The night King Arthro spent in Queen Roselin's palace had left behind more than silence—it left a bitter stain.
Their bodies had met, but not their hearts. There was no affection in his touch, no tenderness in hers. The intimacy had been hollow, driven not by desire, but by something darker. Something laced in the wine he drank—something he hadn't tasted until it was too late.
He woke the next morning with the weight of regret crushing his chest and a strange fog in his mind. Roselin lay beside him, bare and composed, as though nothing had been amiss. Her expression unreadable. Almost… prepared.
Arthro said nothing. Neither did she.
He could have accused her. He could have demanded an explanation. But to do so would be to accuse the queen—daughter of Chancellor Shansha—of treachery. A scandal like that would fracture the court, insult a powerful man, and unravel years of careful diplomacy. He kept it buried.
Still, doubt festered. Chancellor Shansha had always been too clever, too composed. Arthro couldn't shake the thought that it had all been orchestrated. A drugged king. A night of forced closeness. A queen untouched by guilt.
Since then, he had avoided Roselin. No visits. No glances. No warmth. The palace buzzed with confusion—why would the king pull away after finally sharing a bed with his queen?
They didn't know the truth. They didn't know he hadn't wanted it.
Now, with the arrival of a new concubine on the horizon, Arthro found himself drawn more frequently to the physician's chamber. Fifi's presence steadied him. Her voice was soft, her touch clinical, and there were no layers of courtly deception behind her eyes.
He said little during those visits, but in silence, he found clarity. The past could not be undone—but it no longer held him prisoner.
The wind shifted in the eastern courtyards. And Arthro, though still wrapped in shadows of suspicion, was already moving forward.
---
Silken drapes fluttered in the breeze that slipped in through the latticed window, the golden embroidery shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Concubine Shithal sat upright on her cushioned seat, a distant look in her eyes, her fingers curling tightly around the hem of her robe. Her chamber, scented with the essence of sandalwood and peonies, was unusually quiet—too quiet for the woman known for her laughter and sharp tongue.
Today, she wore deep crimson, her favorite, a shade that once made King Arthro pause in his steps. But even that no longer seemed to hold the power it once did.
A soft knock echoed through the chamber.
"My lady," a voice came gently from behind the door. It was Xioli, her personal maid. "May I enter?"
"Yes," Shithal said, her voice composed but clipped.
Xioli entered with a tray in hand. Atop it sat a porcelain teapot, adorned with gold trim, steam rising from its spout, carrying a fragrance that teased the senses. She set it down carefully before her mistress, eyes flickering with awareness. "The king sent this, my lady. The same blend you once said you adored."
Shithal's eyes narrowed.
"He remembers that?" she muttered, a little too bitterly. She didn't reach for the tea.
"He always sends it now," Xioli offered cautiously, trying to test the mood. "Along with jewels, silks, perfumes from the East… extravagant gifts."
"Yes," Shithal said, with a mirthless smile. "He sends gifts. Like he would to a favored pet."
Xioli glanced at her mistress's hands. There was tension in them—enough to make her worry.
"The king still visits you more than the others, my lady," Xioli said, trying to ease the storm brewing in Shithal's mind.
Shithal gave a soft, disbelieving laugh.
"That may be true," she said. "But it means nothing. Not when his heart wanders."
Xioli didn't respond. She knew better than to speak too freely now.
Shithal looked at the teacup before her but didn't touch it. "First, it was Roselin," she said, bitterness sharp in her voice. "Rumors spread like wildfire that he spent the night in her palace. A Queen she may be, but not once has he ever hidden his contempt for her. She's nothing more than a figure propped up by her father's power."
Xioli opened her mouth but thought better of speaking.
"But now," Shithal continued, "he's taking another concubine. A dancer. A dancer from Barbar, of all places. Fifi."
The name dropped from her tongue like poison.
"She's been in the physician's wing ever since the assassination attempt," Shithal said, eyes narrowing. "The king visits her there daily. Speaks to her gently. As if she's something fragile. As if she matters."
"The rumors say she saved his life," Xioli said softly. "That she took the blade meant for him."
Shithal shot her a sharp look. Xioli lowered her gaze.
"Do you believe that?" Shithal asked coldly. "Do you really think some dancer just happened to be there? At that precise moment? And that she, of all people, would risk her life for the king?" She scoffed. "No. She's more cunning than she lets on."
She stood, pacing the room slowly, her long sleeves trailing behind her like waves of velvet. Her expression twisted with the pain of wounded pride. "I always thought Ruby was my greatest competition. She was clever, beautiful, always had the king's ear. Even after she died, her name lingered in the halls. Her shadow haunts me more than she ever did alive."
Xioli's eyes softened with concern. "My lady…"
"She cursed me," Shithal said, almost whispering. "In her final breath, she looked at me and said, 'Even if I'm gone, your peace will never return.' And perhaps she was right."
Xioli approached her slowly, daring to place a gentle hand on her mistress's sleeve. "But she is gone, my lady. The past is buried."
"Is it?" Shithal said, turning to face her. "Because every time I gain ground, another woman comes to take it from me. Queen Roselin may have no love from the king, but she has power in her title. And now this dancer—this Fifi—wields power with her body and a well-timed wound. What am I, Xioli? A memory of affection? A comfortable habit?"
"No," Xioli said firmly. "You are the fire in this palace, my lady. The king may wander, but he always returns to you. You are more than a lover—you are a force. The others… they are distractions."
Shithal studied her maid's face for a long moment. Then, slowly, her shoulders relaxed.
"I want you to find out everything about her," she said. "Fifi. Her real name. Where she trained. Who she speaks to. Every detail."
"Yes, my lady."
"And Xioli…"
"Yes?"
"Be cautious. I sense there are greater games at play now. And we must not be caught sleeping."
Xioli nodded, bowing her head. "I believe in my lady and will always follow your lead."
Shithal finally sat back down, her expression composed once more. Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the courtyard. But inside, the storm had only begun to stir.
---
April 5th arrived with a breeze that carried the faint fragrance of magnolias. The palace grounds glistened under the pale morning light, dew still clinging to the tips of the hibiscus bushes that framed the Eastern Palace—Hibiscus Garden.
Inside the inner chambers of the newly appointed concubine, there was a flurry of silk and whispers. Servants scurried like honeybees, tending to every detail of Fifi's appearance. She sat silently in front of the gilded mirror, the surface catching soft reflections of her porcelain skin and the trembling of her hands. Her wide, expressive eyes studied herself as if trying to recognize the woman the empire now called "His Majesty's chosen flower."
They had dressed her in a rose-pink gown, hand-embroidered by Master Yue—the renowned artisan whose needlework was said to rival paintings. Threads of silver and gold danced across the hem and sleeves, forming cascading peonies and fluttering birds. The gown clung gently to her form, modest yet captivating, the color chosen specifically to evoke innocence and allure.
Her makeup was kept light—a soft flush on her cheeks, a subtle hue on her lips, just enough to highlight her natural elegance. And then came the final touch: a golden hairpin, delicate and glimmering like starlight. It bore the shape a lotus, a gift from none other than King Arthro himself. When it was secured into her dark waves, it transformed her into something unearthly. Beauty multiplied. A vision even the moon would hesitate to rival.
Fifi stared at her reflection. It didn't feel real. Was she truly about to enter the royal harem? She had once lived in a quiet manor, wandering gardens without a single soul to scheme against her. Now, her life was to be bound to a palace of women, power, and secrets.
A small voice interrupted her thoughts.
"My lady," came the gentle voice of a servant girl, no older than thirteen. Her eyes sparkled with admiration. "You look like a beautifully crafted goddess. It feels as if a heavenly fairy has descended to bless the world."
Fifi blinked, momentarily startled. Then she smiled. The girl's words were naive but sweet. Her youth was written in the innocence of her compliment, the wide-eyed wonder with which she looked upon Fifi.
"How old is she?" Fifi thought to herself. "Twelve? Thirteen? Too young to understand what the harem truly is…"
Still, her words made Fifi's lips curl with amusement.
The harem was not a place of dreams. She had heard the rumors. It was an empire within an empire, ruled by beauty, cunning, and jealousy. Currently, there were only two women: Queen Roselin and Concubine Shithal. Roselin, the official queen, was known for her composure—neither cruel nor soft. She bore her crown with grace and silence.
Shithal, however, was another matter. The king's favored for two years now. Whispers said she had wept and argued upon hearing about Fifi's arrival. Though she could not oppose the king directly, her disapproval had echoed through the palace walls like an unsung war song.
"One rival for now…" Fifi murmured under her breath, her fingers clenching slightly over her silk robe.
Finally ready, Fifi stepped into the royal carriage sent by King Arthro himself. Painted white and gold, the carriage bore the seal of the imperial lion, with flowing silk curtains embroidered in dragons. Four strong horses, adorned with crimson tassels, awaited to pull her across the stone path from the Eastern Palace to the main royal residence.
The journey was short, but her thoughts stretched endlessly. Her hands rested in her lap, her heartbeat thudding quietly against her ribs. She was walking into a new life, one she had not chosen—but one she could not afford to lose control over.
As the carriage rolled to a stop before the opulent gates of the King's Palace, the guards straightened in perfect unison. The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a pathway laid with fresh petals.
And there he was.
King Arthro.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he stood waiting under the arched entry, dressed in a deep blue wedding robe, the lion embroidery glinting with authority. His raven-black hair was tied neatly, his crown resting like it had been forged for his head alone. His features were sharp yet noble—eyes dark as obsidian, framed by thick lashes. When his gaze fell on her, the world slowed.
He stepped forward, his footsteps measured, powerful, and deliberate.
As the carriage door opened, Fifi lowered her eyes and reached for the silk curtain—but before she could descend fully, his hand was already there.
Large and warm, his palm wrapped around hers, steadying her as she stepped down onto the marble floor.
Their eyes met.
The king's breath hitched subtly. Before him stood not merely a woman—but a vision sculpted by gods. Her lips were the soft blush of a peach blossom, her round face radiant beneath the faint sunlight. A sharp nose gave her the elegance of a noble, while her big, almond-shaped eyes shimmered like twin stars, framed by lashes so long they fluttered like butterfly wings.
The moon, if it dared to appear, would have paled in comparison.
Fifi's cheeks burned under his gaze. A strange flutter tickled her stomach—a shy, curious sensation, unfamiliar and yet intoxicating.
"You've arrived, my flower," King Arthro spoke, his voice deep and calm, but carrying a trace of awe.
"My king," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes lowered in respect.
He offered his arm, and she took it.
They entered the palace side by side, walking beneath crystal chandeliers and silken banners. The grand hall was decorated for their union—red ribbons draped across the high ceilings, golden lanterns swinging gently, perfumed with incense and rose petals.
Court musicians sat in formation at the far end, their instruments releasing soft, celestial harmonies as the couple approached the ceremonial dais.
The marriage rites were simple, yet sacred. In the royal tradition, a concubine's wedding involved a ritual tea offering, a silent vow beneath the heavens, and the binding of silk cords around their wrists—a symbol of fate and connection.
Fifi knelt beside the king on an embroidered cushion. A silver tray was brought forth, bearing two cups of tea brewed with rare red lotus leaves. She delicately lifted one and offered it with both hands.
"To His Majesty, may the stars guide your reign and heart," she said softly.
The king took it, his fingers brushing hers again.
"And to my cherished flower," he replied, "may you bloom in this palace without fear."
The priest tied a single crimson silk cord around their wrists, and the crowd bowed in solemn silence. Servants clapped once, twice, thrice—marking the end of the ceremony.
The marriage was sealed.
As the evening drew near, the celebrations faded into soft echoes, and the king led her to a separate chamber—ornate, but tranquil. There, away from the scrutiny of others, he poured her a second cup of tea himself. A gesture rarely performed by a king.
"You've stirred something in this heart that hasn't moved in days," he admitted quietly, placing the cup before her. "Welcome to the palace, Lady Fifi."
Fifi looked up at him—this powerful man, the very sun of the empire. Yet, in that moment, he looked at her as if she were his moon.
And for the first time that day, Fifi's heart swelled—not with fear, but with a small, delicate hope.
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