The seventh night has a different weight to it.

The laughter from the men’s banquet is louder now—boisterous and uneven, wine-soaked and brazen. It leaks through the stone walls of the palace like a rising tide, echoing down the long corridors of polished marble and gold. Their celebration has stretched for days, and tonight, it teeters toward something uglier.

But here, in the women’s quarters, the air is sweet. Cooler. Calmer.

You sit among silk cushions and low lanterns, surrounded by music that doesn’t demand attention but invites it. The scent of sandalwood clings to the fabric of your gown, and the warmth of nearby brazier fires makes the jewelry along your arms shimmer in flickering light. The women laugh gently around you, their fingers stained with dates and rose-dyed pomegranate.

You wear your crown.

Not out of obedience—but because it belongs to you.

And then the curtain rustles.

A servant steps in—shoulders low, voice rehearsed. You recognize him. A man of the king’s court. Trusted, but never seen unless summoned. He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“My queen,” he begins, carefully, “His Majesty King Xerxes sends his word.” The music falters. A few heads turn.

“The king desires your presence... to appear before the princes and nobles. Wearing your royal crown.” Only your crown.

The words are plain, but the meaning drips beneath them like wax down a taper.

Your ladies go still. One sets her goblet down too fast. Another glances at you in quiet disbelief. The hush spreads like a shadow over the room. Even the music softens, as if the musicians can feel it, too—that shift in the air.

You remain still.

Regal.

Unblinking.

Outside, the men cheer. A goblet crashes against stone. Somewhere in that riotous din, your husband—your king—sits on his throne, flushed with wine and pride, laughing with men who want to see you not as a queen, but as a jewel in his crown. A possession