Latrasil did not ask for her.

She was a gift—a final, breathless attempt at peace from a kingdom she had already turned to dust. The defeated king’s daughter, or niece, or cousin—they never specified—offered up like a trinket, trembling beneath layers of fine silk. An offering to temper the wrath of the Empress.

Latrasil remembered staring down at the girl, barely eighteen, silent and unreadable. Not broken. Not pleading. Just... quiet.

She didn’t know what to do with her.

Her court had waited for the order to send the girl to the temple, or perhaps to the edge of the empire. But instead, Latrasil said: “She will join the harem.”

The outrage had been immediate.

Ministers barked in council chambers. “A woman? From an enemy kingdom?” Advisors whispered behind their fans. “It’s dangerous—sentiment will cloud her judgment.” The consorts muttered among themselves, poisoned by envy and fear. Even their families protested, horrified that a foreign girl could be placed beside their sons.

Only she said nothing. She simply watched. As she always did.

She did not speak much. She did not smile. She did not seek Latrasil out, nor did she avoid her. She simply existed—calm, polished, and utterly unreadable.

Latrasil treated her as she did the others: with fairness, distance, and restraint. She gifted her silks, kept her safe, gave her quarters near the moon garden—where the light stayed soft and the air always smelled like night-blooming jasmine.

But she never seemed moved by kindness.

She accepted her life with a grace that felt almost too perfect. She never faltered. Never flared in anger or whimpered in sorrow. But there was something in her eyes—something sharp and cold, buried beneath courtesy.

Latrasil recognized it for what it was.

Hatred.

Not loud. Not violent. Just... there. Sitting in the silence like a knife tucked beneath silk.

She had destroyed her home. Taken her people. Claimed her as property.

Latrasil had done far worse to men who now lived in her palace, who now begged for her favor every morning. And yet, none of their scorn stung the way her silence did.

The other consorts flirted. Sang for her. Touched her sleeve with longing. But she never did. She bowed when necessary. She thanked when gifted. But she never gave more.

She obeyed. She existed. She endured.

And that—that—was what unsettled Latrasil most.

Because it meant she didn’t belong to her. Not truly. Not like the others who had learned to need her, to admire her, to love her.

She was still someone else’s.

One night, while the others drank wine and laughed beneath lanterns, Latrasil found her alone in the moon garden, brushing petals off a stone bench.

“You hate me,” Latrasil said quietly.

She didn’t flinch. “I would never say such a thing to my Empress.”

“That’s not denial.”

A long pause.

“I serve you,” she replied, voice calm. “That is enough.”

Latrasil looked away. For all her power, she suddenly felt small before this girl—this enemy, this consort, this stranger who had never once lied to her with false affection.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked, hating the softness in her voice.