Chapter 2
The Lotus Cage
Silence in the palace was a living thing.
It crept along the walls. It soaked into the floors. It breathed between the folds of silk and perfumed steam. It sat with Sira every morning when the bells rang and a mute servant girl washed her feet, combed her hair, and dressed her in pale robes of rose, ivory, or gold.
She never spoke to Sira, not once.
Not until the fourth morning.
Sira sat at the window, wrapped in quiet rage, staring out at the cherry blossom garden she was forbidden to enter. Her belly ached faintly the teas they gave her stirred her insides. She hadn't bled in two weeks.
The girl knelt beside her, adjusting the folds of Sira's robe, and tapped her fingers against the floor in a deliberate rhythm. One, two. Pause. One. One, two.
Sira blinked.
"Is that a pattern?" she asked softly.
The girl looked up, hesitated, then raised her hand and tapped her chest lightly.
Xiao.
Her name.
Sira nodded. "Xiao. I'm Sira."
She reached forward, rested her hand over the girl's.
They sat like that for a moment, two strangers, caught in the same golden cage, pressing against the silence.
That evening, a translator returned to her chambers, this time with a white-robed physician and two elder priestesses.
"She will be cleansed," the translator said. "The Rite begins tomorrow."
Sira stared at the man in confusion. "What Rite?"
The priestesses stepped forward, each holding a bundle of dried herbs wrapped in red silk. They moved without explanation, circling her, muttering chants in a language older than Mandarin.
One tied a string of jade beads around her wrist. Another painted a red lotus on her stomach.
The physician poured a steaming liquid into a carved cup.
Sira sniffed it cautiously. It smelled like pine needles and rust.
"What is this?"
"Blessing tea," the translator said. "To prepare your blood. So the Emperor's seed will not reject the womb."
Sira recoiled. "He's going to…?"
The priestess gave her a strange look. "No," she answered, breaking into hesitant English. "No touch. No flesh."
The translator stepped in. "It is not a carnal ritual. His essence is given through sacred transfer. The Emperor does not lower himself."
Sira's throat tightened.
She wasn't being touched.
She was being used.
That night, Xiao brought a brush and ink to her bedside.
She dipped it once, then wrote a single character on the floor:
鳥
Bird.
Sira raised a brow.
"You?" she guessed.
Xiao shook her head. Then wrote another beside it:
籠
Cage.
Sira stared.
"You're saying I'm a bird in a cage?"
Xiao nodded.
Sira picked up the brush, hesitated, then scratched a rough symbol beside Xiao's:
火
Fire.
Xiao's eyes widened. Then, for the first time, she laughed.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't careless. But it was real.
And Sira felt a spark beneath her skin.
The next day was the ceremony.
She was bathed in oils, dressed in a white robe stitched with golden cranes, and led into a circular chamber with no windows. A lotus pool rested in the center. High above, incense coiled through wooden beams. Around her, twelve robed monks stood in silence.
The Emperor did not come.
Instead, a crystal vial so small she could close her hand around it was brought to the altar. Inside was a shimmering substance.
Sira's heart thudded.
They burned herbs. Sang in low voices. The High Priest, wearing a golden headdress shaped like a sun, placed his palm over her belly and murmured a chant.
Then the vial was opened, and the ritual began.
She wasn't asked.
She wasn't spoken to.
Only prepared.
The contents were fed into her with silver tools, and her body was blessed again and again.
It was over in less than twenty minutes.
Afterward, she was left alone beside the pool, her lower belly aching faintly, her mouth dry.
The door clicked shut.
Hours passed.
Xiao came later, eyes darting nervously as she helped Sira dress again.
They didn't speak. But as Xiao combed her hair in silence, she traced a single word into Sira's palm.
Strong.
And Sira held onto that word like a rope.
Weeks passed.
She was no longer treated like a newcomer. Instead, she became part of the routine, examined by physicians twice weekly, fed a strict diet of steamed greens and boiled rice, massaged every evening by silent maids who avoided her eyes.
Xiao remained her constant.
They developed a secret language of taps, brush strokes, and touches. Xiao taught her ten Mandarin words every day, drawing the characters on silk scraps, testing her with gestures and drawings. Sira, in return, taught Xiao Mandinka songs slowly, haunting lullabies from the coast.
When Sira grew ill with morning sickness, Xiao brought peppermint soaked in cold cloth. When her hips ached, Xiao boiled water for her feet and sang wordless hums.
In Xiao's silence, Sira found more care than anyone had given her since her mother's death.
And yet she never forgot what this place was.
A gilded prison.
One afternoon, she heard flute music drifting from the southern gardens.
Not a ceremonial tune.
Something sad. Raw.
Sira followed the sound, slipping past guards with Xiao guiding her steps. They moved under the cherry trees until they found a secluded courtyard where lanterns hung low.
And there he was.
The Emperor.
He wasn't dressed like royalty only in loose robes, hair unbound. He sat on a stone bench, flute in hand, playing the notes like secrets.
When he looked up, his expression didn't change.
Only his hands paused.
"You are… her," he said in accented Mandinka. "The one they brought."
Sira straightened. "I didn't choose this."
"I know."
A pause.
"Do you hate me?" he asked softly.
Sira stepped closer. "Should I not?"
He offered no defense. Only set the flute on the bench beside him.
"I thought it would be easier," he murmured. "To create an heir without touch. Without risk. But then I saw you that day… at the Rite..."
He trailed off.
She stared at him. Not the robes. Not the symbols. But he is the man, not the crown.
"You are not what I imagined," he added.
"And you are exactly what I expected."
He laughed not loudly, not cruelly. But real.
"I suppose I deserve that."
He rose, gave a polite bow, and walked away.
He didn't touch her.
Didn't order her.
But the way he had looked at her not as a womb, not as a tool, but as someone left her shaken.
That night, Xiao handed her a jade comb.
It was carved with birds in flight.
"No cage forever," Xiao wrote on the silk wrap.
Sira smiled faintly. "Then let me learn how to open the door."