CHAPTER TWO: Petals Beneath the Throne

The capital shimmered like a mirage as the carriage crested the final ridge.

Sprawling beneath the mountains, it lay draped in banners of scarlet and gold, with rooftops glittering like scales beneath the late-autumn sun. From above, it was a city of beauty and balance — but Liora had learned that beauty often masked rot.

The scent reached them before the walls did: smoke, spiced meats, and the ever-present hint of river rot that clung to the lower alleys. Crowds thickened along the road as they descended, shouting and waving banners bearing the Falcon sigil of the new king. No one shouted for House Verath. Their carriage bore no colors, their crest had been stripped years ago.

Inside the carriage, Iria adjusted a silver hairpin. "Do not speak unless addressed. Do not look the King directly in the eyes. Do not show pride — but never appear weak."

Liora said nothing. She had learned long ago that Iria's advice came laced with honey and poison.

At the palace gates, guards in bronze-plated armor stopped the carriage. One read the Duke's seal — faded, cracked — with a grimace.

"You're late," he muttered.

"The frost delayed us," Iria answered smoothly.

The guard didn't respond. He raised his hand, and the gates opened.

Liora stepped into the royal court under a canopy of red silks and smoke from incense burners. The palace loomed before her: a tiered fortress of marble and lacquered wood, roofs curved like dragon spines, each corner adorned with golden beasts. Courtiers glided like ghosts, dressed in layers of embroidered finery, their painted faces unreadable. Eyes followed them — not with curiosity, but calculation.

They were not guests.

They were offerings.

---

The Hall of Petal Selection was a vast chamber draped in silks dyed the color of blood and plum wine. Courtiers clustered along the walls like bees in a hive, murmuring among themselves as each girl was presented.

Liora counted twenty-four other candidates, all daughters of high-ranking houses. None wore less than four layers of silk. Gold thread gleamed. Hairpins shone like weaponry. Liora and Iria had been given only modest court robes — pressed and perfumed, but plain in comparison.

One by one, the girls were called forward to kneel and give their names before the officials of the Inner Court. At the center sat the Grand Attendant, a woman with eyes like polished obsidian and the voice of a whetted blade.

Liora watched her closely. This woman, not the King, ruled the harem.

"Iria of House Verath," came the call.

Iria glided forward, spine straight, eyes lowered. She recited her practiced lines with elegance and restraint. The Grand Attendant nodded once, noting something on a scroll.

"Liora of House Verath."

Liora moved forward. Her steps were sure. Her heart thundered.

She bowed low.

The silence was long.

"Raise your head," the Grand Attendant said.

Liora did.

For a moment, the woman studied her — not as a girl, but as a puzzle. There was no smile. Only a glimmer of interest behind those dark eyes.

"You are the second daughter?"

"Yes, Honored Attendant."

"Why were you not raised in court?"

"I was sent away."

"Why?"

Liora hesitated. A lie here could shatter like glass. The truth would cut deeper.

"Because I was not useful."

A few heads turned.

The Grand Attendant's gaze did not waver. "Perhaps now, you will be."

Liora bowed again, then stepped aside.

---

They were not chosen that day.

That day was only the beginning.

The girls were taken to their quarters — a long wing of the women's palace known as the Petal Chambers. Each room held little more than a bed, a screen, a basin, and a single silk robe dyed in soft pink — the color of submission.

Iria said little as they unpacked. She claimed a room near the inner corridor, closer to the center of the compound. Liora's room was near the edge, its window overlooking the servant's courtyard.

That night, she sat alone beside her basin, fingers brushing the edge.

The water was still.

She whispered nothing.

But as the candle burned low, she heard footsteps outside — not hurried, not idle.

Measured.

Deliberate.

She opened her door a crack.

A woman passed down the corridor, her face shadowed, her robes midnight-blue instead of pink. A veil covered her mouth, and a silver bell hung from her sash — but it did not chime.

Liora blinked, and the woman vanished behind the corner.

Later, when she asked a servant who had passed by, the girl turned pale.

"There's no one assigned to this wing tonight," she said. "Only candidates and silence."

---

Three nights later, the King's selection was announced.

One girl would be wed.

Four would be chosen as initial consorts.

The rest — concubines, if accepted. Or dismissed in silence.

The name read aloud as Queen-designate was not Iria. It was another noble's daughter — the granddaughter of a Grand Councilor.

Iria's face remained composed. But Liora saw the tremor in her hand.

She had expected the crown.

Instead, she would be made to kneel before it.

As the palace erupted in celebration, the selected were moved to new quarters, draped in gold and ivory. The rejected were left in pink robes and silence.

That evening, a nobleman came to the Petal Wing — a young lord from a powerful family, one with history bound tightly to Iria's bloodline. He asked for Liora by name.

He offered protection. Position. A place in his household, far from the palace — far from shame.

Liora refused.

"I am no man's leverage," she said.

That night, she wrote her father a letter.

The next morning, she requested an audience not with the court matrons — but with the King.