The moment Consort Leyla walked in, the room felt colder somehow despite the heat of candles and perfume and too many eyes. Her red gown shimmered like fresh blood under the chandeliers, and her lips curled ever so slightly, as if the entire hall was beneath her. Amira watched her glide past with her head held high, jet-black hair swaying like silk behind her.
Right behind her came Katia. Young, proud, and practically her mother's reflection. The same high chin. The same sharp look in her eyes. Like they already decided who Amira was and it wasn't someone worth knowing.
Amira didn't even realize she was holding her breath.
They walked up to the high platform where the king sat. She could hear the rustle of their gowns, even above the distant music. The sound made her skin prickle.
Her eyes didn't follow them. No they stayed locked on the door. Waiting. Dreading. Her husband. Or, the man she'd been given to. Her heart thudded in her chest, loud and fast, like her body was trying to warn her.
She wanted Nora back. The maid had become her one safe spot in this golden prison. When Nora left her side, it felt like something warm had been peeled off her skin. The other maids didn't speak to her much. Not in a way that mattered.
The king's voice boomed out across the hall, shaking her out of her thoughts.
"Welcome, my distinguished guests. Tonight, we celebrate my son's great victory..."
Amira shrank a little in her chair, trying not to be seen. The words didn't feel like they were meant for her. But then—
"She will be taken as his wife."
Everything stopped. Even the music seemed quieter. All the gazes turned to her at once, a hundred invisible fingers poking at her chest. She didn't move. Couldn't. Her spine stiffened, her hands curled into fists on her lap.
She wasn't ready.
And it didn't matter.
The king smiled, voice bright again. "Rejoice. Tonight, we celebrate not only victory... but union."
Cheers erupted. Toasts clinked. But it all sounded so far away.
Amira's face didn't change, but inside her mind was spinning. This was real. This was happening. She tried to breathe. Her throat felt dry.
She rose from her seat slowly. Quietly. No one would notice if she disappeared for just a little while.
The guards followed her out like shadows, but she didn't care. The hallway was cooler than the banquet room. Quieter. The sound of music faded behind the heavy doors.
After using the restroom, she didn't return.
Her feet wandered instead. The silence pulled her. The hallways were grand, endless, echoing. Oil paintings lined the walls, each one more dramatic than the last. She paused at one an image of a woman on a rearing horse and wondered what her life was like. Was she free?
Amira turned. And Her stomach dropped.
No guards.
She spun back around. Where did they go?
Her heart sped up. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. She turned left. Then right. The hallway felt darker now. Like the walls had moved closer.
Keep calm. Just retrace your steps.
She walked faster. Her slippers barely made a sound on the marble. Her breathing did.
Then, something cold touched her neck.
Her body froze.
A blade pressed just gently enough to warn.
"What are you doing along the corridors?" A voice spoke near her ear low, cold, full of suspicion.
Her heart slammed against her chest. Her knees almost buckled. Her breath caught.
She turned her head, slowly. Eyes wide. Panic crawling over her skin.
He stepped into view. Silver hair that shimmered like moonlight, eyes sharp and dark. Handsome yes but not the safe kind. His beauty was like a dagger. Meant to wound, not woo.
He stared at her like she might explode.
She couldn't speak. Her mouth opened, no words came out. Her tongue felt too big, her throat too tight.
"I'll ask again," he said, voice a little more impatient. "What are you doing in the inner corridors?"
Her lips quivered. "I... I... I got lost."
His stare didn't soften. The blade still hovered, the weight of it pressing gently into her skin, reminding her how close danger lived in this place.
She tried to meet his eyes. She couldn't hold them. She looked down, ashamed of her fear, her silence, her helplessness.
Then footsteps. Familiar ones.
The guards rushed in, panting slightly. One of them called out her name. The tension in the air snapped, but the cold stare of the silver-haired man didn't fade.
Even as he lowered the sword, his gaze stayed locked on her.
And Amira? She stood still, hands shaking at her sides, knowing deep down that this was just the beginning.