CHAPTER THREE: The Thorn That Bled First
No one requested an audience with the King.
Not a girl of no rank. Not a concubine candidate still dressed in pink. Not a daughter of a disgraced house, still shadowed by her father's suspected treason. And yet, Liora did.
The moment she handed the letter to the court scribe, the entire wing felt it. Like blood dropped into still water.
By dawn, the harem buzzed.
"Who does she think she is?"
"She refused Lord Hadren?"
"She's trying to seduce the King."
"She's trying to die."
Liora ignored them. She washed in cold water and dressed in a robe two shades too light for her station. Her hair was pinned simply. There was no perfume, no painted mouth. Just the quiet dignity of someone who had nothing left to fear.
The summons came that evening.
She was not taken through the great audience halls or across the ceremonial garden bridges. Instead, she was led through the rear path of the Jade Wing — a passage said to be reserved for physicians and spies — and brought into a narrow chamber lit only by two lanterns.
Inside: a single man, standing at a map-strewn table.
He did not wear a crown.
He wore black robes embroidered with silver thread, his hair loosely bound, his expression unreadable.
The King.
Young — younger than she remembered. Barely past thirty, with the sharp eyes of a man who never truly slept. He didn't look at her at first. He studied the map.
"You requested me," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Why?"
"To refuse what I did not choose."
That got his attention. He looked up.
"I was offered as property to a man I did not trust, by a family that no longer owns me," she said. "I have no rank. No allies. No shield but my voice. I used it."
He walked slowly around the table, hands clasped behind his back. "Why come here?"
"Because I would rather serve under the eye of the falcon than beneath the boot of a rival house," she said. "Even if it kills me."
He stopped in front of her.
"You're the second daughter of Verath."
"I was."
"You've never been in court."
"No."
"You speak well for someone raised in the shadow."
She met his gaze. "Shadows teach us how to see what others ignore."
There was a long pause.
Then, he smiled.
Not kindly — but thoughtfully.
"Return to your chamber," he said. "You'll receive your placement tomorrow."
She bowed and turned.
As she reached the door, he spoke again.
"What's your name?"
"Liora."
"Then remember this: in this palace, names can be buried."
---
She returned to the Petal Wing in silence.
The storm met her at her door.
Iria was waiting inside.
"You spoke to him," Iria said flatly.
Liora said nothing. She closed the door behind her.
"You think this is a game? You shame our house. You shame me."
"Is that what this is about?" Liora asked. "Shame?"
"He was mine. The King. The court knew it. The council supported it. You—" Iria's voice cracked. "You were just supposed to follow."
"I did," Liora replied. "I followed you into silence. I followed our father into exile. I followed orders until they sent me to a monastery and forgot I existed."
Iria's jaw tightened. "You ruined everything."
"I made a choice."
Iria moved closer, her perfume sharp and bitter. "You're not prepared for this. You think being near the King means safety? It means death, Liora. The Queen will devour you. The concubines will bleed you. And I—"
She stopped.
"You'll what?" Liora asked.
"I'll survive," Iria whispered. "Like I always have."
Then she left.
And Liora was alone again.
---
At dawn, two attendants in red appeared at her door.
They carried a folded robe.
No longer pink.
But pale gold, edged in bronze — the color of accepted concubines.
Liora dressed in silence. The robe fit loosely, as if not sewn for her shape, but for a role she had not yet learned to wear. The attendants braided her hair in the court style, twining it with a single bronze pin shaped like a wing.
She was led not to the Petal Wing, but to the Outer Lotus Quarters — the place where low-ranking consorts and acknowledged concubines lived, away from the favorites but above the unseen.
On the door to her new chamber, a simple plaque:
"Liora — No Title."
No one greeted her. No one offered wine. No one whispered congratulations.
Only the wind through the bamboo lattice, the rustle of leaves in the courtyard, and the distant sound of temple bells ringing for the Queen's coronation.
The woman who would be crowned was not Iria.
And in the palace that now breathed her name in fear and curiosity, Liora lit a single candle, whispered no spells, and marked the beginning of her ascent with silence.