Ariaxa did not enter the harem wing through any act of her own will. She was thrown inside with a force that sent her sliding across the padded velvet floor, her palms stinging as they scraped the surface, and her breath leaving her lungs in a painful rush.
The gold leaf dust that shook loose from the carved archway drifted around her like mocking remnants of grandeur, and when the enormous door slammed shut behind her, the metallic clang rolled through the chamber with the finality of a sealed tomb.
The air in the wing was thick with incense and warm perfumes, but beneath the sweetness lay the unmistakable smell of bodies kept too close, too long, for purposes that were never gentle.
The harem wing was a gilded prison that glittered under the soft glow of red lanterns suspended from the ceiling by delicate silver chains. The walls were painted with decadent scenes that blurred pleasure and domination into a single oppressive tableau.
Velvet cushions were arranged in suggestive piles across the polished floors, inviting touch while hiding the fact that many had been stained by tears, sweat, and humiliation. Chains hung from padded columns, arranged with artistic cruelty, their soft rattling merging with the low hum of nervous whispers coming from unseen corners.
As Ariaxa pushed herself into a sitting position, she felt a presence kneel beside her.
Mirel Thorne, small and soft-featured with pale hair braided neatly down her back, approached with the cautious grace of someone accustomed to treating wounds on bodies that had already endured too much.
She reached out with trembling fingers and lifted the shredded fabric from Ariaxa’s collarbone.
“Hold still,” Mirel said in a subdued, gentle tone. “I need to see how badly the runes burned your skin.”
Ariaxa winced as the cool air touched her raw, blistered flesh, the collar’s scorch marks forming a ring like a band of molten iron trapped under her skin. Mirel dipped her fingers into a small jar of salve and began applying it in slow, measured strokes, careful to avoid the glowing lines of the rune-metal.
“They added new sigils on this one,” Mirel murmured, studying the collar with a mixture of dread and resignation. “He has never placed this combination of runes on a woman before. This was done deliberately to ensure that you feel every moment of it.”
Ariaxa let out a strained breath.
“So I’m an experiment now?”
Mirel’s lips tightened into a sad line.
“It means you will need to be even more careful. Not everyone here wants you alive long enough to understand the dangers.”
Ariaxa was about to ask exactly what dangers Mirel meant when the atmosphere in the room shifted sharply. The temperature seemed to drop, the air tightening as though every breath held anticipation. Mirel immediately lowered her hands and bowed her head, her spine stiffening.
The door at the far end of the chamber opened with effortless smoothness.
Seren Veran entered with the confidence of a woman who knew she owned every inch of the room she walked through.
Her crimson silk garments clung to her body in ways that left little to the imagination, each step precise and languid, designed to draw the eye and hold it captive. Her expression was one of languid cruelty, the kind of smile worn by predators who already tasted victory.
Seren’s gaze swept over Ariaxa slowly, taking in the torn clothing, the blistered skin, the trembling arms, the collar still smoking faintly. The smile deepened.
“So this is the little trophy he dragged out of the ashes,” Seren said with poisonous sweetness. “The Last Sun Princess, stripped of her crown and dignity in a single afternoon.” She took a slow step forward, her hips swaying as though she moved to music no one else could hear. “You are even more pathetic than the rumors suggested.”
Mirel swallowed nervously.
“Seren… she just arrived. She needs time to—”
Seren snapped her attention to Mirel, her tone shifting to cold command.
“Be silent. You speak when you’re spoken to.”
Then she turned back to Ariaxa, circling her with the deliberate curiosity of a hunting cat evaluating a wounded bird.
“You truly have no idea what you’ve stepped into,” Seren continued. “You are an intruder in our sanctuary. A threat to the position I have bled for. A rival who does not deserve the ground she kneels on.”
Ariaxa straightened her spine, even as pain flared up her neck.
“I did not ask for any of this,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.
Seren leaned in close enough that Ariaxa could feel her breath on her cheek.
“No one asks for Kaedan’s interest. That does not mean they can refuse it. And if he has looked at you…” She allowed her gaze to trail slowly down Ariaxa’s body before meeting her eyes again. “Then I will correct that mistake.”
Before Ariaxa could reply, a deep bell rang through the chamber. Mirel gasped softly and rose to her feet.
“It is the summons,” Mirel whispered. “He is calling the harem.”
The room burst into frantic movement.
Two slaves grabbed Ariaxa’s arms before she could react, pulling her upright with brisk, impersonal efficiency. They dragged her into a bathing chamber glowing with red lantern-light where pools of steaming water reflected rose petals floating on the surface.
Without waiting for permission, the women tore what remained of Ariaxa’s clothing from her body.
Ariaxa shuddered as hands scrubbed roughly over her back, her arms, her legs. The slaves whispered to one another while working, their voices sharp with resentment.
“She is the reason so many Night soldiers died.”
“Her father was a butcher.”
“She deserves everything coming.”
When they finally stepped away, they forced her into an outfit made of sheer gold-thread mesh, a garment that clung to every curve while offering no protection, no modesty, and no dignity. The thin straps crossing her chest and hips framed her body more than they covered it, and the slit along her thigh exposed more than any prisoner ought to have endured.
Mirel approached, her eyes filled with pity.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I truly am.”
Ariaxa lifted her chin despite the tremor in her legs.
“I will not cry,” she said, forcing the vow through a throat that felt raw.
Mirel nodded, though her expression suggested she did not believe such promises ever held long in this place.
The bell chimed again, deeper and more insistent.
Seren reappeared at the doorway, her expression triumphant.
“Line up,” she ordered. “You will walk behind me.”
Riven arrived shortly after, his posture tense and guarded. His eyes landed on Ariaxa for a single heartbeat, and in that moment she saw something unexpected — not desire, not pity, but a silent warning that this night would break her if she let it.
The procession moved through the palace corridors, the slaves walking in a controlled rhythm. Ariaxa followed behind Seren and Riven, her knees trembling with each step, her humiliation burning hotter with every pair of eyes that followed her. By the time they reached the towering obsidian doors of Kaedan’s private chambers, Ariaxa’s breath was coming in shallow waves of dread.
Inside, Kaedan Draven sat on the edge of his bed with an unreadable expression, his coat undone and his boots planted firmly on the floor. His gaze flicked over the harem before landing on Ariaxa with a weight that felt like a physical touch.
He raised a hand and gestured to the floor beside his boots.
“Kneel,” he commanded.