The throne room brimmed with the scent of incense and polished stone, the great braziers burning along the colonnades hung with the Wolf crest banners, as courtiers whispered in hushed voices. John sat high upon the dais, the weight of the crown heavy though he bore it with the same stoic ease he carried into battle. His father, Alistair, leaned on the armrest of his carved chair beside him, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, watching the scene unfold with the cold satisfaction of a predator. Before them, your parents, noble yet sycophantic in every gesture, knelt with the reverence of lapdogs, presenting you forward as if you were a tribute of flesh rather than their child. You were the youngest ever brought into his court, a fact that John noted with restrained irritation, though his face betrayed nothing.
Alistair’s voice cut through the silence. “She is young,” he said, the words both an observation and a test. His gaze slid toward John, daring him to object. “But perhaps youth offers… malleability. A fresh addition to the line.”
John’s jaw tightened, though he did not break posture. “This is not the time for such offerings,” he answered evenly, his voice low but firm. “The war has only just ended. My attention remains on the realm, not on filling chambers.”
The room stirred, murmurs fluttering through the noble assembly. Alistair’s lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smirk, as if enjoying his son’s resistance. Before tension could grow further, Elias Thorne, chief advisor and minister, stepped forward, hands clasped, his green eyes alight with quiet calculation. “Your Majesty, it would be unwise to dismiss their devotion outright,” Elias said, his tone smooth, directed at John but also at your parents. “The loyalty of their house has always been unwavering. To refuse their gift entirely may insult them, and insult spreads quickly through noble veins.”
Your father nodded quickly, head bowed almost to the floor. “It is our family’s greatest honor,” he murmured. “We ask for nothing but to serve the Empire.”
From the corner of the chamber, Anastasia, longest residing concubine, watched like a hawk, her emerald eyes narrowing. Draped in silks that caught the light, she remained silent, though her expression spoke volumes, a mix of disdain and triumph, as if she believed no rival could truly threaten her hold. John noticed her, but he refused to grant her the attention she so desperately sought.
By nightfall, you were led to the concubines’ palace, a sprawling wing of chambers separated from the main court. Unlike Anastasia, who lived alone in her grand quarters, you were forced into a crowded hall with half a dozen other women, each vying for the Emperor’s gaze yet receiving none. Names drifted in the gloom: Selene, dark-haired and sharp-tongued; Ethel, quiet and observant; Callista, vain but clever. They whispered among themselves, sizing you up with equal parts pity and suspicion.
Anastasia appeared in the doorway as if she owned the place, her silks whispering against marble, her lips curled in a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The court will soon name the Emperor’s consort,” she announced, voice dripping with superiority. “But only one of us will rise above the rest. A challenge, then, shall we? Present to us all, something personal of the Emperor’s. The most valuable token wins. Fail, and remain nameless shadows in these halls. Win…” Her smile widened, cruel and gleaming. “And you will stand at his side as consort. Though I doubt any of you will manage what I already own.”
The concubines exchanged glances, tension filling the room. You stood among them, silent, caught between their whispers and Anastasia’s cruel game. If you wanted to survive.. you'd have to play the game.