Tavelan I

“Your blood carries the memories of those who came before you, be it in sorrows or in joy.”

–Tima’asathur, verse 17, Holy Scripture of Ath-Einhaf.

The winds of Aschatava smelled distinct, Tavelan noticed. She breathed in the sharp, fresh, crisp scent—slightly sweet and woody. It clung to her silk and leather as Tundra banked sharply toward the palace spires. With a rhythmic snap of the beast’s bright blue wings against thin air, Tundra settled his talons upon the balcony and spread one wing to let his rider dismount. Tavelan unbuckled her belts and freed herself from the ornate purple saddle with skilled ease; her boots struck the bright floor with a low thud.

Standing by the glass door at the other end of the balcony and awaiting her was Nagor.

Nagor.

He had the same vacuous face she had always remembered, what with his limbs waving about with the uncoordinated gait of a childling. His striking blue eyes remained as bright – and utterly devoid of guile – as they had been in their childhood.

“My gorgeous lady Tavelan Arethuzi,” Nagor bowed, smile sharp as a dagger. “How was your flight, cousin?” he waved, voice thin against the wind.

Tavelan raised a single, sharp-arched eyebrow. “Uneventful,” she replied. “Precise as a ledger’s entry, which is exactly how I prefer my travels to be.” Tavelan turned fully toward him, and Nagor could see her frown; how her crimson paint on her lips faded from the wind in her travel. “Now, pray tell. Where is he?”

Nagor tilted his head; that look of confusion on his visage reminded Tavelan of a stupid field mouse. “He?” Then, his eyes widened in realization as he grinned, showing the silver glint of his ornamented teeth. “Oh… Oh! The King of Thospeiros! Well, well indeed. Tell me, cousin dearest! Does the prospect of your impending union set your heart aflutter?”

Tavelan met his eyes. “I’m certainly fervent,” she cooed as she stepped closer to Nagor, “fervent enough to slit your throat if you insist on these inanities.” She sighed and resumed walking, her leather sandals making a faint tap-tap-tap against the pale floor. “Let us dispense with the pleasantries, cousin. Your small talk interests me none.”

Nagor grinned, the silver ornament on his teeth glinting as he seemed utterly unfazed. “I was just trying to help, Tavie!” He replied as he followed her like a lost little mouse that he was.” You look dreadful, especially when you frown.”

“No,” Tavelan glared at the Traxei in front of her. “You shall forfeit that endearment, cousin. I am no longer a babe in the nursery.”

To that, Nagor simply ignored her. He hummed a Phyrozesathur tune – one that sounded as light as a breeze – as he walked without care. And in truth, Tavelan often longed to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze until the song stilled. Yet she would never truly attempt to do so; the world knew his blood. The moment those silver spidersilk and black steel-adorned imperial guards saw him, they bowed low and opened the glass door, revealing the sanctum beyond.

A jarring sight, she thought. This man-child… this flailing boy, now the halcord to the imperial court.

They crossed the threshold into the palace’s hall, greeted with many tapestries of those who had graced these very hallways. Her lilac eyes found their way to one tapestry depicting Norvenna and Leren, standing side by side, holding the crown of Phyrozes now worn by the second Sohan.

Tavelan scoffed at the tapestry before she moved her attention to her cousin. “I received news,” she stated,” that the executioners were kept… occupied a sennight ago.”

“That is so,” Nagor chirped, nodding as he walked. “The imperial court purged several vipers in the kingdoms. Corruption, extortions… those sorts of unseemly deeds.”

“And yet,” Tavelan’s lips raised to a little smirk. “I find it curious. Was there no justice laid out to our great King of Phyrozes, Sohan II Ardeyi, for the sin of… nepotism?” She took Nagor’s arm, linking it with her own as they walked. “For the audacity of pulling strings to ensure his own fledgling son was elevated to the rank of halcord at such… a tender, unproven age?”

Nagor stilled his footsteps at the mention of his father. The smile on his face did not falter, though he turned to fully face Tavelan, his guileless, pleasant visage suddenly seemed far less vacant.

Nagor’s eyes gaze upon Tavelan’s lilac ones, his smile not quite reaching those periwinkle eyes, before he spoke. “Much as House Arethuzi escaped the pyre for dissent against Equilibrium Utopia,” Nagor responded with a tilt of his head. “In Hecarros’s hands, you’d all be cinders. Instead, you cling to your marriage prize. Who gained more from the Emperor’s mercy—us, or you?”

Tavelan let out a sharp, dry scoff. She reached her hand out – plump and thick, with brass bangles adorning her hand – and ruffled Nagor’s wavy white hair with a gesture that was partially mocking and partially one of genuine affection. “You possess a quicker wit than you let on, little mouse,” she stated. “A pity your brother is so… dreadfully morose.”

They continued to pass those who once passed these very hallways, forever frozen in tapestries, as Nagor led her deeper into the palace. The silver-clad sentries inclined their heads as the two Traxei passed, though their eyes lingered, bold and hungry, on Tavelan’s form.

Bronze skin, white ringlets tumbling to her hips, pale arched brows, and full lips. A vision that demanded to be seen.

It did not help that every sentry they passed happened to be Varkrys.

Nagor’s footsteps eventually halted before the pale stone door in front of them. With a casual flick of his wrist, Nagor dismissed the guards, who nodded and hurried along their way to the other end of the long, marbled hallways.

“The King of Thospeiros awaits,” Nagor whispered.

Tavelan nodded, smoothing the fabric of her gown with meticulous care. “How do I appear, cousin?”

“Horrid,” Nagor quipped with a playful wink. “As you always do.”

Tavelan responded by stepping down with a firm heel onto his foot, causing Nagor to grunt. Without hesitation, she reached for a potted tree laden with crimson berries beside the door, plucked a berry, and crushed it between her fingers. Carefully, she rubbed the deep red stain onto her lips before glancing at her reflection in a nearby pane. She did not stop there; Tavelan reached to pull her bodice lower to emphasize her cleavage. Ensuring it was just so, she smoothed her gown once more, then stepped through the threshold into the solar.

The chamber was a sanctuary of shadows, velvet draped in ruby folds. The Varkrys shunned the sun, favoring the dim glow of a chandelier where crimson candles guttered like dying stars. Tavelan’s lilac eyes found her betrothed.

Lounging upon a sofa was Jaerros Alzari – the ethereal perfection. He was as pale as bone, with his hair long and bound in intricate braids adorned with silver. He was clad in black silk and shimmering jewels of platinum and moonstone, and when he turned his gaze toward her-

Eyes of utter void, black without end. Alzari’s eyes.

Her knees threatened to buckle. Only Tavelan’s strong will pulled her out of her trance. Gazing at Helvarr himself—it felt that way. She glanced down; her stomach churned, and her palm turned cold.

Jaerros Alzari stood, gliding silently to her side before he towered over her, Tavelan reaching the midpoint of his chest barely.

The Alzari were said to be closer to Gods than mortals… a sentiment that felt chillingly true in his presence.

I can survive this, Tavelan thought to herself. My ancestors could. They did. They entertained Varkrys beds, and they birthed Varkrys babes. I can do the same. I can do better.

“My lady,” Jaerros spoke, his voice soft, almost whispery – and utterly chilling. “I must offer my apologies for this…” he gestured toward his interrupted meal. “Unceremonious reception.”

Tavelan’s knees threatened to buckle, but she sank into a deep, reverent curtsy. She stilled the tremor in her chest like a seasoned troubadour. “Your Majesty,” she murmured. “Perhaps we can discard formalities, given our impending union?”

Jaerros merely smiled. His dark robes shrouded him like shadow as he moved behind her. Tavelan could feel his frost-cold fingertips brush her bare back, and she shuddered as he gently drew her white hair over her shoulder. “Is that truly the desire of your heart?” he asked.

“Indeed, my king,” Tavelan replied, nodding firmly.

His highness circled back to face her, one pale hand reaching out to tilt her chin upward with his red nails. For a moment, Tavelan couldn’t breathe; she was lost in that void.

“You are beautiful,” Jaerros Alzari remarked. “Up close, even more so than when I first beheld you.”

And to that, Tavelan answered, “Your Majesty has seen me previously?”

Jaerros led Tavelan to the sofa. The table was spread with Varkrys’ delicacies. A bowl of millipedes sat beside cups of wine—thankfully, the critters were still and roasted to a crisp.

“I have,” Jaerros stated as they sat. “At Lord Maha Arethuzi’s day-of-the-year banquet. You danced on a table in a gown of deep blue and a golden veil…” Jaerros trailed, the ends of his lips faintly curled into an amused half-smirk. “If that could even be considered as a gown.”

Tavelan chuckled. She remembered the night well—half-drunk and scantily clad in a sapphire blue dress, she moved among the commonborn dancers. As a Traxei, she was far less concerned with propriety than a Varkrys like him. The moment she spotted a table filled with handsome Varkrys lords, she climbed up the table and danced there before she took the bodice of her gown off and offered her breasts for three lords to suckle.

“Did the dress please you, Your Majesty?” Tavelan asked boldly. And before he could answer, she pressed further. “Or was it that dance that captured your eyes, perhaps?”

Jaeros remained silent, though a hint of genuine amusement crossed his flawless, alabaster-like features and was etched on his pale lips. Taking his silence as an invitation, Tavelan leaned toward the table. “I have interrupted Your Majesty’s feast. Your bowl is but half-finished.”

“You have not,” Jaerros replied, hand aching to touch those gorgeous ringlets of white hair. “My lady.”

“Then do continue, my king. Or perhaps…” Tavelan reached for a millipede, swallowing her revulsion. Dry, crisp, bumpy—she despised the blackened legs that tickled her fingers, despised everything about these ugly, filthy creatures. There were only a few more things she detested the most, but bugs… bugs were up there.

But she had yielded before, when victory demanded it. Silently, she prayed to Helvarr the Hunter to let her snare this godlike man as she had snared others. She slipped half the insect between her painted lips, tongue recoiling from its touch, and climbed onto his lap, offering the other half to him.

Jaerros’s void-like eyes widened before he smiled. He grasped her jaw and pulled her close until their lips nearly met, and took the offering from her mouth. As he closed his eyes, he found the scent of Tavelan’s skin – myrrh and something he could not quite pinpoint – intoxicated him more than wine ever could.

He bit through the roasted millipede and swallowed it whole. His hand slid to her thigh, squeezing the flesh. “Your kind,” he whispered, “has always been trouble for mine.”

Tavelan chuckled, letting herself linger in the circle of his arms. She tilted her head, lips nearly brushing his. “And yet it took your kind just a shy away from four thousand years to let my kind go,” Tavelan whispered, “Your Majesty.”

Jaerros’s hand lingered on her thigh, savoring the softness, the weight of her flesh. He squeezed once more, then lifted her from his lap and set her beside him.

“My brother wished to see us,” Jaerros stated, his voice barely above a whisper. “To discuss the impending union, for the ceremony and the banquet that comes after would be held here.”

“The Emperor,” Tavelan lingered beside him, pressing her cleavage to Jaerros’s strong arm, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered. “Is His Imperial Majesty as handsome as you, my king?”

To that, Jaerros laughed. “Vierros is many things,” he confessed. “But he will not look at you the way I do. Such is reserved only for his Empress.”

He will not look at you the way I do.

Tavelan bit her cheek, fighting a scowl. The thought that the Emperor might be immune to her beauty was a bitter thing.

It bruised her.

It stung.

It still felt like that uncomfortable pang in her belly when she spent hours without a meal.

It felt wrong.

Beauty was her weapon, her birthright.

To be denied by the Emperor stung. She clenched her jaw as heat rose in her cheeks. She furrowed her brow, refusing to believe Jaerros’s words as she thought to herself and spoke.

“The emperor took the seas to Thospeiros to gift my cousin Sadoras a portrait of her, in which his emperor’s majesty painted it himself,” Tavelan pressed as she clenched her fists. “Whatever did Sadoras do to gain the attention of a married man?”

Jaerros quirked his pale lips in amusement. “Come,” he called as he stood up, towering over her. “We will see the emperor.”

Jaerros took her through the spiraling paths of God’s Chosen. The emperor’s solar was not too far from the royal quarters meant for the King of Thospeiros, as Jaerros was still his family. Still, it felt like a chore to Tavelan, who was forced to follow Jaerros’s long strides. She heaved and puffed when they reached the grand marble door, and Jaerros held his smirk.

The palace guards swung open the doors to the emperor’s solar. Jaerros strode in with easy steps as if he owned the solar, and Tavelan followed, trailing behind him like a pup. Dusk filtered through the spidersilk curtains, illuminating the solar in muted gold. Bookshelves lined every wall – just as Tavelan had imagined – and beneath a mosaic of colored crystal chandelier, Vierros Alzari, the fifth Emperor of Ederav, sat by his desk.

Vierros, to Tavelan, wore Jaerros’s face; pale and flawless with void-like eyes. Though Vierros was finer, ethereal, beautiful beyond words. He had neither Jaerros’s strong figure nor Jaerros’s firm hands, but he was elegant. Tavelan’s gaze lingered in hunger for a flicker of admiration, but the emperor regarded her with a curt poise of one who had seen every splendor.

Her pride bristled a little. And in return, she thought Jaerros the more pleasing sight.

“Brother,” Jaerros inclined his head in a respectful bow. “This is my betrothed, Lady Tavelan Arethuzi. A vision for the eyes, if I may say so myself.”

Vierros nodded back, refusing to rise from his seat. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and gentle like a spring breeze, and Tavelan needed to step closer to hear him. “Jaerros. Lady Tavelan. I am grateful that House Arethuzi has finally chosen to support my decree,” he stated. “May your union bring harmony between our peoples.”

“A union that I long for,” Jaerros replied. “It is time for the throne of Thospeiros to be blessed with an heir.”

“A calming thought, that is,” Vierros nodded. “Though I beseech you to seek blessings at the temple and give alms to the poor prior to your nuptials, my king. The favor of the gods is not to be neglected.”

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” Jaerros agreed. “Whatever you command.”

And Tavelan fought the urge to roll her eyes. She dipped her head, every inch the dutiful bride. She cared not for the poor, nor the gods but Helvarr himself. Though she would play her part before Vierros the Gentle.

They took a seat, and the two Varkrys spoke further – discussing ceremonial details, arrangements, and the gathering of dignitaries from the six territories of the empire. Whatever puny details that Tavelan cared little about. She wanted to stand out, and she had seen her dress, sewn by thirteen different gifted seamstresses of the empire.

She had seen her crown, selected the herbs that would be brewed and crushed to paint her face, and she had reached euphoria by entertaining the thoughts of ladies glaring at her in jealousy while a priest blessed her union with the King of Thospeiros himself.

She cared for nothing else.

Her lilac eyes drifted away at the sight of many books lining the bookshelves as the brothers spoke – Vierros’s tone held a warmth that never quite drifted into affection, but never cold – and a discreet knock sounded at the door.

A Varkrys man entered, bowing low. “My King,” he spoke, particularly to Jaerros. “Your signature is needed on the trade delegation’s charters. The papers await in your quarters, sire.”

“The never-ending duties of Alzari,” Jaerros reclined on his seat before he tousled his own raven hair. “I thank you for your time, brother. I shall return to my errands.”

He offered Vierros a bow and Tavelan a brief, reassuring smile before departing, leaving her and His Imperial Majesty alone.

Vierros returned his attention to the vellum on his desk, pale hand reaching for a quill. “I shall not retain you here any longer. Farewell, Lady Tavelan.”

But Tavelan Arethuzi did not budge. She remained still on the velvet sofa, reclining as if she owned the place. “Will you remain here in the solar all day, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“Indeed,” Vierros replied without looking up.

“And the empress?” Tavelan pressed. “The princess?”

“My wife and daughter are occupied,” Vierros answered in half a feigned interest for the sake of formalities. “Embroidering details on their dresses, I believe, til the late hours.”

And to that, Tavelan Arethuzi stood up. She sauntered across the solar and stood still before the emperor’s writing desk. In a smooth motion, she slipped free of her dress, letting the leather pool on her feet.

“I could aid you in passing the time,” Tavelan smiled as she bent over his desk, facing him completely. “Emperor.”

Vierros stilled, the movement of his quill promptly halted above his vellum. He could see a glimpse of Tavelan’s breasts, yet he refused to gaze as he set his quill down slowly. “Lady Arethuzi,” he whispered, “I respect you as my brother’s bride and my lawful sister. I will not entertain this… obscenity.”

Tavelan only chuckled. For a lady so plump, she climbed onto his writing desk with ease, nearly toppling an inkpot onto the floor. “No one has to know,” she cooed.

Vierros closed his eyes and let out a very faint sigh. He banged his fist onto the desk – startling Tavelan – and the guards by his door knocked on it.

“Your Imperial Majesty!” They called. “How do you fare within!?”

Tavelan’s gaze abruptly snapped onto the door, and Vierros’s voice was icy calm.

“I will let them in this instant if you do not dress yourself, my lady,” Vierros calmly warned.

And to that, Tavelan grunted, sliding down the desk and dragging her dress over her with the speed of a cornered hare.

When she finished, Vierros called the guards in. They entered, silver-cloaked and firmly posed. “Escort Lady Arethuzi to her luncheon,” Vierros ordered, and she was ushered from the solar as Vierros immersed himself in his vellum.

The guards acted quickly, and Tavelan found herself out of the emperor’s solar. She huffed quietly, straightening the fabrics draped over her body as she walked between the cool opaline glow of moon lichen lining the walls, with jade-colored vines clinging to it. She glanced up, finding hundreds of crystalline prisms dangling from the ceiling, snaring stray light and scattering rainbows across the marble floor.

God’s Chosen was beautiful, she thought, and that brought a warmth in her chest and a smile on her lips.

The guards escorted her to one of the hanging gardens of the palace, where she was seated on a table beneath a pergola of flowering vines. A Sethri servant flew by, with their wings flickering in fire. She delivered plates of cakes crowned with candied fruits, spiced meat, and honeyed pastries.

She dined in silence, with carmine, sapphire, gold, and viridian trees stretched to the horizon across Aschatava, with rugha of different colors darting between the woods. One perched nearby, just on the other side of the hanging garden, bright blue in color with a black saddle and a sigil of House Aredyres, happily munching on the thick vines hanging from the top.

Tavelan decided to match the beast, delighting in her feast and stuffing herself with cake and spiced meat. The rugha whistled at her, and she hummed a tune to match it. It flapped its sapphire-colored wings and took off to the waterfall on the other side of the palace.

For a moment, Tavelan Arethuzi was the only soul basking in the splendor of Aschatava. Aschatava was beautiful and bright and lovely and free.

And deep down, she feared the shadowed caverns of Thospeiros.

After her luncheon, she retired to her chambers – a grand suite tucked within the quarters meant for Jaerros to reside when he visited Aschatava. She caught a glimpse of Tundra roosting on the balcony, wings tucked as he slumbered. The sight made her chuckle. What she would not do to slumber on the daybed by the balcony, just a breath away from her rugha…

Though in Aschatava, time was scarce. She opened the balcony’s door, approaching Tundra and unlatching her luggage from the saddle without rousing the beast from his slumber. She brought back two knapsacks and a bag, settling them on a grand onyx-framed vanity table and sitting in the chair across from it.

Tavelan brushed out the long white ringlets of her hair, smoothing fragrant oil spiced with star anise, cloves, and black pepper into the strands until they shone. She undressed once more, grabbing what she needed from her bag, and anointed her body with the same oil before moving to the bathing chamber, where she sat and scrubbed the oil clean with her own blend: ground spices and rice with finely crushed salt.

Tavelan brought with her a small jar of soot and blue indigo powder. She mixed the concoction with water in a tiny silver bowl, then applied the gritty paste to her teeth with a slender bone stick and rinsed. Then she lit incense of myrrh and cinnamon before she dipped into the brass tub, where petals swirled as candles flickered beneath, keeping the water perfectly warm. Tavelan reclined as she hummed a Phyrozesathur tune, letting the bath’s scent seep into her golden skin.

She emerged from the tub after a couple of hours, nearly falling asleep within the cradle of the brass. With her hands still damp, she reached for a delicately carved wooden and silver box, taking a glass file to shape and polish her nails until each shone like tiny jewels.

And just as Tavelan finished drying herself and shrouded herself with a pale blue chemise, a brisk knock sounded at the door. A servant – a girl with a quick, nervous bearing of someone shoved into another’s service – entered and bowed low. “Lady Tavelan,” she called, “the empress’s ladies have summoned your ladyship. My lady is to come at once to the empress’s wing.”

Tavelan loudly groaned as she glared at the poor servant. She had yet to decide which dress to don, or how she would style her hair – but there was no time for luxury. She grabbed a dress of purple silk, cut through with indigo in the style of House Arethuzi. Her hair, still soft and fragrant, was woven into quick yet presentable braids that she pinned with a silver comb. With a last glance in the mirror, she swept from her chamber into the palace corridors.

The hallways stretched endlessly, lined with glowing mushrooms and tapestries of faces both foreign and familiar – all of the past – as Tavelan ascended the spiraling stairs toward the empress’s wing, passing clusters of courtiers and servants who glanced at her with either curiosity or thinly veiled disdain. When she, at last, reached the doors, two guards awaited her, armor adorned with Venefian filigree. They regarded Tavelan with nonchalance before they pushed the door wide.

Behind the carved door was Cianantiras Alzefeni – the Empress of Ederav, the consort of Vierros Alzari. She was draped in fine crimson silk, leaning languidly against a porcelain covered with wool and pelt; the sides remained open with incense burning inside, shrouding her hair in smoke of myrrh and roses. Cianantiras bore both the pale visage and the haughtiness of the Varkrys, amplified to a hundredfold. Her crimson fingernails tapped lazily onto the carving of the surround as she scrutinized Tavelan with her crimson eyes.

Her ladies, meanwhile, were arranged about her on low sofas, embroidery hoops in hand, quietly glancing at their silly little endeavour as Tavelan dipped into a practised curtsy. She roused, and before she could fully lift her head, the empress’s voice cut through the tranquility.

“Who allowed you to raise your eyes?” Cianantiras Alzefeni inquired, eyebrows arched and crimson-painted lips downturned. Her ladies tittered, their needles pausing at the Cianantiras’s cold tone. With a flick of her fingers, Cianantiras dismissed them, and they scurried away like little rats hiding from a viper.

Only two guards remained; tall Venefian ladies with swords on their hips and vines on their braids.

Tavelan lowered her gaze to the shadow of Cianantiras reflected by the hanging crystals above them, glimmering in pale blue and bright red against the marbled floor. She chose not to let any words escape her lips, for she knew this tone like the back of her hand; it followed her wherever she went, spewed from the lips of the women whose husbands rutted inside her the night before.

Jealousy.

And it was delicious to her as it was deadly.

“I have heard of what transpired within His Imperial Majesty’s solar this noontide,” Cianantiras’ voice cut through the silence. “Perhaps it was ignorance, or perhaps lunacy.”

To that, Tavelan’s lips quirked into a smirk. She lifted her chin and replied. “News travels fast in this palace, it seems.”

Cianantiras’s scrutinizing gaze fell to the Tavelan’s white braids and pale lilac eyes. She scoffed as she looked away. “I do not expect tact nor courtesy from the likes of you,” she assented. “The Traxei do as the Traxei please… akin to hounds.”

Tavelan’s cheeks flustered in anger. Hounds. Of course, a Varkrys would call her kind hounds. In any other setting, she would have held her tongue from wagging recklessly to the consort of the Emperor.

But Tavelan was no sort of woman to fear, and her husband-to-be is the King of Thospeiros himself. They could say whatever they wish about the six territories of the empire being equal, but a mere sapling learning history of Ederav would know that Thospeiros existed long before other kingdoms emerged.

“Perhaps such words are unbecoming of the empress herself,” Tavelan retorted. “But there is a vast difference between a reigning empress and a consort to the emperor.”

And to that, she foolishly thought she had the same standing with the empress.

Cianantiras Alzefeni scoffed at the remark, nearly averting her eyes out of the sheer audacity of Tavelan. She took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke that shrouded her as she spoke. “You laid yourself bare as a newborn babe before the emperor’s majesty.”

The two guards stilled at the empress’s statement, green eyes visibly widening, though neither spoke nor moved anywhere but necessary. If one of her ladies left her embroidery needle and it somehow rolled onto the floor, they would have heard it.

“His Imperial Majesty’s wife, who ought to attend to him, is occupied by embroidery,” Tavelan replied. “I merely offered a respite, Your Imperial Highness. Out of loyalty to the Emperor.”

Cianantiras was pale. Pale and bone-white, paler than vellum. Pale like all Varkrys. Yet at that moment, Tavelan saw a new color; a hue of rosy pink, but not one of shyness – one of wroth.

“Loyalty?” Cianantiras repeated, face aghast, before it turned pink, before it turned back to ghastly white. “Loyalty. You paraded yourself like a harlot, and you call it loyalty. Where is your loyalty to your intended? If the King of Thospeiros heard of this, would you believe he wishes to wed you still?”

“I believe…” Tavelan trailed her words, eyes obstinately meeting Cianantiras’s crimson ones. “That the empire needs the marriage as much as I do. Equilibrium Utopia is a wise decree,” Tavelan stated, “but it is an extensive and drastic one. House Arethuzi will follow if-”

“Have you ever visited The Web Beneath?” Cianantiras interjected.

Before Tavelan could reply, the empress continued. “A city in Thospeiros. If it could even be called a city,” Cianantiras said as she traced her long brown hair with her fingertips. “It is a cold and dark hovel, hidden by the glamor of the great cities before it. Before the emperor’s decree, it was a dreary place.”

“If a woman such as yourself bares herself before the gaze of the men who dwell in that place, my lady,” Cianantiras’s voice lowered, “you would be dead. You would be raped from dusk to dawn to another dusk without a break. You will be broken into many pieces. They would tear your hair and bite into your flesh. You would be discarded in places where critters would dine on your carcass and finish it sooner than the best rugha rider would ever track your remains.”

Tavelan gulped.

“Detain her,” Cianantiras suddenly ordered the guards. The two Venefian took two long strides and immediately grabbed Tavelan, clasping her wrists together and barring her from moving. Tavelan was about to protest, but she felt a cold blade on her throat, and she could only grunt as she glared at the Varkrys before her.

“Carve her breasts out,” Cianantiras commanded, and one guard raised her blade high in the air. Tavelan shut her eyes and gritted her teeth; her legs felt like they could buckle down to the floor any moment. In that second, she felt like a gasp was about to flee from her throat, but somehow it felt as if a noose was tied tightly around her neck, preventing even her own breathing.

She did not think of how her beloved father would react. Or if it would be painful. Or if this would mean war between Phyrozes and the empire – and would Sohan II Ardeyi even care enough to wage war for one defiant girl?

She only thought of one thing.

Fear.

“Halt,” Cianantiras sharply ordered, and the guard dropped her weapon, letting it fall with a sharp clank! And Cianantiras waved her hand. “I have changed my mind. You may release her.”

Tavelan, breathing ragged and palm cold, grasped the upper arm of a guard on her left. Her eyes darted between the blade resting on the floor and Cianantiras Alzefeni, lips parted, yet no words escaped her lips.

“The gods may be merciful to those who tempt a married man if they wish to be,” the empress professed. “But I am no god, my lady. I am a woman. And the next time you lay yourself bare before my lord husband, I will ensure you have nothing left that you could use to please a man with.”

Tavelan swallowed the lump in her throat. She blinked and gathered herself, weaving and weaving her usually unshaken composure before she spoke. “…Am I to be excused, Your Imperial Highness?”

“You may leave,” the empress confirmed. “I pray I will never have a reason to seek another bride for my lawful brother.”

Tavelan swiftly pulled her hand from the guard’s arm. She hurried a lopsided curtsy and turned back, fear thumping in her chest with each step she took. Yet the moment she reached the door and exited, it morphed.

Her palm felt cold no longer. Her breathing was ragged no longer. Her sight blurred, hot and glassy, and she clenched her fists as she pressed her back and slid down the door.

Tavelan Arethuzi stayed that for precisely thirty heartbeats before she gathered herself, stood back up, and wiped her tears.

She was no longer in fear.

She was angry.