ANERIA
ELEVEN-YEARS-LATER
Once, in a time long buried beneath ash and blood, the world had been gentler, at least for her.It was the morning of Aneria's fourth name day, and the garden behind their home in Seath Village lay swaddled in a fresh quilt of snow. White as crushed pearl, it stretched beneath a pale sky, the air so crisp it stung the lungs. A child stood barefoot upon it, her toes wriggling into the cold powder, grinning with the delight only the young and unburdened can know.Her father lifted her high into the sky, spinning her with ease, his arms strong from years of working timber and carrying dreams too heavy for any one man.
"Happy birthday, my beautiful Beanie," he said, his voice as warm as the hearth fire in deep winter. His eyes, those deep sapphire pools, shimmered with love as he placed her gently down onto the snow-laced earth.
Aneria gave a small shiver, more from excitement than the cold. She rarely wore shoes, especially not on days like this. She loved the way the snow kissed her feet, how it reminded her she was alive.
That morning, her mother, Anitta, had prepared a Plitterback cake. It was dark, spongy, and rich with the bitter-sweetness of the fruit that grew only in their region. It was rare to have sweets for breakfast, but rarer still was the light in her father's eyes when he reached within his heavy coat and pulled free a slender box of carved birch. Inside lay a gift, a hairpin of such craftsmanship that it could have adorned a queen.It was silver, forged into the shape of a sword, long and slender with a tapered tip like a needle's kiss.
The crossguard was ornate, etched with curling lines like ivy, and the pommel bore a small rounded gem that shimmered faintly in the morning light. A silver loop at its base gave way to a string of tiny obsidian beads that descended to a polished medallion, circular and floral in design, each petal etched with care.
Beneath it swayed a long black tassel, soft as raven feathers, trembling in the breeze. Aneria's eyes lit up with awe. She took it into her tiny hands with the reverence a priest might give a holy relic."This is for you," her father said, his voice soft with pride. Behind him, Anitta gasped, her face paling.
"You gave our four-year-old child a knife?" she said, half in disbelief, half in fury. Her voice was sharper than the wind howling through the pines. She stepped forward, brows drawn tight. "She's a child, Kael." "It's not a knife, love," he replied quickly, glancing aside. "It's a hairpin. I found it in the market last year, during the hunt."Anitta didn't look convinced. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, her mouth drawn in a line as thin as a blade. She was the kind of woman who could silence a room with a look, and she often did.
Even the chief of Seath Village, the stern old elf with scars down his neck, tread lightly around her tongue. Weapons, even symbolic ones, were not welcomed in Frost-born culture. They were a people of peace, of stillness.
They did not kill, not animals, not even plants if it could be helped. They survived on the lifeless Plitterback, a fruit said to be born of frost and moonlight, a gift from the Vael'Isari to her people. And above all things, they could not lie. It was not merely forbidden. It was impossible. Frost-born humans were rare in the world now, rumored to be the last keepers of innocence and honor, purest of all things. That was their legacy.
As the argument brewed between her parents, Aneria, clever even then, slipped away. She darted past neighbors eager to wrap her in their arms, dodging birthday blessings like arrows. Her curls, unruly as ever, bounced wildly behind her. She didn't want hugs. She wanted Edward.Edward, son of the village chief and her closest friend, would be in the Plitterback fields. She knew it in her bones.
She ran for what felt like hours, her breath frosting in the air, her small heart beating a rhythm of joy and mischief. The wind tugged at her dress, and her feet left tiny prints in the snow. When she arrived, the fields were empty. That was the first sign something was wrong. The Plitterback fields were never empty. Children played there in every season. Snowball fights, berry-picking, and hide-and-seek. But now, not a soul stirred. No laughter echoed across the white hills. Not even birds sang.She frowned. Perhaps it was a surprise. The village had done it before, gathered in secret, waiting to pounce with smiles and songs. That had to be it. She turned back toward home, running faster now, her tiny legs aching with effort. The smell hit her first. Smoke. Burning wood.
Then came the light, orange and hellish, licking the pale sky. And then she saw it.The village, her home, was aflame. Houses reduced to ash and skeleton beams. Smoke billowed in monstrous clouds. And bodies.
So many bodies.They were strewn across the snow like broken dolls. Limbs twisted. Heads gone. Blood soaked the white ground, turning it to slush the color of rust. Eyes stared blankly at nothing. Mouths frozen in screams that had already died. She stepped forward, numbly, clutching her hairpin in her trembling fingers. Her foot struck something hard beneath the snow. She looked down. A hand.
A severed, frozen hand, the fingers curled as if still clinging to life.She fell, her knees giving out beneath her. Her scream split the sky. Her hands, flailing, landed in a pool of blood, warm still. She scrambled backward, her cries ragged, when her hand brushed something else. Something solid.Slowly, against her will, she turned to look.It was her mother.
Or rather, what remained of her. The head stared back, eyes open wide. Flies buzzed around her parted lips. Her once-beautiful face, so full of warmth, so full of stories, was now nothing but a feast for vultures.Aneria did not scream again. Instead, she laughed.
A hollow sound. A sound without soul.Soldiers turned. The Emperor himself, Kaida Keres Vuskasin, tyrant of the Firon Empire, looked down at her with eyes like the blood moon. And still she laughed. Until she collapsed.
Aneria's eyes snapped open and she gasped for air drenched in sweat. Her chambers were dark but warm. Silk sheets tangled around her legs, soaked with sweat. Her breath came fast. Eyes wide. Heart pounding. It was the dream again, the memory. It came to her every night, unchanged. She stared at the ceiling. Alive. Older. But never free.
Not truly.
Not ever.
Closing her eyes, Aneria had flashes of that same dream, bitter, brutal, and unrelenting, like a ghost clawing at the walls of her mind.Aneria bolted upright in her bed, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow despite the cool breeze that often swept through the high windows of the Pearl Palace. Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, and the sting of tears clung to her lashes. Her hands trembled in her lap. For a moment, she simply sat there, staring at the celestial patterns painted upon the domed ceiling, as if they could offer some comfort or clarity.
They didn't.
The Pearl Palace, built with ivory stone and silver-veined marble, had been designed for ten. Ten girls bound by chains of silk and law, trained to bow when summoned and smile when broken. Yet now, there was only here. Aneria.
The last remaining slave concubine, Neketis. The others had risen in rank, one by one, until they were promoted and sent to the Crystal Palace or beyond, into the gilded cages reserved for favored consorts and highborn Ladies. They had maids, perfumes imported from Miravet, and invitations to dances that turned politics into performance. Aneria had none of that.
No servant girl to brush her curls.
No handmaiden to polish her skin with rose oil or whisper the latest court secrets into her ear. No one.
Only the silence of her vast chamber, heavy with memories and solitude.But truth be told, she didn't mind. Not entirely. The room was still hers, grand and hollow and quiet. Its high, vaulted ceiling was painted the color of twilight, deep indigo flecked with constellations in burnished gold. At its center, a domed skylight let in the sun by day and the moon by night, illuminating the great chamber in a soft, celestial glow.
Chandeliers of wrought gold hung like frozen comets, their crystals catching light and scattering it in a thousand glints across the dark wood floor. Ten beds, each draped in navy velvet canopies, stood like sentinels in a line, but only one had been slept in for years.A long rug stretched across the center, rich with symbols of the heavens, moons, stars, and swirling galaxies woven in silver thread.
Along the walls stood carved desks and bookshelves filled with dusty volumes, relics from slave concubines long gone, their secrets and dreams folded between pages Aneria had not yet dared to read. She rose from the bed, her limbs reluctant but her will firm. She smoothed the sheets with careful hands, as she always did, taking a moment to admire how neatly the fabric tucked beneath her fingers. Habit gave her a sense of control, a fragile armor against the chaos that once shattered her world. Crossing the room, she pushed open the tall arched windows, and the morning air swept in, crisp, bright, and indifferent. Aneria breathed it in deeply, letting it fill her lungs, letting it cool the sweat on her skin.
She had blossomed into a beautiful fifteen-year-old.
And then it hit her. "Watchers be damned, I'm late," she muttered under her breath, the tranquility of the moment shattering like brittle glass. Today was the day of Inara's banquet. Panic rushed in. She was supposed to be at the Duskwood Palace, celebrating the pregnancy of her oldest and only friend in this treacherous place. Inara, the Emperor's new favorite and third queen, daughter of one of his most loyal generals. Seven years ago, Inara had entered the harem as a noble concubine like all the rest, but it had not taken long for her beauty, wit, and ambition to lift her to a crown. Now, she lived in luxury, waited on hand and foot, her palace gleaming with tapestries and servants trained in etiquette and deception. Aneria had no such entourage. Preparing alone took hours.
She rushed through the Pearl Palace like a whirlwind, her feet echoing against polished marble floors, her breath ragged, her hair half-braided and half-loose, until finally, after what felt like a small war against fabric, pins, and jewelry, she stood before the mirror. For the first time in what felt like years, she allowed herself a moment to admire her reflection.
She wore the finest dress she owned, an ensemble more illusion than cloth. The fabric was soft ivory layered with muted gold, light as air and shimmering in the sun that poured through the open windows.
The bodice, corseted with delicate gold embossing, hugged her waist and torso in structured elegance. One shoulder was wrapped in a crisscross of silken straps while the other remained bare, the skin kissed by morning light.Long, draping sleeves flowed with every movement, embroidered with geometric sigils in thread of gold. Chains like molten sunlight cascaded from her shoulders, framing her arms with metallic grace.
Her waist was cinched by an elaborate golden belt, its medallion centerpiece glittering with inlaid stones the color of dusk. The skirt fell in layers, sheer and rippling, catching light like water, every movement a glimmer of grace. But it was her hair that turned her reflection into a vision of fire and strength. Woven in a complex arrangement of braids and curls, her vibrant orange-red tresses had been transformed. Gold chains criss crossed over her crown, linking beads of crystal and coins that shimmered like starlight. Loose strands curled softly at her temples and trailed down her back, finishing in delicate chains that swayed when she moved.
A net of gold framed her head, like a circlet without a crown.
She smiled faintly at her reflection, not out of pride but out of disbelief. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her. For a moment, she looked less like a slave and more like someone who belonged here. That moment passed quickly. She slipped on her shoes, composed herself, and stepped out of the quiet sanctuary she had claimed as her own.And the second she passed through the towering front doors of the Pearl Palace, the Firon sun smacked her across the face like a hot slap.It was always like that in the capital. Heat bloomed from the sandstone walkways and shimmered in the air like a fever dream. The skies above were cloudless, vast, and cruel.
Towers of stone and steel gleamed with authority. Banners of the Firon Empire, a three-headed golden beast with crimson eyes, fluttered proudly. Aneria stood at the threshold of two worlds. One of silence and memory behind her, and one of fire, ambition, and danger ahead. And she walked forward. The Firon Empire was a land of extremes. No softness in its sky, no mercy in its seasons. When it rained, it poured in torrents, furious and unrelenting, as though the Watchers themselves wept for some ancient sorrow. But such storms were rare. The empire knew little of tears. Most days were claimed by the sun, an endless, blazing sentinel that perched high above, scorching the stone and baking the sand to glass.To the Firon people, such heat was life, woven into their blood and breath.
They walked beneath the burning skies with ease, their skin kissed by sun, their bodies shaped by fire and wind. But to Aneria, a child of frost and stillness, born beneath skies that danced with snowflakes and whispered silence, the heat was torment. It wrapped around her like molten cloth, soaked her skin, made her bones ache, and her breath come shallow. She often wondered if this land sought to melt her into nothingness. She raised a hand to shield her eyes as she stepped into the sun's punishing glare, squinting against the white-hot sky. The polished stones of the palace courtyard gleamed like mirrors, their gold-veined surfaces reflecting light in sharp, searing flashes.The same sun that shone over the Firon capital pulsed with opulence. The architecture of the empire rose like something carved from the dreams of Watchers. Vast domes of hammered bronze and gold. Towers of sandstone carved with sacred scripts. Minarets with spiraling peaks that reached hungrily toward the sky. Intricate mosaics adorned the facades of buildings, each tile set by hand, each pattern a story of conquest, glory, and power.The scent of spiced incense clung to the air, carried on the breeze with the clang of distant bells and the murmur of markets.
Sunlight danced off rooftops gilded in copper and lapis. Narrow alleys twisted between palatial courtyards and shaded gardens bursting with date palms, jasmine, and silken water fountains that gave the illusion of coolness but not its comfort.And then there were the stables. Set behind the Pearl Palace, the stables were an afterthought, an awkward wooden structure leaning with wear. Its supports were weathered and crooked like the legs of an old man too proud to sit. The walls were warped from sun and time, and the roof sagged where tiles had slipped or broken. Aneria had often considered repairing the place herself. She had even drawn up plans in her mind, imagined how she might brace the beams and replace the rotten wood. But there was always something else, something louder, hungrier, more urgent, to steal her time. She approached her horse, who stood in the shadow of the stable, pawing idly at the dirt. Its coat was a deep, unbroken black that shimmered like obsidian in the sunlight. Its mane, long and tangled, fell like a dark curtain over one eye. The beast snorted when it saw her and flicked its tail in obvious disapproval. Thunderbolt.
That was his name, though it was more irony than truth. The animal rarely lived up to it. He hated her. She could feel it in the way he tossed his head, the way his ears flattened at her approach. Perhaps he sensed the cold that clung to her even in the heat. Perhaps it was something deeper, something older, the way animals could smell the difference in blood, the way they recoiled from things not meant to be in this world.Frost-born humans were not welcome here. Not truly.
Though no one said it aloud, she could see it in their eyes, hear it in their laughter when they thought she was out of earshot. She had never been given a reason for the hatred. None of her tutors had explained why her people were feared and scorned. But she felt it all the same, like a second skin. She mounted the horse with practiced ease, her dress bunched in her hands, the delicate gold chains at her shoulders clinking gently with the movement. Thunderbolt grunted and stamped the earth but did not resist. He was proud, not wild. With a small tug of the reins and a murmured word, she turned him toward the gates. Dust kicked up behind them as they moved, a trail of grit and light in their wake. The path ahead wound between tall marble pillars and beneath arched gates adorned with banners bearing the golden three-headed lion sigil of House Vuskasin.
Each step carried her closer to the Duskwood Palace. And behind her, the Pearl Palace faded into the shimmering heat, its silence echoing like a ghost across the stones. Duskwood Palace. The crown jewel of the imperial harem and by far the most envied among the residences of the queens. Though the Crystal Palace boasted elegance and the Ruby Palace flaunted opulence, it was Duskwood that held majesty. It rose along the banks of a tranquil, silver-blue lake, cradled by the arms of a lush, terraced garden that spilled like a dream down to the water's edge.The palace itself was a colossus of carved stone and domed wonder. Its shape was organic, almost as if it had grown from the earth rather than been built atop it. Walls of sun-kissed limestone towered high, their surfaces smooth yet alive with etched patterns. Vines wound in eternal spirals. Celestial beasts locked in dance. Old symbols whispered of love, power, and divine right. Each carving was set by hand, their edges darkened by time but unweathered, preserved as if the stone itself refused to forget.
The central dome loomed like the belly of the moon, inlaid with interlocking mosaics of cobalt and gold that shimmered beneath the sun. Slender minarets flanked it on all sides, their spiraling peaks crowned with crescents of hammered bronze.
Smaller domes, rounded, soft, yet intricate, bloomed across the roofline like a field of golden mushrooms. The windows were tall and narrow, their tops arched and latticed with geometric filigree that cast honeycomb shadows across the stone floors.
Balconies with scalloped balustrades overlooked the gardens below, their railings wrapped in flowering vines and fluttering silks. The gardens were no less divine. Paved footpaths twisted through groves of citrus trees and oleander, under flowering archways heavy with jasmine and wisteria. Fountains burbled like hidden laughter, their waters sweet and cold, while white herons stalked among lotus-strewn ponds. The lake itself was vast and still, its surface a mirror of the sky, broken only by swans and the occasional drifting lantern lit during feasts or prayers.
Aneria walked through the corridors with measured steps, her sandals silent on the cool stone. As she moved deeper into the heart of the palace, the sound of drums reached her ears. Slow at first, like a heartbeat, but growing louder and steadier as she approached the grand hall.
There were ankle bells too, soft metallic jingles that rose and fell in rhythm with unseen dancers. The air grew warm with incense, sandalwood, rose, and myrrh.
When she stepped onto the polished threshold of the banquet hall, a woman stood waiting to announce her. The announcer was a slender creature, cloaked in gold-threaded silk and veiled beneath a half-mask of beads. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke. "Entering Neketis Aneria, of the Pearl Palace." The words echoed through the vaulted chamber like a spell. For a heartbeat, perhaps two, everything stopped. The drummers missed their beat.
The dancers faltered mid-step. The laughter turned to whispers, hushed and urgent. Dozens of eyes found her at once. Curious, astonished, some even admiring. Aneria stood straight beneath their gaze, her head high, her dress aglow in the lantern light. It shimmered like starlight, casting soft reflections across the polished floor. She wore elegance like a second skin, and for once, she let herself feel it.Then a familiar voice shattered the silence."Continue the music. Drummers, play. Dancers, dance!"The spell broke. The drums resumed their rhythm, hurried at first, then steady. Dancers spun and leapt once more, their chains clinking in time.
Conversation trickled back like water from a broken dam. Aneria turned toward the voice and found her. Inara, the fourth queen, the Emperor's favourite, and her oldest, perhaps only, friend in the palace. She moved through the crowd like a flame in midnight, cloaked in a dress of deepest blue, embroidered in gold and silver so fine it seemed stitched by stars. Her skin, soft and warm, was the color of sun-kissed almonds. Her hazel eyes, lined in black kohl, blazed with restrained fury as she approached, and her long golden-brown hair flowed beneath her veil. "You are late," Inara said, voice sharp though not cruel.
Aneria bowed low, bending at the knees and tipping her head just enough to show respect but not submission. "You look radiant, my queen." "Oh, stop that," Inara snapped, rolling her eyes, and took her hand, dragging her with practiced familiarity toward the dais where she had been seated.
Her cloak trailed behind her like a river of shadows and embroidery. Aneria sank into the plush cushions beside her. The pillows were thick and embroidered with thread of silver and thread of saffron, their stuffing soft enough to cradle the spine without effort. Before them stretched a terrace open to the afternoon light, and beyond it, the lake gleamed in its glassy silence. The terrace itself was a marvel of carved stone and deliberate beauty. Arched walls framed the horizon, each arch scalloped and wrapped with latticework so fine it resembled lace cast in stone.
Tall columns bore the weight of the ceiling, their surfaces alive with engraved tales. Lovers from ancient songs, warriors locked in battle, phoenixes rising from flame. The floor beneath them was laid with warm tiles of clay and sandstone, smoothed by years of bare feet and sacred processions.
Low tables of polished cedar stood between the cushions, bearing trays of figs, pomegranates, and roasted nuts. Golden vessels brimmed with wine and juice, and small jeweled bowls held sauces and spices too exotic to name. Around the terrace, potted palms and flowering shrubs softened the architecture, their leaves rustling in the breeze that drifted off the lake. Far in the distance, the domes of another palace gleamed like moons above the hills.
Aneria leaned back into the cushions, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she let herself forget what she was.
Not a slave.
Not frost-born.
Just a girl beneath a golden sun, sitting beside a queen, watching the water shimmer. But moments, like dreams, are not meant to last. "Where? Where were you? Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting for you?" Inara's voice, hushed yet sharp, sliced through the murmuring din of the banquet.
The two women sat apart from the others, nestled on embroidered pillows beneath a canopied alcove, where silken veils shielded them from the eager stares of dancers, nobles, and concubines alike. Aneria shifted, feigning a pout. "I overslept. I am sorry." Inara let out a sigh, long and weary, too heavy for such a youthful face. Her fingers moved to her forehead, massaging the spot above her brow as though to ease away more than a headache. "A part of me wants to believe you are lying.
That you simply do not care about my banquet. But then..." She let her hand drop limply into her lap. "Then I remember what you are. Frost-born. You cannot lie, even if you wanted to." The defeated tone in her voice did not go unnoticed. Aneria's eyes narrowed. "Why do you sound like that? Do not tell me it is because I was late." Inara's silence said more than words. She gave a slow shake of the head, her gaze drifting over the revelers beyond the veil. "Lately, it is as if the walls are pressing in on me," she confessed, her voice low. "Everyone looks at me and sees only one thing. The future Empress Dowager.
Even the priest believes with divine certainty that this child will be a son. They speak of omens. Prophecies. Yet..."Her voice faltered. Her throat moved in a swallow. "You are afraid," Aneria said softly. "Afraid the child will be a girl. That the Emperor's love will vanish the moment she is born. That you will become like the Empress." Inara did not reply, but the hollowness in her expression, the way her lips trembled before she pressed them into a thin line, was answer enough. And who could blame her? Once, she had been nothing more than a general's daughter, another flower brought to bloom in the harem's garden. But the Emperor had chosen her. Kept her. Loved her longer than any other. Years passed, and no new concubine dared threaten her place, for the Emperor's eyes were ever drawn to his beloved Inara. His white moonlight, they called her. But only she and Aneria knew how close she had come to fading. Her beauty had not dulled, but her womb had remained barren. And in the Firon Empire, a woman's favor was as fragile as spun glass. The Watchers, or perhaps chance alone, had granted her a reprieve.
A child now grew within her, and with it, a last desperate hope. Yet the stakes were cruel. The Emperor had boasted to all who would listen. His Twelfth son would soon be born, completing the sacred prophecy he had heard from the high priest. His Twelfth son would have power like no other and return the Firon Empire to its former glory.
If Inara failed to bear him that Twelfth son, it would not matter how dearly he had once loved her. She would lose everything. Her palace, her rank, and possibly her life. "Do not speak of such doom" Aneria said, reaching to clasp her hand. "Go to the temple. Pray to the Watchers. I believe your child is a son. The Watchers will not forsake you now if they are as real as you believe." Inara smiled faintly and touched Aneria's cheek. "Let us speak of other things. I saw the way they looked at you when you entered. Even now, they are stealing glances. How does it feel to be the harem's innocent beauty?"Aneria could only laugh. It was a title she had not sought, yet one that clung to her like a name stitched into silk. The harem's beauty. Her frost-born blood marked her as strange, but her face, so ethereal it made queens stare and warriors stammer, had spared her from worse fates.
Though the Emperor had never once summoned her, never spoken a word in private to her, the rest of the palace watched her like hawks circling prey."It feels... well," she said, smiling faintly. "It feels like the only thing keeping me alive. If I were not beautiful, I would have perished with the rest of the children in Seath."
Inara gave a sly smile and leaned in. "Do you not just love the Emperor for that? For rescuing you from that burnt village? For giving you silk sheets and warm meals, a life of luxury where you no longer need to worry about coin?" Aneria nodded. "I do believe he saved my life. And perhaps I feel something for him, maybe it is love," she added, her voice soft as her cheeks flushed with color. "But... I have never spoken to him. Never even shared a room with him, not since I was brought to this palace."
The pity in Inara's eyes was worse than any scorn. Aneria turned away, casting her gaze to the dancers twirling beyond their veils of gold-threaded silk. The banquet raged on, filled with color and sound. Fifteen concubines laughed and danced, their anklets chiming and veils billowing in the torchlight. Yet none of the queens, except Inara, had come, not even the consorts who are lower in rank bothered to show.
She understood why Queen Seshion had remained in her palace. Her own birth was only four months away. But the absence of the others felt like a quiet slight. Not even a lady-in-waiting sent in their stead. And the Empress, she too had stayed away. Understandable, perhaps. Why should the Empress support the woman most likely to replace her? Inara's child, if a son, could well be named heir. Aneria's gaze darkened.
The Empress had once been promised to the Emperor since childhood, their union carved in blood and oath. But she had borne only daughters, five in total, and rumors whispered the Emperor had not touched her in years.
Even a fool could see her fate unraveling. With a sigh, Aneria rose and joined the circle of dancers. Music swelled, the drummers striking their instruments with renewed vigor. Anklets jingled, voices rose in song, and the air was rich with the scent of rosewater, incense, and roasted fruits. The traditional melodies of the Firon Empire, foreign once but now familiar, wrapped around her like smoke.
Hours passed in a blur of spinning silks and echoed laughter. When she could no longer keep her eyes open, she returned to Inara, leaning close. "I have had little sleep," she murmured. "The dream came again. I would ask your permission to leave." Inara nodded, distracted now by nobles coming to offer her praise and gifts. "Go, then. Rest well, sister." And so Aneria slipped away from the banquet, her departure silent beneath the cacophony of celebration, the lingering hum of music and prophecy echoing behind her.
The palace doors loomed behind her like the mouth of some ancient beast, swallowing up the light and music of the banquet inside.
Aneria stood frozen at its threshold, her breath caught sharp in her throat as the gilded carriage rolled into view. It was impossible to miss, a towering construct of crimson and gold, gleaming under the dusk like a burning star made flesh. The wheels were wrought in lion's heads and sunbursts, the glass windows bordered by filigree patterns so fine they shimmered like fireflies in the dying light. The moment it turned onto the marble path, the other carriages scattered like frightened hounds.
Coachmen snapped their reins and tugged their horses aside, clearing a wide, reverent berth for the imperial arrival. The palace butler, who had once moved with all the tired grace of a man who had seen too many years, now sprinted past Aneria like a boy, his robes flapping behind him. He reached the golden door just as the carriage came to a stop and opened it with a bow so deep it looked as if he meant to kiss the stones.And from within stepped a man out of legend. He wore no crown.
He needed none.
His presence was enough.
Golden hair, thick and combed back from a brow creased by war and weather, gleamed beneath the moonlight.
His shoulders were broad, the sort of broad that spoke not of sculpted vanity but of battlefields and broken shields. A swordsman, a killer, no perfume or pampered silk about him. His skin bore the stories his court did not dare speak aloud. An old scar trailed from the base of his throat toward his collarbone, another across his jaw, that healed badly.
He was Firon through and through, in blood, bone, and breath. Kaida Keres Vuskasin, the Sun-Blooded Emperor of the Firon Empire. Behind him, emerging like a ghost stitched from her nightmares, came the man she had named Scarface.
The brute's presence darkened the air, his leathery skin twisted with the cruel memory of old burns, the jagged mark across his cheek a wound that had never healed, not truly. He had once dragged Aneria by the roots of her hair and tossed her at the feet of this very man like a dog bringing home a kill. They were moving toward her now, closer, closer still, and she could not move. The breath in her lungs turned brittle. Her limbs were as cold as the grave. She knew she should look away, bow, turn her gaze to the ground, but her eyes betrayed her. They locked on his, and for a heartbeat the world vanished.
His gaze was a sword. Not warm, not cruel, but vast. Like the sun itself, blinding, distant, unknowable. It was Scarface who broke the spell.
He cleared his throat, a sharp and performative rasp meant not to announce himself but to remind her. Remember your place, girl. The sound struck her like a whip. Aneria flinched, then bowed so quickly it nearly toppled her. Her knees held, barely. "Greeting, Your Majesty," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. A hum of acknowledgment. Nothing more. No words, no glance, only a low sound that stirred her spine like thunder in a distant valley. T
hen the Emperor passed her by, his cloak brushing the hem of her gown, his boots heavy upon the marble. She remained there, head bowed, even as their footsteps faded behind her into the gold-veined silence of the palace. A little smirk appeared on her face but for a mere second. Only once the echoes vanished did she straighten. Her heart still pounded like the great temple drums of old, but her feet found themselves.
She turned without another word and walked toward the rear of the palace where the stables lay shrouded in moonshadow.
The barn was way better than hers, seeming to be well maintained, giving a life of luxury and comfort to the horses inside. Yet her horse, her Storm, her black thunderbolt, waited for her with quiet judgment in its eyes. Thunderbolt was no kinder than any other beast in the Firon Empire, but she was loyal, and that would do.Aneria mounted with practiced ease. The wind caught her veil, tugging it gently aside as she turned her gaze upward. The moon hung heavy and gold, swollen like a fruit before the harvest.
She said nothing as she rode. The hooves of her horse beat a lonely rhythm down the stone road, back toward the Pearl Palace, a gilded cage she now returned to with a head full of questions and eyes that still burned from the Emperor's gaze.