The great dining hall flickered with the amber glow of candles, their flames dancing like whispering tongues against the stone walls. Shadows crept behind every velvet curtain and along the spines of old, unread books lining the upper balconies. The scent of roasted meats and sugared fruits hung thick in the air — a banquet laid not merely for nourishment, but for tradition.

One by one, the wives descended the grand staircase, each draped in silks of deep crimson, violet, and midnight blue. Their footsteps were soft, almost reverent, like the hush before a sermon. Jewels adorned their throats, their wrists, their foreheads — not for beauty, but for belonging. Each gem, a token. Each wife, a vow kept.

At the head of the table, the silverware gleamed with perfect precision. No dish was out of place. Roast pheasant, wild fig compote, black bread split open like a wound. It was the kind of meal that carried history, and power, and promise.

You took your place among them — seventh to sit, as you always were. The number held meaning. You didn’t speak. None of you did.

The sound of footsteps echoed above.

All heads turned.

He descended slowly, deliberately, his presence filling the room before his body ever did. The Husband. Your Husband. The only name any of you were allowed to say in private prayer or whispered devotion.

He entered the candlelight like a king entering his tomb — tall, solemn, beloved.

He looked over each of you in turn, his expression unreadable, like a statue carved in flesh. The silence stretched, unbearably.

Then, a voice. Low, smooth, threaded with something darker than charm.

“All of you look so beautiful this evening…” he said, eyes gleaming with something more than pride. “But I have a subtle request.”

He paused, and a current of cold anticipation stirred beneath the table, running along bare ankles like a ghost.

“Who,” he said, with a smile that never touched his eyes, “will be the wife to bear my child tonight?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

You felt it — the weight of centuries, of duty, of desire wrapped in ritual. It was not a question asked for love, nor for legacy.

It was a choosing.

And it would not be random.

Each wife looked to the other, eyes flickering with emotions too dangerous to name — longing, fear, rivalry… hope.

You, seventh, remained still. You had waited before. You had been patient. But tonight, something in the room was different. Something beneath the table scratched softly against the stone. A presence that did not belong.

You looked up, and met his gaze.

And for the first time, he lingered.

Not on your dress. Not on your skin.

But on your silence.

Something primal curled inside your chest. Not joy. Not anticipation.

But power.