"There's nothing more erotic than the sound of three women pretending not to be afraid."
——•✧✦The Corridors of White Marble✧✦•——
They say the third day is the one when you truly start to understand where you really are.
The first day you're too tired, the second too tense.
But on the third, if you open your eyes wide enough, you begin to see the cracks behind the gold.
I watched them, the others.
They walked like obedient shadows through the corridors, eyes lowered, voices dimmed.
The Imperial Palace servants had straight backs, but broken spirits.
Except me.
• "Good evening, Lysia," one of the cooks greeted me as she passed with a basket of bread, eyes downcast, tone neutral.
I replied with a distracted nod, too busy fixing my hair in the silver mirror, set between the columns.
The silk of my dress was tight over my hips. I had deliberately left the more transparent robe for that night.
I hadn't come all the way here to count petals or dust statues.
I aimed high.
And the Emperor was above everything.
Δ "Lysia!"
I turned.
Aelira, the oldest among us, was already ready, wrapped in veils as pale as sea foam.
Behind her, Myrine, the second newest arrival, the quiet one with doe-like eyes.
She still moved as if she feared the floor might collapse under her feet.
"We're late," Aelira said.
"For what? To kneel and stay silent? What's the rush?" I replied with a half-smile.
Aelira sighed, but didn't answer.
Myrine spoke instead, in a low voice: "I dreamed of his voice last night."
I turned to her, curious.
"And how was it?"
"Cold. But... beautiful. Like snow that doesn't melt."
I grimaced. "A seventeen-year-old boy who doesn't even look at women.
I don't know, he seems more like a legend than a man."
"Careful, Lysia," said Aelira, as we stepped into the corridors. "Here, legends are alive. And they listen."
"I.. I like him.. there's no real need for him to do anything, right..?"
The palace walls gleamed with white marble and colored glass.
The lantern light flickered, casting golden reflections on the floors.
In the inner courtyard, among jasmine vines and flickering lanterns, a small figure ran with quick, barefoot, light steps.
She had hair like ripe wheat, scraped knees, and hands clutching a cloth pouch.
"Aelira!" she called out clearly.
"Aelira!"
The woman turned abruptly. Her face, rigid just a moment earlier, softened.
"Lilah? But what—"
The little girl threw herself into her arms, hugging her tightly. The woman's veil slipped a little, but she didn't care.
For a moment, she wasn't a servant.
She was just a sister.
"I don't want to stay with Grandpa anymore,"
"He yells. He makes me clean all day..
When are you coming back? When can we be together again?"
Aelira stroked her hair with a tenderness that felt almost ancient.
"Soon, my love. One more year.
Maybe less. I'm working on something."
Lilah looked at her with shiny eyes.
"A plan?"
Aelira smiled.
"A secret plan."
"Who is this?" I asked, approaching from behind with a slightly annoyed tone.
"This isn't a place for little girls."
"She's my sister," Aelira replied without turning.
Then, more sharply: "And it's none of your business."
Myrine stayed off to the side, observing the scene.
Lilah, still clutching the pouch, held it out to Aelira.
"I brought you this.
It's the candle you liked. The one that smells like honey."
Aelira took the gift. She looked at her, then kissed her on the forehead.
"Now go back to the slave quarters, to the old man.
Be in bed. Don't say you came here."
"Will we go home?" Lilah whispered.
"We will. I swear."
And then the little girl disappeared into the bushes, with a dream.
The three women looked at each other. The silence was heavy.
Then Aelira turned, her face once again a mask.
"Let's go."
Every step echoed like a muffled drum.
We walked in a line.
Three blond women, each a meter seventy tall, chosen not by chance.
But I was not like the others.
"You know what I think?" I said, breaking the silence.
"I think it's a game. A stupid game of control.
He watches, we perform, but no one dares. No one tries.
Why? Because you're all afraid. I'm not."
Aelira paused for a moment. She looked at me with tired eyes.
"You're new. And the palace is still kind to you."
"Will you really touch him?" Myrine asked, her voice trembling.
"If I have to, yes," I said, lifting my chin.
"One touch, just one. No man resists forever.
Not even an Emperor."
The corridor ended at the great ivory door, inlaid with golden dragons.
Beyond that threshold: the imperial chamber. The silent heart of the palace.
Aelira stopped.
"We are here to please. Not to change the rules."
I smiled, feeling my blood quicken beneath my skin.
"Maybe it's time someone did."
And with that thought — wild, but clear — I placed my hand on the handle.
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
Cold. Metallic.
I was about to press the handle when a rough voice, scorched by smoke or age, came from the left.
"Hold it right there."
A figure detached itself from the wall. It hadn't stepped out—it had been there all along.
The Chamberlain.
Tight skin. Deep eye bags. Manicured, but yellowed nails.
A ring on every finger, as if he didn't know which one he preferred.
He looked at us. Or tried to.
No: he looked through us. Then past us. Then, finally, he locked on.
"You're late."
He spoke softly, more annoyance than authority.
Aelira bowed her head. "Two minutes at most."
Myrine was pale. Her hands were sweaty and trembling.
Aelira held her tight, but without gentleness. More form than comfort.
I nodded. Steady gaze.
The Chamberlain snorted. "The new one," he said. Then pointed to Myrine. "This one's new too."
"Yes," Aelira replied. "Third day for both."
"Figures," he muttered.
Then he addressed me directly. "Feeling special, huh? Called up, all that stuff."
He smiled. But only with half his mouth.
"Here's a free tip: You're not here because you're special. You're here because you were available."
Myrine twitched slightly, as if she wanted to leave.
Then he nodded toward Aelira.
"Look at her. She's been here five months.
Five.
And guess how many glances she's gotten from the Emperor? Not a single one."
"You stay still," Aelira said softly. Not with affection. As a command.
The Chamberlain raised his hands, exasperated.
"Look, let's keep it simple.
Go in.
Do what you have to.
Make the bed, fluff the pillows, change the water. Same as always."
He took a step toward the wall, pressed something.
But before letting us through, he turned one last time.
"And, please… don't do anything stupid. No touching. Got it?
It's simple. No touching."
He stared at us, waiting for a nod.
I nodded. Aelira did too.
Myrine didn't answer, but at least she stopped trembling.
The Chamberlain sighed. "Right. Go on, then."
And he let us in.
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
I opened the door.
The room was empty.
We stopped for a moment, confused.
That had never happened—or at least, Aelira had never spoken of the possibility.
The Emperor's chamber… without the Emperor in it.
The bed was half-made.
On the right side, the sheets were still wrinkled.
On the left, folded as if no one had ever slept there.
The curtains filtered in a golden, flickering light that made the room seem unreal.
And then, against the north wall, a parade armor. Mutilated.
The right arm was missing.
But it wasn't worn out. Just scratched on the surface.
Now it held a dark robe draped over one shoulder—used like a coat rack.
I looked at my companions, but they seemed just as surprised.
I stepped in first.
"Where'd he go?" I whispered.
Aelira moved toward the bed. She started pulling the sheets, smoothing every fold.
"I've worked here for months," she said, without turning. "And yet, at this hour, he's always here. No exceptions."
Myrine walked to the curtains. She pulled them open gently, letting the dying sun paint the room in liquid copper.
The light washed over the marble walls, making everything feel larger and emptier—yet still visible, thanks to the candles, already conveniently lit.
"Oh really?" I said, distracted, approaching the armor.
An old, mutilated imperial torso, the right arm missing.
No real scars, just faint scratches.
Now it held a dark robe.
I picked it up by two fingers, trying not to touch the iron, and slowly folded it before placing it in the basket at the foot of the bed.
"But I heard one of his friends came back," I said.
Aelira looked up. "Mitchell?"
"Yes, him. Maybe he's talking to him, right?
That friend of his is rather famous across the kingdom, apparently."
Myrine, until now silent, turned toward us.
"I... I've also heard of Mister Mitchell.
They say he's a genius."
"I see…" I said, taking a folded blanket from Aelira and laying it carefully at the foot of the bed.
"Then it's plausible the Emperor spends a lot of time with him.
Maybe he prefers his company to that of women."
Silence.
Aelira turned slightly. Her brows lifted, just a little.
Myrine widened her eyes.
"What? No… I mean…" she stammered, adjusting a fold in the curtain that wasn't even crooked.
I continued, innocently. "It makes you wonder, right? Not one glance, not one gesture, not even a half-sigh.
And yet... as soon as the famous Mister Mitchell comes back—poof, he vanishes!"
Aelira returned to the bed and started tucking in the corners with more force than necessary.
"Don't say stupid things."
"I'm not saying it to be mean!" I raised my hands.
"In fact, if it were true, it would make sense.
They seem very close, no?
Mitchell this, Mitchell that... maybe he even reads him poetry before bed."
Myrine lowered her head, her cheeks red as apples.
"You're insane," Aelira said, yanking a sheet corner so hard she nearly tore it.
"Oh, come on!" I laughed.
"Look, I respect everyone.
Really. If they're happy together, all the better!
It's just... maybe they could've told us, spared us the weekly costume trials."
Myrine made a noise that could've been a stifled laugh.
"It's not funny," Aelira snapped.
I gave her a look.
"You're right. Forgive me.
It must be tough—after five months of silence and perfect folds—to realize you're just the wrong extra in the script."
Aelira turned sharply, eyes hard. But then… she lowered them.
She said nothing. And that was worse.
Silence fell. But not the heavy kind.
The kind that sets the stage for something very stupid.
Myrine cleared her throat.
"After all…" she said softly, almost to herself, "the Emperor doesn't even have a girlfriend.
Let alone a wife."
Aelira scoffed, folding her arms.
"And with that personality, I doubt anyone would volunteer."
I looked at her, a spark in my eyes. "Maybe he just wants someone to iron his robes and read him philosophy at night."
"Or brush his hair and buckle his sandals."
"Or—"
Myrine burst out, red in the face, and said with pure innocence:
"Or maybe… he bathes him!"
Silence.
Then, explosion.
"No! NO!" I shouted, doubled over. "Please! With scented oil!"
Aelira burst out laughing. "'Would you hand me the sponge, Mister Mitchell?'"
Myrine collapsed backward onto the bed, laughing uncontrollably.
I followed, falling onto a cushion, and then Aelira joined us—more from exhaustion than camaraderie.
We laughed.
We laughed the way we were never allowed to laugh in there.
Myrine nudged a cushion and tossed it at Aelira, who barely dodged it.
"Stop it!" she giggled. "They'll hear us!"
"Come on! A pillow fight between court favorites! What's more tragic than that?"
"Oh, I know: Being one for months and still no imperial bath."
The laughter carried on for a few more moments.
The candles flickered, as if something had moved outside.
Her voice wasn't informative. It was worried.
You could hear it in the way her lips barely shifted, like part of her was somewhere else.
"Rain?" I asked, with a faint smile. "What's wrong—afraid your hair will frizz?"
Aelira didn't laugh.
She was still looking toward the window.
The sky was gray—but a nervous gray. The first drops tapped gently on the glass, like thin fingers.
I asked, "Are you thinking of your sister?"
Myrine turned too, alert.
Aelira hesitated. Then answered, barely a whisper:
"She's still just a child."
"How old?"
"She turns eleven in a few months."
The tone was rough, closed.
"Is she okay?" I asked, more seriously now.
"She's with our grandfather. They don't live with us, not in the palace, but in the Servants' Wing…"
She trailed off.
"And?" I pressed.
"Nothing. She wants to live with me again, apparently the old man mistreats her." She tugged the blanket a little harder than necessary.
"One more year. Maybe less. I'm arranging things."
Her gaze dropped to a spot on the floor, but it was clear she wasn't seeing it.
She was far away, in some village, under the rain.
I said nothing. None of us did.
Only Myrine moved. She sat next to Aelira, then, slowly, ran a hand through my hair, stroking it gently.
It was clumsy, awkward. But sincere.
"Looks like it's not easy for any of us," she murmured.
"And you pet like you're washing a cat," I replied, trying to break the mood.
Aelira looked at us, and, for the first time, gave a real smile.
"You two are a disaster."
"True," I said. "But at least we're coordinated."
There was a pause, then Myrine added:
"Imagine the Emperor and Mitchell sleeping in the same bed, with eye masks."
"One turns, the other turns.
One coughs, the other hands him herbal tea."
"The imperial tea!"
"With royal herbs."
That was Aelira—and this time the laughter was full. Real.
Myrine lay down and pulled a pillow close. "Okay, enough. Seriously. They'll arrest us."
"At least let them do it with style," I said, stretching. "I mean, we entered the Emperor's Chamber and laughed. That's no small thing."
"I'd say… sedition, high treason, and candle defamation."
"You don't touch the candle."
They laughed again, but the sound grew thinner.
As if they were settling back into their bodies.
As if they'd heard something.
Then, the door opened.
The laughter died.
The candles flickered.
The Emperor entered.
No sound. No words.
His hair was still slightly damp—maybe from the rain.
The tunic simple, closed at the neck. No decoration. Just him.
He looked at us.
Not with annoyance.
Not with surprise.
Not even with coldness.
Just presence.
And that was enough.
We rose slowly. No excuses. No words.
The Emperor turned to the bed. Studied it a moment.
Then said, in a neutral tone:
"Good. You've tidied up."