CHAPTER TEN: The Quiet War Begins
The King had not entered the harem in nearly two weeks.
So when the red banners were raised from the Orchid Gate, and the silken drums beat in the outer courtyards, the entire palace stilled.
Some concubines gasped. Others ran to dress. Courtiers whispered behind fans. Attendants scattered like frightened birds.
But when the chief attendant announced the King's intent in a single clear voice —
"His Majesty summons Lady Liora."
— the silence turned sharp.
---
Liora stood motionless, every gaze in the room pinning her like a jewel to cloth.
Lady Elira's fan snapped shut.
Lady Hua lowered her eyes and smiled behind her sleeve.
Lady Zhen blinked twice, confused.
Liora curtsied and followed the eunuch without expression, her heart steady but tight in her chest.
---
The King's private receiving chamber was bathed in amber light and shadows that pooled in the corners like secrets.
He was not cruel to her. Nor was he affectionate. He simply watched, as though trying to remember something he'd once dreamed.
"I see the fire in you," he said quietly. "But I wonder if it can be tamed."
Liora, veiled in ivory, said nothing.
He didn't touch her roughly. Nor sweetly.
But he did not send her away.
She left the chamber after an hour, hair loosened, with a silk sash placed gently in her hands — a private favor, unmistakable in meaning.
By dawn, everyone in the palace knew.
---
Three weeks passed.
Whispers thickened like fog.
Liora received gifts. Silks. Herbs. A golden hairpin.
And then the nausea came.
Soft at first. A flutter. A heaviness in the belly that made her light-headed after meals. Ami guessed it before Liora did. The physician confirmed it without hesitation.
Pregnant.
Liora sat alone that night beneath the magnolia tree, hand over her stomach, more stunned than joyful. It was too soon to dream. But not too soon to hope.
A son, perhaps. Or a daughter to love as she'd never been loved.
For one night, she allowed herself the smallest smile.
---
But the next morning, she woke to blood.
Not a river.
A stain.
But she knew.
Even before Ami's cry. Before the midwife's shaking head.
She sat through the pain in silence.
No screams. No tears. Only the sound of her own heartbeat breaking.
It was gone.
And the hairpin on her vanity — the golden one gifted days earlier — had been dipped in crushed pennyroyal.
Poison. Gentle. Almost untraceable.
Almost.
---
The Queen's summons came that evening.
No messenger. Just a white camellia in a bowl of water.
Liora went dressed in dark blue. Mourning colors, but dignified.
The Queen waited alone in her private hall, dressed in winter gray.
No words about the baby were spoken.
None needed.
"Strange," the Queen murmured, turning a carved ivory charm in her hand. "How many things die before they are born."
Liora stood silent.
"You must learn," the Queen said softly, "what loss is. You must taste it."
Liora finally answered: "And yet I am still here."
The Queen's smile never touched her eyes.
---
On her way out of the Queen's hall, Liora passed the outer courtyard where Lady Mei knelt on frozen stone, her face white with shame, her daughter sobbing behind her.
A broken vase lay nearby. An offense, however petty, enough to justify punishment.
A watching eunuch raised a cane.
Liora stepped between them.
"Her child is ill," she said clearly. "If she fails to tend her daughter, I will answer for it."
The cane lowered.
Lady Mei didn't speak — only lowered her head, trembling.
Liora offered her a hand.
It was not about kindness. Not truly.
It was the beginning of something else.
A thread woven.
A memory planted.
A debt that would return in time.
---
That night, Liora knelt again beneath the magnolia tree, the air colder than before.
No child. No crown.
But still her breath. Still her name.
Still her will.
The palace had drawn blood.
Now it would have to learn what it meant to lose something it couldn't control.
And Liora would not grieve quietly forever.