Seraya had learned how to disappear.
She'd memorized every alcove and empty corridor, every rhythm of palace life that allowed her to slip by unseen. She moved like mist—there, and then gone—especially when the king arrived. His presence was always preceded by a hush, a ripple of excitement and dread that traveled ahead of him like an usher, giving her the cue to vanish.
She avoided confrontation at every turn. She had learned all the major players and who to avoid—the king and his favorites of the harem.
Jenna remained her one kindness. They shared meals on low cushioned mats, spoke in hushed tones during garden walks, and clung to their small corner of sanity.
But lately, Seraya noticed a shift. A shine in Jenna's eyes whenever the king was mentioned, much more present than it ever was before. A silence when Seraya asked what had happened the day she fled the garden.
She never answered. And Seraya never pressed.
She had her own survival to worry about.
Matron Miriam, ever watchful, didn't miss Seraya's constant evasion. One morning, her mouth curled into a cruel smile as she intercepted her in a marble corridor.
"Chosen irrelevance, have we?" she purred. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Seraya said nothing. She wouldn't give the woman the satisfaction.
Her sanctuary—the far library—became her salvation. Tucked away beyond the east gardens, it was rarely visited. There, between the scent of old parchment and the quiet hum of bees through stained glass, she found silence. Freedom.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep.
But the warmth of the afternoon, the soft cushion of a bench, and the weight of exhaustion lulled her under.
When she woke, it was with a jolt.
Silence.
Then the unmistakable sounds of a whispering entourage that surrounded the king, wherever he went.
He was coming.
Her pulse quickened.
She cursed herself silently. She'd let down her guard and foolishly convinced herself she could avoid him forever.
She ducked under the nearest table, heart hammering in her throat. She held her breath, and shut her eyes, willing their presence away.
A swell of noise surged by the door—footsteps, murmurs, then silence again.
She stayed hidden, examining the patterns of the carpet beneath her cramped figure, until the tingling in her leg turned unbearable.
Slowly, she crawled out, wincing as pins and needles surged through her calf.
She was too focused on regaining her balance to notice the man nearby.
"Oh gods!" she said, hand flying to her chest, "You startled me."
A nervous laugh escaped before she could swallow it.
He stood near the window, silhouetted in the mosaic light. Not a servant, not dressed in finery—just simple, dark training clothes. His posture relaxed, but his muscular form bent the fabric to its will. Evidence of frequent training.
Must be a guard.
He gave her a bemused smirk, "And what were you doing under the table? Trying to catch a glimpse of the king?"
She had a retort on her tongue but it died. She needed to escape—fast.
"Did you see which way he went?" she said, brushing dust from her skirts.
"I believe he went that way," he said, pointing down the western hallway.
"Thank you," she said, and with a slight limp, turned east.
She wanted to get away as fast as she could, her stiff calf slowing her down, but a voice near her ear made her halt.
"Wrong way," said a deep voice, whispering against the back of her ear, sending a thrill down her spine.
She turned back and the guard from the library was close, closer than seemed appropriate. He was beautiful in a way that made her chest tighten: white hair pulled back at the nape, a strong jaw, dusted with stubble, sharp cheekbones that caught the light. And those eyes—dark, intense, unreadable.
"West is that way," he said, again, his voice like velvet over steel. "Wouldn't want the king to miss out on such a beautiful concubine."
Heat rose to her cheeks, but she managed to say, "I heard you. And I'm sure he won't, he has hundreds of others at his beck and call."
He blinked, caught off guard by her sharpness. Then his mouth curved into a more wicked smile, like he knew something she didn't.
"Perhaps," he said, "since he's so preoccupied, you'll allow me the honor instead. A humble escort to the garden, so you can rest that leg."
Seraya hesitated.
She was not sure where the king was. The library was no longer safe. And this man—he felt like danger draped in charm.
"I might not be as good of company as a king," he added, offering his elbow, "but perhaps you could overlook my shortcomings."
She rolled my eyes and took the offered arm. "Something tells me you're trouble."
He grinned. "Excellent."
He was too handsome. Too smooth. Too much of a temptation in a world where she felt so alone.
Just a short rest, she told herself.
But even in her own mind, it sounded like a lie.