The harem was quiet the next morning. Too quiet. Not peaceful quiet — simmering quiet. That brittle, coiled silence like a drawn bowstring aimed at someone's face.
Even the eunuchs moved slower. As if they knew a single word out of place might trigger another soap-and-blood brawl.
I was lounging on a cushion in the central courtyard, eating figs with as much smugness as humanly possible. My bruises were starting to fade. My reputation? Glowing. Like a lantern in a brothel window.
And then Loma came back.
She drifted in from the far corridor. Floaty. Silent. Pale as limestone. She looked like she'd walked backwards out of a mausoleum. The veil was crooked. Her hair was undone. Her hands shook.
The other wives stopped mid-whisper.
I sat up slowly. "Loma?"
She didn't answer. Just stared at me with those big, bloodshot eyes like I'd personally gutted her pet unicorn.
She took two steps forward.
"He…" she started, voice thready.
I stood, fig still in hand.
"He gave me a ruby," she said, almost a whisper. "A ruby. Big as a plum. Said it was a reward."
"A reward?" I asked carefully.
She looked right through me. "For bringing you to his household."
Something twisted in my chest. I opened my mouth—
"He didn't even touch me, Saya," she choked. "Didn't even look at me like a woman. Just asked for you."
I tried to say something. Anything.
But then her face cracked. That careful princess mask shattered all at once and out came the real Loma—furious, humiliated, broken.
"Why do you always have to ruin everything for me?!"
Her voice echoed. Every silk curtain flinched.
"I was finally something," she shouted. "A wife. A real one. Not a prisoner or a pawn or a frozen girl in some tower. And then you show up. Again. Like you always do. Smirking. Naked. Sticky. And now I'm just—the girl who delivered the better whore."
The ruby hit the floor between us with a dull thud. I looked down at it. Gleamed like a blood clot.
She was shaking.
The other wives pretended to be very interested in the fruit trays.
Loma turned. Shoulders heaving. Stormed off barefoot.
I stared after her.
Gods help me, I didn't even know if I was angry… or just sad.
***
I sat in the window wearing nothing but harem pants and bad thoughts.
The moon hung above the garden like a crescent coin, cheap and distant. The night smelled like jasmine and overwatered roses, the kind of luxury smell that makes your spine twitch when you remember what gutter rot feels like.
My legs were crossed, feet dirty from wandering the tiles barefoot. My wine had gone warm. My tits caught the moonlight just right. I looked like a goddess in a brothel fresco.
And still felt like shit.
Was this what I'd become?
Some vindictive, glistening little gremlin who slithered into the palace and ruined another girl's shot at a future?
Was I… evil?
No, wait. Hold on.
No.
Loma grew up in silk. In rooms with more pillows than people. She had tea tutors. I grew up under a bridge with rats fighting each other over my crusts. I once had to trade a shoelace for bread. Bread that had teeth marks.
I clawed my way here.
Is it really too much to ask for a bit of softness? A proper bath? A fig that isn't rotten? A cock that doesn't stink of dockside grog and regret?
Maybe I overdid it. Just a bit. A little. A skosh.
Maybe I shouldn't have monopolized His Pallid Majesty's dick like it was the last kebab at a wedding.
I squinted at the garden below.
Is "His Majesty" even how you address an archduke? Or is it "Your Paleness"? "The Moist Nobility"? "Lord of the Slippery Hour"?
Ugh. Doesn't matter.
What matters is maybe… maybe I could do something for Loma.
Not an apology. That's boring.
Something generous. Carnal. Healing.
Like a threesome.
Yes.
A royal-grade, emotionally reparative threesome.
I could pitch it to Pale Dickhead. Tell him it's a bonding ritual. Sisterhood of the Traveling Hips. Something erotic but emotionally resonant.
And then—then—maybe I excuse myself halfway through. Leave Loma alone with him. Let her have the spotlight. Just her.
Not the harpies. Not Wife Numbers. Just Loma.
Let her have her moment. Her moans. Her damn ruby redemption arc.
Gods, I'm a genius.
I raised the wine cup in a lazy salute to the moon.
"To emotional maturity via strategic penetration," I muttered.
The moon didn't reply.
Rude.
I leaned back in the window frame, bare chest kissed by the breeze, basking in the soft glow of smugness and moonlight.
Yes. This was character development. I was evolving.
The Dragon would approve. Probably say something snarky like "Guilt suits you, monkey" or roll his eyes and mutter about emotional constipation, but deep down — deep, deep down beneath all those centuries of sass and scales — he'd be proud.
Because this was maturity. Empathy. Generosity.
Not the coin kind. Let's not get carried away. I wasn't about to hand out jewelry or pay anyone's debts. I'm not a priestess.
But emotional generosity? Yes.
I was taking someone else's feelings seriously. Loma's, even! The girl who once cried because her embroidery got rained on. The girl who nearly strangled me with a sheer scarf when I stole her blush powder.
I was going to give her a gift. A real one.
Time. Intimacy. The good dick.
Even if it was ghost-pale, uptight archducal dick with a weird obsession for foot oil and calling me "my little eastern puzzle."
Still. It counts.
I was, for once in my disaster of a life, taking responsibility for the emotional collateral I left in my wake.
Even if that responsibility involved moaning prettily for twenty minutes and then slipping out mid-rut so Loma could have her moment in the moonlight.
I looked up at the crescent and smirked.
"Who's a good person?" I whispered.
The moon said nothing.
But my nipples perked from the breeze like they agreed.