Through the balcony doors, soft breeze stirred the wisteria like breath over skin. Calla rose in silence in the dawn's light. She undressed, turning on the shower's water, steam fogging up the mirror above the basin. Hissing softly, she stepped beneath the stream, her body adjusting to the sudden heat.

As the water ran over her skin, it flowed through old grooves—carved during fits, when screams turned into pain and her blade had no better canvas. The runes she etched over the years stretched across her back, down her legs, clustering on her thighs. Her shoulders, arms and hands were clear of the runes, though she didn't know how long it would stay that way. Symbols of protection, clarity, memory—some unfinished, most unknown—overlapped, recarved, deep and earned. A language of pain only her body knew.

She took a shallow breath and reached for the honey-scented soap. Lather bloomed across her shoulders as she scrubbed gently, taking care with each scar. Rinsing off, she tilted her head back, arms wrapped around her waist, letting the water run over her face. She stretched, eyes drifting open lazily.

Jasmine dangled from the spigot. She reached up, brushing its petals with two fingers, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile she didn't entirely recognize.

Water pooled around her feet. She stepped out and dried off slowly, the cream towels soft against skin, against history. Murmuring a soft prayer, she offered her thanks for the day's slow start.

The prayer drifted up, interlaced with the steam escaping from the small, rectangular windows perched above the shower.

Jasmine-scented steam followed her from the washroom, curling through the air as she stepped into the room wrapped in a towel.

A tray of breakfast awaited just inside the door. She moved it to the desk, then dressed in the garments she had laid out before her morning ritual. Her veil—muted, calm—matched the hush in her chest.

Grasping the bronze handle, she opened the door. Ares stood with his back to her, arms crossed.

"Good morning, Lord Valebrand. Have you eaten?"

He turned and stepped aside, nodding once.

"Morning, Calla. I have."

She returned to the desk and sat as Ares pulled the chair out for her, a gesture made silent with repetition. He moved to the balcony, legs stretched out, one arm draped over his eyes. His other hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword.

Calla glanced at him once, then turned her attention to the tray: warm tea tasting faintly of lemon and cloves, slices of peach and plum nestled beside rolls of herb-laced rice, and a small biscuit brushed with honey.

The Queen came to mind as she surveyed the meal—how she always ate anything with even the faintest touch of honey.

"Cover your eyes," she said softly.

"Of course," Ares replied, as though it was silly of her to even mention it.

Calla unfastened her veil, folding it with care before laying it beside her. She took a slow sip of tea, then brought the peach to her lips. Its flesh melted on her tongue softer than before.

The sweetness reminded her of past summers, when Addilyn had hosted feasts to mask ever ongoing war negotiations. That peach always tasted like diplomacy, for it was a delicacy in Krillian.

Velenya entered shortly after breakfast to find Calla resting lightly on her knees, facing the rising sun, her hands folded in her lap. Ares leaned against the wall beside her, eyes trained on the entrance of the room. The moment stretched into minutes until Calla stirred, rising gracefully, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Her veiled eyes were relaxed yet aware as she nodded to the servant.

"Good morning, Concubine Calla. I trust you slept well."

"Indeed," Calla replied.

Velenya stood just inside the chamber, posture straight but not stiff.

"Before you meet the other Ladies, you must understand what the Divine Accords truly are—not as pageantry, but as structure."

"There are thirteen women this time, including yourself. Each has arrived with differing means, titles, and intentions. Seven have already left. Your shared goal is to prove worthy of being King's queen—worth is not measured in charm alone."

She moved toward the desk, fingertip grazing its edge as she spoke.

"You will find that the palace has many eyes, the servants most observant among them. Your charm, knowledge, skill, and competency will be pitted against the other competitors. There will be public and private demonstrations. Some weeks, your name may be praised; other weeks, it may be... omitted."

Calla said nothing, though Ares's hand twitched.

"Women will be dismissed as the King pleases, whether that be in the middle of a contest or the night."

"At the end of the Accord, only two remain. The King chooses one as the Queen. Rarely... none are chosen, and the Divine Accord is restarted until the King chooses a Queen or to rule alone."

Velenya's eyes softened, her teeth catching her lip for the briefest pause.

"The women who enter the Divine Accords are bred and raised for it. All carry the makings of a queen, though their strengths vary."

She drew a breath, eyes focused on the sword wrapped in Ares's hand.

"Walk with care. Speak with intent. Keep those you trust nearby. Not every woman is dismissed."

Calla's eyes sharpened, her spine shifting in preparation.

The double doors bore etched depictions of fans, flowers, teacups, and dresses—each rendered in striking detail. Certain elements caught the eye more than others, highlighted by polished jewels inlaid within the wood. When the doors opened swiftly, they revealed a vast chamber framed by towering arched windows and floor tiles arranged in a swirling pattern of gray and cream.

Small tea tables dotted the room, each adorned with a slender vase holding a single stem of white camellia. At the center, bathed in a warm spill of sunlight, stood a long table surrounded by thirteen chairs. Its legs, sturdy and well-cared for, were carved with a curling motif of vines that melted seamlessly into smooth wood.

Positioned in the center—ringed by teapots, refined sweets and finger sandwiches—was a large vase bursting with white camellia. Beneath its regal bloom, ox-eye daisies and dog's bane peeked through the leaves.

Velenya walked into the hush first, stepping to the side and bowing to the noble ladies.

"Concubine Calla of Zeonial," Velenya announced, voice echoing, as she held out her arm to draw their attention to the woman stepping through the door.

She floated more than she walked, wrapped in dusty amethyst like bruised dusk remembering softness. The fabric clung to her waist before flowing down, the hem shorter in front to honor movement, longer in back to carry silence. The dress left her shoulders bare, framing her collarbones. Thin silver embroidery traced the neckline in a quiet pattern of circling vines, shimmering faintly as she moved further into the tea room.

Her sleeves, ending at the elbow, billowed softly with each elegant movement. From the edge of one shoulder, barely visible, a single rune peaked above the fabric, etched like truth that refused to stay hidden. She had styled her hair in a way that pulled it gently from her face, leaving most of it to cascade just past her shoulders in gentle waves.

Ares, behind her, took measured steps, maintaining the distance of a servant. His expression was carefully blank. War had taught him that Krillian-born were raised to detect weakness.

"Have you no jewelry?" a young woman asked, smirking slightly as she took a sip from her cup.

Calla smiled, eyes gleaming beneath her veil. "I do not," she replied, drifting toward the table.

Ares stepped forward, pulling out her chair just before she reached it. Mousy servants poured her black tea, offering honey and sweets in silence. She stirred a generous amount of honey into the cup, letting it cool before tasting it, carefully shielding her face.

Ares stood behind her, hands clasped, gaze fixed on a spot far beyond the room.

"It's rather... odd to see one of the Divine Accords accompanied by a man," the same woman remarked, folding her hands in her lap. "Especially a man whose rank far exceeds yours."

Teacups clinked—delicate, intentional. The noblewomen watched, waiting.

"Goodness," Calla murmured, "you seem to know so much about me. I must confess—I know nothing of any of you."

The woman flushed, stammering her name. "I am Baroness Mirea Elithen."

Calla chuckled, her hand drifting up in lazy presentation. "This is Lord Ares Valebrand, fourth of his line to one of the founding Noble Houses of the Zeonial Kingdom. He is a parting gift from my Queen."

A woman in her late thirties, easily the eldest among them, leaned forward, her tone quieter, yet sharper.

"Your Queen gifted you such an impressive servant," she said, "but not a title of your own?"

Calla didn't flinch. "I will have my title, and my kingdom, too. Lady...?"

The woman stiffened, jeweled hands smoothing her green-and-gold dress. Her low bun trembled from the motion. "Countess Serelith Novein, Concubine Calla."

Viscountess Ilyne Aerin fidgeted with her spoon, hands never quite still. She adjusted her fan, then her necklace, then lifted her cup and lowered it again, at last taking a tentative bite of the tart she'd chosen at arrival.

Ares tracked her movements, his mother's voice—'Pay attention to the nervous ones, they pull the blade faster than those who are trained.'

A younger noble across the table, Lady Lutea Cavan, folded her hands beneath her chin. She smiled sweetly, her words dripping with practiced honey.

"Your dress is... understated. Almost pure. It suits your station well."

Calla turned slightly, her veil catching the light. Her voice remained smooth, almost amused. "You have not played this game long, have you?"

Ares snorted—low, unapologetic, clearly bored by court politics. Lady Lutea blinked, eyes wide. Her smile faltered, unsure how, or if to respond.

Duchess Vess Elonth rose from her spot at the table, her peacock blue dress falling elegantly around her as she exited the tea room of the Divine Accord without ever speaking a word. As though the tea room—and everyone in it—had failed to earn her voice.

The Duchess had said more than anyone by leaving with her silence hung around her like a shawl—stitched with time, and hard-earned lessons.

The noblewomen tittered amongst themselves like birds, the young Viscountess finally settling enough to take a tentative bite of the tart she'd chosen at arrival. Ares stared after the Duchess, shifting uncomfortably in his place. He knew all too well the sort of power women like that held.

Calla arose next, the whispers and the steady disappearance of desserts slowing.

"I will take my leave. I must become used to Krillian halls, lest I take the wrong one and disappear." She laughed softly, not waiting for a reply as she swept from the room.

Her breath shifted just as they turned the corner. The sound wasn't broken, simply wrong. Calla took off.

Ares froze for a moment, then shouted, once, startled by her speed. She moved like thread unraveling—dress trailing, veil slipping—running as though she needed to escape something inside of her. He chased her through corridors drenched in sunlight and shadow, catching her by the arm near an old stairwell. For a heartbeat, she was in his grasp.

She tore herself from him with a scream like thunder and vanished deeper into the palace. Ares stared after her, ears ringing. The Queen's voice floated through his mind.

'She may be... unruly at times.' Ares snorted at the thought, muttering "yeah, no shit" as he began to look for the woman coming undone at the edges.

He cursed the symmetry of the palace—every damn hallway looked like a reflection of the last. Ares doubted the architects had ever had to chase madness through it.

Gold swam in her vision as she ran, feet slapping against the marble floor, chest heaving, rushing by hall after hall, history flying past. The portraits' eyes followed her descent into madness.

Sunlight burst across her temple as she stumbled into the courtyard. Grass brushed against her feet as she rushed further in, her shoes lost somewhere in the winding corridors. Foot catching on a stone, she tumbled into the grass, landing on her back. The gold blurring her vision cleared slowly. Vibrant blue with fluffy clouds swam above her. Tree branches swayed in the breeze.

Her breath shuddered, tears washing out gold as her mind slowly returned.

The voices of angels rang in her ears, singing their songs with foreign tongues, foreign sound.

Calla sat up slowly, her heart still racing. She fixed her crooked veil before standing, brushing off the back of her dress. She sighed as she surveyed her new surroundings, tugging down her sleeves to hide the scratches crawling up her arm. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. She turned—too fast, too sharp—her breath snagging in her throat. She blinked as the King came into view, surrounded by a gaggle of noblemen, advisors, and guards dressed in all black, Krillian elite, distinct from the usual green and gold clad guards.

Calla walked quickly, keeping out of view until she found the bench beneath the towering tree. She fanned herself out, leaning back on her arms, despite the ache's protest. The branch's shade dappled the fabric of her dress. She sat with her back turned toward the parade of Krillian authority.

She watched the clouds drifting across the sky, slowing her breathing as she did. The voices of angels swirled around her, distorted and louder than most days, the fit throwing them into a frenzy. Calla did not notice their whispers, she did not notice the King, or so she told herself.

To acknowledge him would crack the story she had built in the space of a heartbeat. Calla knew—if she turned, she would either bow or bleed.

The King glanced out toward the garden, his gaze catching on the woman resting on the bench. His flock of peacocks looked with him. His advisors murmured to each other, noblemen exchanged looks. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed them all, the palace swallowing the men as they disappeared.

Somewhere, within that same palace, a disgruntled Ares muttered insults at statues he wasn't sure whether or not he had already insulted.

The Krillian elite wordlessly broke formation, fanning outward to guard every entrance to the garden.

He approached without hurry, boots whispering across ancient stone. No cough to announce himself. No pause to invite attention. No need, for he was King, and Kings are used to getting what they please.

Two words broke the quiet.

"Concubine Calla."