the ribs, not from cruelty, but from the sheer disbelief that he had said them at all. "You are dismissed," he said finally, without looking at her again. The moon was rising by the time she stepped from his chambers. The air in the corridors had turned cold, and the firelight from the wall sconces shimmered like small, anxious stars. A lone maid moved silently ahead, lighting lanterns with whispered incantations. Aneria watched with wide eyes as blue fire curled from the woman's fingertips, dancing toward the wicks. She had never seen spellcraft so close. In Seath, magic had been spoken of in hushed stories, feared and revered but rarely seen. Entranced by the flickering flame, she did not notice the figure approaching until it was too late. She collided softly with someone tall and unmoving, and her heart nearly stopped. It was a woman, tall as a statue and twice as still. Her skin was a deep, smooth brown, unblemished by time. Her silver eyes gleamed like moonlight caught in glass, and her black curls were coiled tightly, bound with silver threads and pearls. She wore a gown the color of ash and wine, elegant and understated, yet unmistakably royal. Around her neck hung a chain of sigils, each one representing a daughter she had birthed. The Empress. The eldest in the harem. The only woman to have given the Emperor five daughters. The one whose gaze alone silenced rooms. Aneria stepped back, heart racing, and dropped to a knee in apology, her head bowed low. The Empress said nothing. She did not need to. Her silence carried more weight than words. And as she stared down at Aneria, her silver cat-eyes narrowing just slightly, Aneria understood. In this palace of power, every glance was a weapon, every step a move on a board of knives. And she had just stumbled into the path of an Imperial Royal. Empress Mandora Tendani Daleon Vuskasin. A name once spoken with reverence now echoed through the palace halls with pity, when it was spoken at all. She had been Empress for thirty-two years, married off at the tender age of seven to a man two decades her elder. Kaida had been twenty-seven then, already a rising warlord with blood on his sword and ambition in his veins. She, a wide-eyed girl from the Daleon province, was offered to him like a ceremonial lamb, gift-wrapped in silk and expectation. By thirteen, she had delivered her first daughter. By fifteen, another. By seventeen, a third. And at nineteen, her fourth. A line of girls, beautiful and docile, but ultimately worthless in the eyes of the empire, where wombs were judged solely by the sons they could provide. It was after that fourth child the Emperor stopped coming to her chambers altogether. He turned his attention to the younger, unproven concubines in his ever-growing harem, women barely of age, pliable and full of promise. It did not take long before the Second Queen gave birth to the empire's first son. A moment that silenced the Council, pleased the Watchers, and pacified the people.
All except the Empress. Her parents, noble but losing favor by the season, pressed her to try again. Rumors whispered that she had knelt before the Emperor, her forehead to the sandstone floor, begging him to grant her one final chance. He had obliged once, and soon she was with child again. This time, Mandora had done more than pray. She fasted until her bones showed, bathed in the blood of white doves, offered coin and sleep to every priestess in the capital. There were darker rumors too, that she had sought a Shirom witch who trafficked in forbidden arts, offering her own blood in exchange for a son. But the Watchers, or fate, or whatever cruel force ruled the stars, had other plans. The child was born a girl. Blind, with one leg shorter than the other and twisted inward. She could not stand unaided, could not walk without pain. In a royal bloodline that prided itself on perfection, such a child was seen not as a daughter, but a curse. A punishment. The Emperor had not spoken to Mandora since. She had not been seen beside him in court, not even once. Aneria had just collided with her. The Empress stood like a shadow given form, tall and elegant despite the years of humiliation she wore like a shroud. Her brown skin glowed under the lantern light, her tight curls wound with thin strands of silver and garnets. And her eyes...,those pale silver eyes, cold as moons, looked down at Aneria with neither anger nor warmth. Only weariness. Aneria dropped into a low bow, forehead brushing the polished sandstone floor. "My apologies, Your Highness," she said quickly, her voice caught in her throat. "I did not see you coming." Mandora did not move at first. Her gaze lingered on Aneria, thoughtful, detached. "Are you coming from His Majesty's sanctum?" she asked finally, her voice calm, yet hollowed by time and disappointment. "Yes, Your Highness," Aneria answered, her hands rubbing together at her waist. She did not lift her head. The Empress made a small sound in her throat, neither approval nor judgment, merely acknowledgment. A soft hum. Then she turned and walked on, her footsteps quieter than a breath. Aneria dared to look up. The Empress moved alone, down the vast corridor, her silks trailing like smoke behind her. No ladies flanked her. No guards. Not even a servant. Aneria watched, puzzled. Why is she alone? she wondered. Where are her ladies-in-waiting? She is still the Empress. Surely she must have at least that much right. The thought lingered like a chill as she stepped outside the castle's arched entrance, expecting to find her carriage waiting. There was not.The polished black chariot that had brought her had vanished, and the night air was growing colder by the minute. She looked about uncertainty, her arms crossed against the wind. Perhaps she would have to walk back to the Pearl Palace. But then a sound, the soft jangle of harnesses and the muffled steps of hooves on stone. A carriage pulled up before her. Not just any carriage. It was His Majesty's. The shape of it was long and regal, its body lacquered in a deep, glossy obsidian. The windows were framed in polished iron shaped like curling vines, and the glass shimmered faintly with a hint of enchantment. Dark enough for privacy, clear enough to see moonlight gleam within. Along the top edges, golden filigree coiled like serpents meeting at the crest of the roof, where a sculpted lion's head bore a ruby between its eyes. The coachman stepped down and opened the door with a bow. "Neketis," he said respectfully, his eyes downcast. "His Majesty has instructed me to ensure you return to Pearl Palace safely." Aneria blinked, then nodded with a quiet "Thank you." She stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and the carriage began to move. Wrapped in silence and velvet cushions, Aneria leaned back into the plush seat, her thoughts racing She had spoken to the Emperor. Alone. He had touched her chin, looked her in the eyes, and promised a reward if her claim proved true. And then she met the Empress. A woman broken by the very throne she still wore. Once revered, now abandoned.
Aneria exhaled slowly, her mind whirling with emotion. She could not wait to tell Inara. The pathways passed by like a dream, shadows sliding past the windows. By the time they reached the Pearl Palace, the moon had risen fully, casting silver light across the courtyard stones. The carriage stopped. Aneria stepped out, her legs light beneath her. She walked into the palace with a smile playing faintly at the corners of her mouth. The kind of smile one wears after surviving a storm, unsure of what comes next, but certain that something has begun.
SESHION
SHEPHERDS PALACE
Morning had broken over Shepherd's Palace with the slow grace of honey spilled from a silver ladle, thick, golden, and deliberate. It was a palace built not for war or wisdom, but for wealth. Grand as it was vain, its very stones seemed cut from opulence. Columns of polished marble, veined with gold, lined the outer courtyard in a perfect arc. The floors were laid with mosaic tiles in shades of sapphire and jade, arranged into blooming floral patterns that shifted with the eye. High-arched ceilings soared overhead, painted with scenes of angels and lions, each fresco edged in gilt.
Velvet draperies fell like waterfalls from windows tall enough to fit the mast of a ship. Crystal chandeliers hung heavy with teardrop gems, catching sunlight in shattered rainbows. Every inch of the palace breathed indulgence, from the ivory balustrades to the carved wooden doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The place suited its mistress. Queen Seshion, third of the Emperor's queens, ruled Shepherd's Palace like a spider in a jeweled web. The palace mirrored her tastes in every glittering corner, for she wore more diamonds than the stars bore light and threw banquets lavish enough to drown a merchant's fortune in a single night.
The Emperor entrusted her with entertaining foreign dignitaries and high ministers alike, for none among the royal women knew better how to balance courtly charm with gilded intimidation. Once, she had been the undisputed beauty of the harem before Aneria arrived. On this morning, the hush of Shepherd's Palace held like glass, until it was shattered by the hurried echo of footsteps on stone.
A lady was running. Not walking with purpose, nor striding with confidence, but truly running, skirts bunched in her fists, slippers tapping like panicked raindrops. Her gown swept behind her in a blur of color and motion, a thing not made for haste but for display, beauty crafted for the slow dance of court life.
The dress itself was a marvel, a masterpiece of color and craft, a cascade of pale blue and soft cream that shimmered like light on snow. Its bodice clung close to the form, fashioned from whisper-thin silk that glowed faintly under the morning sun. Silver thread coiled across the surface in curling, delicate patterns like vines climbing a palace wall, and each point of embroidery was tipped with a tiny bead of glass that glittered like frozen dew. Straps of powder-blue silk rested across her shoulders, the edges trimmed with fine silver chains that murmured softly with every desperate step.
Long strands of beads draped from her chest in fragile lines, swaying with her frantic movement, catching the light as if each one held a star. The sleeves were its most ethereal element, voluminous and sheer, stitched from cream gauze so light it seemed conjured from mist. They flowed down from her arms like twin banners of a Watchers dress, each layer edged in gold thread and sewn with pale green under-linings that hinted at earth beneath air. Flames of translucent fabric curled along their lengths, sharp at the tips, stitched in shapes that spoke more of fire than frost. But it was her hair that marked her as nobility. A crown of braids wound across her head, black as crow feathers and gleaming with oils and care.
The uppermost braids were twisted high, pinned in an elaborate tower of coils and knots, adorned with slender filigree of gold so fine it seemed spun from sunlight. Here and there, blood-red gemstones winked like garnets in a dragon's hoard, each set into tiny clasps no bigger than a fingernail. Twin locks were left to spill down her cheeks, veiled behind a web of golden chains that danced with motion.
The chains hung like a curtain of spider-silk kissed by dew, links delicate enough to break with a harsh breath, yet none did. Each chain bore small rubies, shaped like teardrops, catching fire with every stride. Her face beneath them was flushed with urgency, breath short, eyes sharp. She burst into a chamber without knocking. And not just any chamber, but the chamber. The Queen's chamber.
A sanctum lined with silks and scents, mirrors so tall they reached the ceiling, and chaise lounges of lavender velvet. The doors were carved with lilies and lions, the floors softened with carpets brought from southern deserts and northern isles alike. This was the throne of Shepherd's Palace, where Queen Seshion preened like a peacock and plotted like a wolf. And into that sanctum, this noble lady ran, unbidden, gown whispering like waves, chains still swinging like the echo of a bell struck in haste.
The Queen stood half-dressed in a chamber warm with perfume and the faint sound of silk rustling. A white linen gown clung to her rounded belly, sheer as milk, tied loosely beneath the bust with golden cord. Around her buzzed a swarm of handmaidens, tugging, pinning, smoothing down cloth, fussing over her swollen feet and the coils of silver-threaded hair being set atop her head like a gilded crown. The door flew open with a bang. A breathless figure swept in, her jeweled hem catching on the tiles. Queen Seshion froze mid-motion, eyes narrowing. Her hands, adorned in rings and hennaed with delicate patterns, flinched away from her belly as she turned, one slow pivot of a woman accustomed to being obeyed. "Lady Selvic," she said coldly, her voice calm before a sandstorm. "You had better have a reason worth your life for barging into my quarters unannounced." Lady Selvic dropped into a bow, chest heaving from her sprint. Her own gown shimmered with dust from the corridors, and strands of dark hair clung to her sweat-slicked face. But she did not flinch beneath the Queen's glare.
Queen Seshion stepped fully into view then, the light from the tall windows catching in her stark features. Her skin was a rich, burnished brown, set beneath a crown of stark white hair that shimmered like snow against her dark complexion. Her lashes and brows were white as well, inherited from her winter-fox father, though her mother had been a plain human woman. Her lips were ripe and plum-dark, her nose elegant save for the subtle crook halfway down the bridge, the result of a childhood fall she had never forgiven anyone for. Heavily pregnant, she winced and gripped the edge of a carved settee as the child within gave a violent kick. "Ahh..." Seshion groaned, closing her eyes for a heartbeat. "If this baby isn't a son, I swear I'll have ruined my figure for nothing," she muttered bitterly, cradling her stomach as if it had betrayed her. The maids glanced at one another but said nothing.
Lady Selvic took a half-step forward. "My Queen, I bring news. From Crown Castle. About... His Majesty." At once, the Queen's eyes snapped open, sharp with interest. "All of you, out," she barked, swatting away a handmaid who had been fixing a golden clasp to her shoulder. The maids scattered, skirts whispering, heads bowed. Lady Selvic closed the door firmly behind them and turned back, the hush that followed thick with anticipation. "Well?" Seshion hissed. "Spit it out already, girl, before this baby claws its way out just to hear the damned gossip." Lady Selvic nodded quickly, eyes bright. "The Frost-born... Neketis Aneria. She was summoned to Crown Castle yesterday morning. Spent hours with His Majesty. Returned to the Pearl Palace in his private carriage, at moonrise." The silence that followed was electric. Then came the explosion. "That little Frost-born witch!" Seshion shrieked, grabbing a cushion and hurling it across the room. It thudded uselessly against a mirror. "How is this possible? He's ignored her for years! She's barely more than a statue in silk. Why now?" Her voice cracked with fury. "As if Inara wasn't enough competition, now I have to deal with this ice-born virgin whispering sweet nothings into the Emperor's ear?" Her breath came ragged. Then her eyes lit with a sudden, vicious curiosity. "Wait... does Inara know? Is she sobbing into her silks yet? Screaming at her maids? That woman couldn't keep her composure if her own shadow stepped out of line." Lady Selvic shook her head. "I do not know, Your Grace. But I suspect she must have heard. The guards are talking. Everyone is." Seshion's fury cooled into something colder, quieter, more dangerous. She sat down before a grand mirror framed in silver ivy, her expression thoughtful. "Well, now that I think about it... I shouldn't be the one fretting," she murmured, brushing a hand over the curve of her belly. "I gave him a son. No matter what else happens, I'm secured. This child may not bring me more power, but I've done what matters." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Inara, though... if she gives him a daughter, and Aneria becomes his new favorite..." She smiled, slow and satisfied. "She'll be forgotten. And that will be a sight worth watching." Lady Selvic hesitated. "Do you think... you are cruel, Your Grace? Hoping for the downfall of Queen Inara? She has been kind to " "Kindness is not a currency," Seshion snapped, though not unkindly. "Do you know what kindness gets you in the harem, Selvic? A poison cup. A miscarriage. A stillborn baby. I learned that when I was seventeen." She turned back to the mirror, running a lacquered nail along her lower lip. "No, I'm not cruel. I'm prepared. The evil one is not me, it's the Second Queen. You know what they say. She's never left evidence in her life. Her enemies vanish like mist, and no one dares ask why." Lady Selvic nodded grimly. "Then what do we do, my Queen?" Seshion sighed, leaning back as a fresh pang rippled through her body. She stared at her reflection, at the dark rings beneath her eyes, the slight swelling of her ankles, the skin stretched taut over her belly like silk drawn over glass. "The harem," she said softly, "is about to become a battlefield." She smiled, not cruelly, but like a woman who had seen war and survived it. "I wonder how long that little Frost-born girl will last. My bet?" She tilted her head, lips curling. "Three months."
INARA
DUSKWOOD PALACE
"Mother," Inara said gently, her cool fingers curled around her mother's jeweled hands, "you ought not be so concerned. These are only rumors. If anything of the sort had truly happened, Aneria would have told me herself." She spoke with the soft grace of snow falling on temple stone, her words calm but not unfeeling. Her mother, however, was far from soothed. Cielle Fin Mallaton, Duchess of House Mallaton and matron of one of the empire's oldest and most ambitious noble lines, pulled her hands free and began to pace the chamber like a hawk ruffling its feathers. She wore robes of deep burgundy trimmed with fox fur, and the sigil of her house, a crescent ginger moon sewn with a red flower blooming at its heart, was stitched over her shoulder in gold thread. "Do not be so naïve, Inara," she said sharply, her boots tapping against the veined marble floor.
"You speak of Aneria as though she is still the girl you used to braid flowers with in the garden. But girls grow. They learn. They change. And the world around them hungers to use them." Inara sighed, brushing a dark strand from her face. Her mother's voice had risen as it always did when speaking of court matters, as if volume might silence her own uncertainty."You're certain, are you?" Cielle snapped, turning on her heel.
"Your father is livid, Inara. Livid. The whole court is whispering already that the Emperor has taken a renewed interest in the Pearl Palace. The guards gossip like washermaids. The cooks talk of nothing else. You may not care, but your family cannot afford to ignore it." "I said I would speak to her." Inara's voice did not rise, but it did steel. "I'll invite her to the temple. We often go there together. I'll ask her then, gently. So don't worry." Her mother paused at that, the lines of her face softening. Inara offered a smile, feather-light, as if it might drift away on a breath of wind. Her eyes, pale and clear as morning frost, met her mother's with quiet resolve. Cielle allowed herself a smile in return, and for a moment, mother and daughter sat like old friends rather than noble pawns trapped in their respective roles. But Inara's gaze dimmed again as she let go of her mother's hands.
Her voice, when she spoke next, came quieter, almost reluctant. "It's not really your concern, is it?" she said, her fingers settling on her small belly. "He sent you. Whispered in your ear. You were just the mouth." Cielle didn't answer, but her expression told enough. "He's afraid," Inara said softly, stroking her stomach in small, absent circles. "He thinks if the Emperor's eye shifts elsewhere, if someone else rises, someone with no family ties to him, his path to more power narrows. That's what this is about. Not me. Not the baby. Just ambition. Always ambition." "Inara..." Cielle sat beside her on the edge of the bed, her voice gentler now. She cupped her daughter's cheek, thumb brushing along her temple. "Your father wants only the best for you. He loves you."Inara bit her lip, and for a long moment, she said nothing. Then she gave a slight nod, more out of politeness than belief. Her heart was made of gold, too soft for the iron halls of power she had been born into. Inara believed in kindness the way some believed in Watchers. She gave when others hoarded. She forgave when others plotted. She trusted when others schemed. And for that, her father often scolded her, telling her she ought to use the Emperor's past fondness to raise the standing of House Mallaton, petition for lands, build allies, form secret alliances, not donate silks to orphanages or feed the sick with her own coin. But Inara's path had always diverged from his. And she had long stopped pretending otherwise. Cielle kissed her on the forehead before departing. "Don't let her lie to you," she said at the door. "She's your friend, yes, but even friends have secrets when they fear they are climbing higher than they ought." The door closed with a whisper.
Left alone, Inara lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, ivory plaster painted with the symbol of her house, the ginger moon and the red blossom, ringed with stars. Her mother's words clung to her mind like dust. Why were they always so afraid? So paranoid? Especially her father? But before her thoughts could sink deeper, a knock came at the door. "Enter," she said quickly, sitting upright and brushing down her skirts. Three maids entered in solemn silence. They wore black gowns without shape or ornament, and white veils hung from their pinned hair, trailing down their backs to the small of their spines.
They bowed low, their eyes never lifting. "Your bath is prepared, Your Grace," the maid in the center said. "Shall we assist you?" Inara shook her head. "No, thank you. I believe I'll manage." She never liked being touched by those whose faces she could not remember.
She hated the way their hands moved over her like she was a doll to be dressed or a corpse to be washed. When given the chance, she always preferred to tend to herself. The maids bowed again and retreated without a word. Moments later, Inara followed them out, her pale robes trailing behind her like whispers of snow in the breeze.