The Queen's garden had been pruned that morning.
Magnolia petals floated in still ponds. Red lanterns swayed in the breeze, and incense from the southern isles curled upward like smoke from a forgotten fire. It was the Queen's favored hour — mid-morning, when the air was gentle, and the sun had not yet grown cruel.
But there was no peace in her eyes.
She sat beneath the carved pavilion, cloaked in silver and green. Around her knelt three handmaids, silent and attentive. One fanned her gently. Another peeled lotus seeds. The third held a delicate scroll — a list of titles to be conferred before the solstice.
At the top, in careful brushstrokes:
Iria of House Morwen — Worthy Lady.
"She has earned it," the Queen said aloud, though no one had spoken. "She's charming, clever, and loyal. Unlike the others."
One handmaid murmured agreement. The Queen did not look at her.
Her gaze was fixed far ahead — past the flowers and past the koi, into the corner of the courtyard where Iria knelt, reciting scripture before a monk.
Iria's head was bowed, veil trailing across the floor, but her back was perfectly straight.
"She knows how to bend," the Queen whispered, "without ever breaking."
---
Elsewhere in the Palace
Liora lit a stick of jasmine incense and pressed her hands together.
She didn't pray.
She listened.
"The Queen's in favor again," Lady Zhen whispered behind her. "The astrologers said the omens are clear — she may be with child."
Lady Wen, always calm, replied, "She's said to have fainted last week. Her physicians sealed their mouths. That's never a good sign."
Liora remained silent. Not out of fear — but because she already knew.
Jun had slipped her the rumor hours ago: a confirmed pregnancy, now in its third month.
Liora let the information steep like strong tea in her chest. It was not panic that rose — it was calculation. If the Queen gave the King a son, she could reshape the succession. But if the Queen failed…
The tides would split.
"She's not the only one pregnant," Wen added softly, casting a glance at Liora.
Liora said nothing.
She hadn't told anyone yet.
---
That Night
Liora walked beneath the red lanterns strung across the western courtyard, near the Hall of Ancestral Offerings.
A quiet figure stepped from the shadows.
Iria.
"Sister," Iria said, voice honeyed and sharp, "I hear congratulations are in order. Or are they not… confirmed?"
Liora turned to face her, every muscle smooth and still. "I would wait to celebrate. The halls have long memories, and many ghosts."
"Don't they?" Iria's smile sharpened. "So many shadows here. So many doors."
She drew closer.
"You always were the smart one. But you don't belong here. Not really. You're not... soft enough."
Liora held her gaze. "And you're not sharp enough. Yet."
"I don't need to be sharp. I have the Queen."
"And when she bleeds, what will you have?"
Iria blinked. The silence that followed was not empty — it was full of understanding.
They were no longer sisters.
They were opponents.
---
Months Later
In the dawn's hush, bells rang from the Temple Hall.
The King had signed the decree:
Iria was now Worthy Lady, fourth in rank among the consorts.
The Queen's pregnancy was now five months.
And in the King's private court, behind guarded doors, a new boy was being presented — Lady Elira's son, born under clouded skies and cloaked in discretion. Rumors whispered he had the King's nose… but not his eyes.
Liora watched it all unfold with the patience of frost on stone.
She had already begun to weave the threads: A whisper here, a servant's silence there. The Queen and Iria's alliance had seams. She would pull, thread by thread.
She also had news of her own.
She was carrying her third child.
And this time, she would not be careless with whom she trusted.