ANERIA
PEARL PALACE
The moon hung high above the Pearl Palace like a solemn sentinel, its light silver and cold, untouched by the warmth of stars. Not a single one glittered in the night sky. Only that great pale orb remained, serene and distant, casting its glow down upon the sleeping empire. Aneria sat curled atop the velvet-cushioned daybed nestled into the arched window of her chamber, a book resting half-forgotten on her lap. Its spine was bent open to a tale of love and betrayal, yet the words blurred before her eyes. She could not bring herself to read. Her thoughts were far from the ink on the page. They circled like vultures above a single memory.
Those eyes. The Emperor's eyes, golden and cold, sharp as sunlight on steel. She had seen them only for a moment, but the gaze lingered in her mind like a fever. Even now, as the night deepened and Duskwood Palace filled with music and merriment, she imagined him still there beside Queen Inara, surrounded by dancers and drummers and women eager to stake their claim upon his affections. No doubt the harem was a flurry of silken skirts and painted smiles, concubines casting flirtatious glances like baited hooks.
The consorts, who had once refused to grace Inara's banquet with their presence, were likely scrambling now, powdered and perfumed, desperate to arrive before His Majesty's attention drifted elsewhere. Aneria could almost laugh.
What a spectacle it must be, the petty theatre of power, the false graces, the stinging jealousy hidden behind honeyed words. She almost wished she had stayed, if only to witness them all make fools of themselves.
But only Inara would hold his eye tonight. If her womb delivered him a son, she would hold it forever. Aneria yawned, her body growing heavy beneath the lull of silence. She closed the window and stepped away from the moonlight, returning the book to its shelf before moving through her chamber, extinguishing the amber-glowing lamps one by one. These lights were powered by low-grade magic stones, chips of ancient, crystallized power mined from the veins of the earth.
A necessary luxury, found in every noble household across the Five Empires. Without them, the world would halt. No warm baths. No fireless kitchens. No lamplight.But in truth, it was these very stones that fueled endless war. And worse still, they empowered the Sterlings, those rare, cursed few born touched by magic.
Worshipped, feared, and always hunted. His Majesty himself was one such being. A Wilderner, they called him, a man who bent the wind and air to his will. She reached for the final lamp near her dressing table and froze. In the mirror, flickering in the dying light, she caught sight of her own reflection and the thing that marred it. There, at the nape of her neck, half-concealed beneath curls of unruly orange hair, lay the brand. Burnt deep into her skin, black as ash, shaped like a lock. Within it were the stylized initials of the royal family: L.O.A mark of slavery. A seal of ownership. And worse still, a curse. Infused by a Sterling using branding magic, it bound her to the palace grounds. She could not leave without permission. Could not run. Could not flee. Aneria turned the lamp off swiftly, banishing the sight of herself to darkness. She climbed into bed with heavy limbs and an even heavier heart, burying her thoughts in the pillow as fireworks bloomed across the night sky like dying stars. The Firon Empire celebrated. Laughter echoed in the wind. Somewhere, music played. And she, the harem's frost-born beauty, lay alone, wondering what would happen if Inara's child was born a girl. Sleep came at last like a thief, slow and unwelcome. Morning came with thunder. A loud bang echoed through the corridors of the Pearl Palace, jolting Aneria upright. She threw back the sheets and snatched the robe that lay across the chair, hastening barefoot down the marble-floored halls. Her quarters were usually cloaked in silence. She had no visitors, no servants of her own, no bustle like the other women of status.
So the noise could only mean one thing. Trouble. When she opened the great carved doors at the palace's front, the sunlight struck her eyes, but even the glare could not hide the woman standing before her. Tall, lean, and immaculately dressed, with her graying hair twisted into an elegant updo and sharp lines drawn around her mouth from years of disapproval, stood her Madam Sielle. The Keeper of the Harem. She was flanked by two guards in red-plated armor and trailed by no fewer than ten maids, all carrying boxes and bundles of cloth and brass trays. Her eyes, cold and venomous, swept over Aneria with a sneer that might as well have slapped her. That look was familiar. Aneria had seen it the day she arrived, trembling and bloodied at the gates of the Pearl Palace. It said: You are nothing. A frost-born girl. A blemish in His Majesty's garden. Aneria bowed her head low, hiding her face as tradition and survival demanded. "Well?" Madam Sielle drawled, her voice dipped in contempt. "Will you not invite me in, slave girl?" Aneria stepped aside at once, her eyes fixed to the floor. "Of course, Madam Sielle," she murmured, her words tumbling out in haste. "Please... grace me with your presence." The woman swept past her with a rustle of crimson silk, her entourage following like a tide of locusts. Aneria dared a glance upward, just in time to see the older woman inspecting the room like a queen in a stable. "You are to join His Majesty for brunch," she said at last, her tone neutral, but the venom bled through. Bitterness, perhaps. Jealousy. Or simple loathing. For a heartbeat, everything stopped.
The Emperor. He wished to see her. Her? She stood frozen, her thoughts reeling, until Madam Sielle clapped sharply. "Make this beast look slightly presentable," she barked at the maids. The insult stung, but Aneria barely heard it. Her blood rushed with something strange and electric. She could only think of one thing: He wants to see me. Two maids took her gently by the arms, guiding her toward the bath chambers. She followed without resistance, as if in a dream. She had never had maids attend her before, not like the other women of the harem. And as their fingers unfastened her robe and led her into the steaming waters, she felt strangely exposed. They were all women, yes, but the eyes on her felt foreign. Measuring. Still, she endured it. The scalding water. The brushes through her hair. The oils and salts and perfumes. She endured it all because one thought refused to leave her mind, rising above everything else like a sun through the clouds:
The Emperor wants to see me. And whatever fate that held... she would face it. They brought her back to her quarters like a fragile idol being prepared for display, the maids fluttering around her with jars of fragrant creams and vials of perfume that shimmered like molten sunlight. Aneria sat stiffly as warm hands smoothed salves across her arms and shoulders, the foreign oils seeping into her skin with the promise of luxury she did not trust. The scents were floral and thick, blooming in the air like heavy memories, cloying and sweet, meant to mask the scent of fear. Her hair was their next conquest.
Ginger and wild as flame, now tamed into an intricate composition of courtly elegance and veiled power. The top was woven into tight, disciplined braids, bound by a golden ornament shaped like antlers, its central skull motif peering out like a warning. Smaller braids hung freely, adorned with gilded cuffs and beads that caught the morning light like tiny suns. Some were puffed into delicate bubbles, others left slim and sleek, and the remaining strands cascaded in soft waves down her back. The result was haunting, almost holy like a beast dressed as a bride.
The gown was unlike anything she had ever worn, or even dared dream of. It fit her like it had been stitched for her spirit. Deep blue silk clung to her bodice, dipping into a bold V at her chest and cinched at the waist with a belt of hammered gold, set with glittering gemstones that winked like stars under candlelight.
The skirt fanned out in layers of ocean colors midnight, cobalt, and turquoise mimicking the tide in its dance. Over it draped a sheer mantle painted in peacock feathers, the iridescent eyes glinting like a hundred watchful souls. Gold chains traced her collarbone and waist, slithering down her sides, and her sleeves hung like whispers off her shoulders, fastened only by golden cuffs that jingled with every breath. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she nearly forgot the brand behind her neck. For a fleeting moment, the frost-born slave was gone. In her place stood someone carved from starlight and ambition, someone too finely adorned to be forgotten. Aneria's breath hitched, her hand rising slowly to touch the antler-shaped crown in her hair. She had looked beautiful before, but now, she looked dangerous. "Why would she dress me like this?" she thought, her amber eyes narrowing as they darted to Madam Sielle, who stood with her back turned, whispering to one of the maids. Surely she means to sabotage me. She loathes me. Always has. Madam Sielle turned, catching Aneria mid-glance. Her eyes scanned the girl from head to toe, not with pride, but with reluctant acknowledgment. "This will have to do," she said, her voice flat as an old blade. "After all, one cannot make a slave into a princess." She walked past Aneria and with a dismissive flick of her fingers, and the maids bowed and scattered as if her shadow burned them. Aneria was guided outside to where the carriage waited beneath the pale morning sun. Unlike Inara's gilded marvels, this one was modest. Purple and gold, dignified but not opulent. A royal carriage, yes, but not a statement. The kind of carriage you send when you want to acknowledge someone, not glorify them. The door opened. Before she could step in, two guards half-lifted her by the arms and deposited her on the cushioned seat as though she were cargo. The door slammed shut behind her, and she barely had time to settle before Madam Sielle climbed in after, seating herself across from Aneria with a silence that echoed louder than words. Sielle's arms folded across her chest, her expression carved from stone. She stared at the girl for a long moment, then turned her head toward the window, the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes. Perhaps disdain. Perhaps something crueler.The wheels creaked, and the carriage began its slow crawl across the palace roads, away from the Pearl Palace and toward the unknown. Aneria sat with her back straight and her hands pressed into her lap, but her heart beat against her ribs like a prisoner desperate for escape.Her fingers began to twitch an old habit from childhood, scraping lightly at the skin near her nails. A sharp voice cut through the stillness. "Stop scratching your fingers," Madam Sielle said without turning. "You cannot greet His Majesty with bloodied hands. You already look enough like an animal. Do not complete the image."
Aneria swallowed hard and tucked her hands under her thighs as if to imprison them. The road ahead stretched on, a golden trail winding through a garden of roses and rumors. She had dreamt of this moment once, long ago when she was still small enough to believe in dreams. But now that it had arrived, it felt like a sentence. Like standing at the mouth of a dragon's cave, robed in silk and expectation. After what felt like an eternity on the road, the carriage finally drew to a slow halt before the forbidding gates of Crown's Castle, the seat of the Emperor and Empress, a fortress unlike any palace Aneria had ever known. Though still part of the same sprawling compound as the Pearl Palace, Crown's Castle stood apart in every way.It was a behemoth of stone and shadow, perched high upon the cliffs that overlooked the Empire's capital city like a silent, jagged crown. The sheer walls loomed tall and imposing, their slate-gray faces darkened by centuries of wind, rain, and the weight of countless seasons. Its towers thrust skyward like sharpened spears, narrow and cruel against the horizon. The tallest spire, cold and austere, seemed to pierce the clouds themselves. Its surface was scarred by narrow slits of windows, dark and watchful, more wounds in stone than openings to the light. Black banners hung limp and faded from iron poles jutting out from the battlements, their edges frayed and torn by the relentless assault of years of storms. The very stones of the castle's walls were a patchwork. Some blocks were coarse and pitted, others smooth and pale, quarried from distant lands and stitched together through the centuries by unknown hands. Massive buttresses thrust outward like ribs, bracing the weight of the keep as if the fortress itself were a living creature. Smaller towers bristled along the outer walls, each crowned with jagged battlements that resembled broken teeth set in a gaping maw. Below, the castle sprawled down jagged slopes where curtain walls wound between ancient trees and outcroppings of stone. Narrow stairways clung precariously to the cliff sides, while arched bridges stretched between bastions as if the very rocks had been woven together by magic. At the base of the cliffs, a mighty waterfall thundered, its white fury crashing into the river far below. Mist curled upward from the spray, drifting like breath from a sleeping beast. The color of the castle was the color of the mountain itself, cold gray stone streaked with veins of black and mossy green, where age and weather had begun to crack and crumble the ancient walls. Here and there, towers of pale stone caught the morning sun, their faces bright and watchful against the gloom. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the distant roar of the waterfall carried through the stones like a whispered secret. Aneria stood in awe. The castle was magnificent beyond words. She had only ever seen it from afar, through the narrow window of her chambers at the Pearl Palace or in the tales whispered among the concubines who had served the Emperor before her. They spoke of Crown's Castle as a place of cold splendor and unyielding power. Now, she was here. Closer than ever to the heart of the Empire. Her heart beat faster with a mixture of wonder and fear. As Madam Sielle strode swiftly through the great halls, Aneria struggled to keep pace. The Countess moved with the assured stride of one who knew every shadow and secret of this place. Aneria's eyes darted around, drinking in the details, the carved maps etched into the cold stone walls, depicting the Empire's vast territories, each marked by the sigils of noble houses. The castle maids, dressed uniformly in long blue gowns with veils clipped at their hair, moved silently like ghosts. Blue was their mark. Only the castle maids wore it, setting them apart. Knights stood at intervals throughout the halls, their eyes ever watchful, silent sentinels who seemed to belong more to the shadows than to flesh and blood.
After winding through twisting corridors and sharp turns, they finally arrived at an immense set of brown doors. The surface of the heavy wood was carved with the sigil of a lion crowned with twisted horns, a symbol that spoke of fierce rule and ancient lineage. Two knights stood guard on either side of the doors, rigid and unmoving, their armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. Nearby, a maid bowed her head low, her gaze fixed on the floor in humble submission, a stark contrast to the knights' unyielding vigilance. Madam Sielle leaned close to whisper into the right knight's ear. From the sleeve of her dress, she withdrew a folded letter and handed it over with a grace that betrayed nothing of the tension in her posture. The knight nodded sharply after reading the note. Turning her attention to Aneria, Madam Sielle's voice dropped to a low, biting whisper. "Remember to kneel, slave girl. Keep your head bowed at all times."Aneria's breath caught. She swallowed hard, doing her best to mimic the countess's composed bearing, standing as tall as she could despite the pounding of her heart. Her eyes fixed on the heavy doors ahead, which seemed to swallow the light. Suddenly the silence broke. The knight on the right called out in a booming voice, "Announcing the entrance of Neketis Aneria of the Pearl Palace, escorted by Lady Sielle Sean Arin, Countess of Yorsa and Madam of His Majesty's Harem." The doors swung open with a slow, groaning sound, revealing the vastness within. There, on a terrace overlooking the great hall, stood the man she had glimpsed only yesterday. It was Emperor Kaida Keres Vuskasin. The distance vanished as her eyes met his once again. Beside him stood Scarface, silent and watchful, a grim shadow by the Emperor's side. The moment held its weight. It pressed on her like stone, full of something she could not name, as Aneria stepped forward into the lion's den. The burden of the empire settled across her shoulders. Aneria's mind spun, but she forced herself to break free from the trance that had seized her. She rose slowly and followed Madam Sielle through the heavy doors into the Emperor's chamber. The air inside felt thick with power and ancient secrets. Without hesitation, Madam Sielle knelt on one knee with the practiced grace of a courtier. "Greetings, Your Majesty. I have brought the Neketis as you commanded," she said with measured respect. Aneria dropped to her knees as well, but unlike the countess, she lowered herself fully, both knees pressed against the cold floor. Her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her lips remained still. She did not speak unless commanded to do so. A tense silence filled the room. "Greetings to you as well, Countess. You are excused now," came the Emperor's voice. It was low and steady, his authority woven into every syllable. Without a word, Madam Sielle rose with deliberate composure, backing away slowly while never lifting her bow. Then, with a final glance, she slipped from the chamber and the heavy doors closed behind her, muffling the sound of her retreat.Aneria remained kneeling, her face still bowed. The hours crawled by like the slow turning of some dreadful wheel. The Emperor and Scarface continued their council over the affairs of the empire. Men came and went, councilors and courtiers, all casting secret glances her way as if daring to unravel the mystery she represented. Yet none spoke to her. None dared. As the sun lowered, spilling long amber shafts through the windows, Aneria's body began to betray her. Her feet had gone numb from the strain of stillness, and her neck throbbed sharply from hours spent bowing. The agony of her posture crept in. Desperation clawed at her. She needed to move, to stretch, if only for a moment.At last, they were alone. The council had departed, leaving only the Emperor and Scarface on the terrace beyond.
Aneria gathered her courage and slowly lifted her head. Relief swept through her as the tension eased from her neck. She flexed her fingers and stretched her aching arms, savoring the brief reprieve.Careful to remain quiet, she rose to her feet and began to pace gently about the grand chamber. The sanctum stood as a quiet sanctuary, grand yet somehow still warm, despite the weight of its history. Towering bookshelves carved from dark, ancient wood lined the walls like silent watchers.
They groaned under the weight of countless, tomes, their cracked leather spines faded with time. Stone columns framed the shelves, each one etched with curling patterns that resembled frozen ivy. Above, pointed alcoves held deep shadows, their hollows clinging to the walls like eyes that never blinked.
The floor was covered by a vast carpet, its crimson and gold long since softened by the passing of feet and the march of years. The swirling patterns seemed to twist beneath her steps, a living maze that pulled her thoughts inward. At the room's center sat a low, octagonal table, polished dark wood edged in gleaming brass. A heavy brass vessel sat at its heart, squat and worn by time, as if it had gathered the dust of many forgotten stories.Plush seats and cushioned benches had been scattered about the chamber. Their velvets, deep blue and earthy brown, looked both worn and welcoming. Each wooden frame was carved with careful detail, the legs capped in shining copper. Great clay pots cradled wild tangles of green leaves, their branches stretching high toward the vaulted ceiling, adding a breath of life to the stillness.
Golden sunlight poured through tall windows, the crimson curtains drawn just enough to let the beams fall across the floor in streaks. The light softened the shadows that clung to the shelves and crept along the walls, filling the space with a quiet warmth. The air smelled of parchment and old leather, with the faint trace of incense and dried herbs still lingering. Aneria's gaze drifted to the table, where a map lay spread wide. Several locations had been carefully circled in dark ink, places whispered to hide the fabled Magic Stones. Scattered papers surrounded the map, some marked with imperial seals, others filled with hasty scrawl. Her eyes landed on one such document, the faded script calling to her. Before she could reach for it, footsteps sounded behind her. Scarface and the Emperor had returned from the terrace. Their shadows stretched across the floor, long and cold. Their eyes met briefly hers and the Emperor's a sharp, piercing moment that said everything and nothing at once. Her breath caught. She quickly set the document back in its place, her heart pounding so hard it seemed to rattle her bones. A chill settled deep within her. This could be the end.
"You are excused, Sir Jesterion," the Emperor's voice filled the chamber, cutting through her panic like the crack of distant thunder. The name was unfamiliar to her, a new piece in the court's shifting game.
The man known as Scarface gave a slow, deliberate bow. Without a word, he crossed the room and disappeared through the heavy doors. The wood closed behind him with a dull thud. Now only two remained. Aneria knelt once more on the cold floor of the vast chamber. His Majesty stood above her, watching her with eyes as cold and unyielding as the stone that surrounded them. A suffocating thought gripped her mind. This was her reckoning. Whatever fate the Emperor had prepared, there was no path left to escape it.