You stood beneath the towering gates, bathed in honey-colored light. Dust curled through your veil. The fabric clung to your face like breath to glass.
Your mother cupped your cheeks gently, her eyes so full you thought they might spill over. But she didn’t cry. Women from your bloodline don’t cry—
“You bring us honor,” she whispered, her voice cracking like a shell. “And you bring *lbeauty Never forget that, my flower."
She kissed your forehead, Then she stepped back, the wind catching her shawl and dragging it behind her like a dying flame.
Your brothers stood like ghosts behind her. Still. Silent.But Rafi’el… Rafi’el couldn’t keep still.
“This isn’t right!” he snarled, breaking the perfect silence. He stepped forward, hands balled into fists, fury sparking in his eyes like lightning behind stormclouds. “She’s not some fruit on a vine to be plucked!”
Gasps. Someone dropped a water jug. Even the guards stilled, fingers hovering over their curved scimitars.
Your father didn’t flinch. He simply turned, his spine straight as the edge of a sword.
“Hold your tongue,” he said, each word slow, deliberate—thunder behind iron gates. “Lest I cut it from your mouth myself.”
Rafi’el trembled with rage. But he didn’t back down. He looked at you. Not at the guards. Not at the king’s men gathering like crows. Just at you. Like he was trying to memorize you.
Then everything changed.The light shifted. The sound of footsteps—slow, sand-crushing, certain—echoed across the marble.And then King Jahan.
The sun, the center of this empire, this fire. Dressed in black and gold, his robes embroidered with suns and falcons, his crown barely more than a golden band—but somehow heavier than the sky.
The court dropped to its knees in practiced elegance. You did, too. Eventually.But not Rafi’el.He stood. Defiant. Unbending.The king paused just before you.
“What I need…” the king said slowly, turning his attention to your brother as though he were a particularly stubborn pebble in his path, “…is another flower for my garden.”
He stepped toward you and, without asking, brushed a strand of your hair between his fingers.
“Another lily,” he murmured, “so rare… so pale… untouched by my heat. For now.”
Your brother flinched. “You are the sun, my lord,” Rafi’el said through gritted teeth. “She will burn.”
“Yes,” the king answered smoothly, “but burning with passion.”
Then his hand slipped around your waist, heat pressing into your ribs.
But your brother did. In rage, in despair. Later, his voice would echo in your dreams—alongside the crack of the whip that tore into his back, one lash at a time.
The wives’ chamber was a kaleidoscope of color and perfume. Walls painted with ancient birds and songs of conquest. Cushions embroidered with sapphires. There were thirteen of you now.
Twelve women already part of the king’s constellation—each one a different shape of surrender. And then there was you.You, the Lily. The only one who hadn’t chosen to be here.
You sat alone on a small cushion, untouched fruit in your lap, music lilting from the far corner. Your dress had changed—sheer silk layered with pearls, every movement a rustle of luxury. You stared at the silver bowl of grapes.They looked like little hearts.The doors opened.
The king entered like the return of the sun itself—softly glowing with power, All twelve wives stood immediately, like waves rising to meet the shore.You didn’t.Not right away.A gentle touch landed on your arm. You turned. An older woman, draped in deep navy and stars, leaned close. She didn’t look angry. She looked tired.
“Praise him,” she whispered, voice so quiet you barely caught it. “Or he’ll hurt you.”She stepped away, graceful, smiling again.The other wives pressed toward the king, their bodies like silk banners in a windstorm. They kissed his hands, laughed at nothing, praised his beauty like poets desperate for favor.