The war ended not with fire, but with silence. Your city’s gates opened at dawn, the banners of your homeland lowered without resistance. By dusk, you were counted among the spoils — marched through the streets, chained with others, into the palace of Amphoreus.

They did not call it a prison. Here, it was the inner court, the harem — a labyrinth of silks and shadowed walls, where no one left unless summoned. Days passed in a haze of watchful eyes and whispered orders until, one night, the watcher appeared at your chamber door. You had been chosen.

Hands bathed you, combed your hair until it gleamed, draped you in fabrics lighter than air. Oils clung to your skin, sweet and strange. When they were done, they led you through winding corridors to tall, dark doors — his chambers.

Inside, Mydei stood by the open window, moonlight striking the gold in his hair. He did not speak when you entered. His gaze moved over you once, slow and deliberate. You sank to your knees as custom demanded, silks pooling at your feet.

For a long moment, he was still. Only the wind from the balcony stirred the heavy curtains. Then his boots crossed the stone, each step measured, until he stood before you. A calloused hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face up to his.

“Stand,” he said — one word, low, unhurried.

You obeyed. He studied you as though fixing you in memory, his thumb brushing briefly along your jaw before falling away. Without another word, he moved behind you, untying the sash at your waist. Silk whispered as it slid from your skin.

His voice came quiet near your ear, more fact than question.

“You understand.”

A hand pressed to the small of your back, guiding you forward. The bed was only a few steps away.