The gates of Krillian opened just wide enough for the carriage—and the horse that followed—to slip inside before slamming shut behind them.

King Thane stood on the steps, watching the arrival of controversy with a face carved from marble.

Calla thought briefly of statues as she watched the King from the window: how they preserved beauty, but rarely truth.

Servants broke from their stations as the carriage rolled to a halt: one moved swiftly to unlatch the gilded door, bowing low; others paused mid-task, necks craned, trying to catch a glimpse of the veiled woman whose name had stirred arguments in council halls and whispers in chapel pews.

Ares Valebrand arrived just behind the carriage, reins loose in his grasp as his stallion stepped forward, hoofbeats striking the stone like punctuation marks.

He dismounted quietly, the motion fluid. Dust rose in soft curls around his boots.

No words were spoken, but the servant's fingers hesitated. History didn't always wear armor. Sometimes it was stitched onto silk and bore hair dark as night.

The King said nothing, though his mouth twitched in the slightest of frowns.

His retinue did not speak, either—though several turned to note the man with a sword strapped across his back and a frayed cloth tucked into his satchel like forgotten lineage.

Calla stepped down with grace that did not need acknowledgment.

Her veil stirred faintly in the breeze. One hand clasped around the handle of the sealed trunk—small, bound with ritual rope, marked with the wax of unwelcomed gods.

Krillian custom did not name foreign gods aloud, their symbols were taught as blasphemy, remembered, and hated.

Though the people who stared were sparse, the air felt tense, humming with unease.

She scanned the courtyard once. Her fingers lifted—just slightly—and Ares moved forward to carry the trunk without protest.

The servants exchanged glances loaded with judgment. A noble as a servant to an unnamed—even a fourth born—was unheard of.

King Thane descended the steps alone, his advisors remaining at a respectful distance. Calla curtseyed low, the folds of her dress unfurling like a fan. The silver-edged veil shifted in the dying light, catching the sun's farewell in quiet glimmers.

"Your Majesty," she said, her voice soft enough to hush the courtyard, "thank you for coming to greet me."

The air held its breath. Even the servants stilled, stunned by the unexpected beauty of her tone.

The King extended his hand with a restrained sort of ceremony.

"I'm glad to see Queen Zeonial no longer keeps such a pretty voice captive."

Calla placed her hand in the King's, allowing herself to be lifted.

"The palace has prepared quarters," he said. "I trust you packed lightly."

Calla inclined her head, voice nonchalant.

"Enough to remember where I've been. Not enough to stay."

Thane's thumb brushed across the back of her hand—half a second too long to be mistake, not quite long enough to be a statement.

A grey-haired advisor appeared beside the King, just a step behind. His presence didn't interrupt—it suggested. Liver-spotted hands curled around a cane capped with a golden tree, polished so brightly it caught the last of the sun—like flame folding beneath the horizon.

He inclined his head slightly, the gesture formal, almost reverent. Then he spoke, like the whisper of a page turning in a quiet room.

"It is tradition," he said, each word shaped with quiet precision, "for women who seek the King's hand to be accompanied only by female attendants."

The tone was soft—so soft it could have been mistaken for kindness... and yet, beneath it sat something older than malice: belief calcified by time.

The King's silence fell like a shadow, measured and waiting. Ares stood unmoved, soldier's eyes locked on the towering castle, as if seeking its weakest stone.

Calla's veil stirred as she nodded once, the gesture neither submissive nor defiant—simply final.

"Lord Valebrand is a parting gift from my queen," she said, voice even. "He serves as attendant and protector... should any hand but the King's ever think to claim me."

Thane said nothing as he raised her hand, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles—a gesture not of possession, but of performance.

Then, low and steady:

"Velenya."

A servant in her late fifties stepped forward from the shadows, wearing a simple black dress and quiet, sliver poking through her tight bun.

"Guide her to the South Wing. Chamber Six, make sure that attendants have been assigned to her."

The King turned from Calla, his retinue folding behind him. He paused just before he crossed the palace's threshold, looking over his shoulder.

"As you have no title, no name, and no land, you will be addressed as Concubine Calla until such a time comes when you do have a name. Please rest well."

Calla curtised low, wishing the King a restful night. Ares bowed at the waist, not quite low enough for the rank which Thane held.

Velenya bowed, mouth taut, and led them into the palace through a side entrance. Calla followed. Ares walked behind, steps equal in length, sealed trunk held steady.

Velenya led them with the sort of dedication that hinted at her origins—a family who found pride in quiet service. Her steps were smooth against the river stone floor. The South Wing curved around an outer garden, the windows tall and open to the night—the rising moon casting soft latticework across the mosaics that decorated the bottom half of the wall, detailing what it took to earn the King's hand.

Calla's eyes flickered toward the mosaics—delicate embroidery wrapped around the handles of swords, scrolls held in women's hands, music notes hummed through the art. Some were cracked. Whether time or refusal had broken them, she could not tell.

Two guards stood at the entrance of the South Wing, unblinking, weapons held ready. Their armor bore the emblem of the Founder, an ancient tree against the background of a wasteland. A hand blocked their entrance.

"Males are not allowed inside the South Wing while the Divine Accord is being conducted." Velenya stared up at him, unblinking at the guard's gruff tone.

"The King has made an exception. Lord Valebrand is permitted to serve and guard Concubine Calla. Move aside."

The guard lowered his arm slowly, eyes trained on the man whose family crest had left many a child fatherless. His fingers never left his weapon.

The halls of the South Wing offered just enough luxury to pacify the nobles it housed—yet remained sparse, as if reminding them of the wealth still beyond their reach, should the King choose their name.

Velenya led them down the hall, slipping into a passage off to the side, they climbed the winding stairs of a tower. She paused before a door marked by a golden tree, its branches drooping—the subtle symbol of lower rank among candidates.

"Chamber Six," she said. "Your quarters."

She opened the door.

The chamber, while stunning, held the air of something repurposed. The tapestries depicting the Founder's three-day miracle were new—but hung over faded impressions, where older ones might have lived.

Old candles burned low in their glass enclosures, casting the room in a flickering, hazy glow.

There was no sitting area to greet visitors, no alcove for tea or conversation. Only a narrow writing desk beside twin doors of glass, their bronze handles cool to the touch.

When opened, they led to a small balcony overlooking the wing's garden and the quiet courtyards where one might steal a moment with the King.

Wisteria wrapped itself around the balusters in soft clusters of lavender, pale and heavy—not quite settled. Its vines had been coaxed into bloom in haste, trained to wrap around the railing.

The shape was almost unnatural—each tendril bent by a gardener's fingers rather than time.

Beneath the blossoms, the stone still showed the uneven grooves of rushed planting.

A slender wardrobe stood to the side, its finish untouched by dust. The bed, pushed gently into the curve of the wall, was carved in gleaming hardwood—veins winding through flowers and small animals.

Sparrows, foxes, deer—not mythic creatures, but familiar ones. Symbols of watchfulness, simplicity, and most of all, survival.

Swathed in cream sheets and soft green pillows shaped like leaves, it looked like something out of a dream.

To the right, a narrow door stood slightly ajar—revealing a modest washroom clad in polished tile.

The tiles shimmered faintly under candlelight, casting soft reflections shaped like broken constellations.

A marble basin rested against the far wall, its surface veined with faint grey, while a simple shower occupied the corner, open and unpartitioned, with water fed from the tower's gravity-driven reservoir, heated mornings and nights by the servants beneath the palace.

A bronze spigot sculpted like a vine acted as the shower head, and a shallow channel cut into the floor for drainage.

On a low shelf beside the basin, a stack of cream towels sat folded with ceremonial care, each embroidered with a small golden tree—its branches arcing downward, a quiet symbol of rank beneath devotion.

A single sprig of jasmine dangled from the spigot, casting its scent—clean, light, and too intentional to be decoration alone.

Velenya gestured towards the desk where a tray sat, holding a humble meal. Steam rose softly from the soup; buttered bread lounged beside it, while peaches and plums rested in artful slices.

"Your evening meal has been brought in. The dishes will be collected in the morning when the servants arrive with breakfast. They will help you wash and dress before leading you to the wing's tea room, where you will meet the women whom you will compete beside." She paused then, hands folded just above her waist.

"Late arrivals are rare. Foreign candidates are... unheard of." Her voice did not waver, but her eyes held caution and curiosity. "You'll require a formal rundown of the Accord's expectations. I will deliver it tomorrow morning, before you meet the others."

Velenya's gaze then turned towards Ares.

"No arrangements have been made for you, My Lord, as we were not aware of anyone besides Concubine Calla arriving."

Ares inclined his head, setting the trunk down by the foot of the bed.

"I require only a chair and a meal for tonight."

His voice was calm, yet strain ran rampant if one listened closer. He did not trust the walls not to close around him, nor did he trust the servants not to smother him in his sleep.

"Thank you for your understanding. I will have it brought up at once." Velenya curtsied before leaving, shutting the door softly. Her footsteps faded into the silence.

Calla's hand brushed against the soft fabric of the bed, chuckling softly. "The bed is rather darling."

Ares snorted, pulling out the chair for the woman to have her meal. "Of course you find it darling, you'll be sleeping with leaves and beasts. It suits you," he said it teasingly, almost fondly.

Calla sat down in the chair, smiling slightly under her veil.

"I'll keep vigil outside, Calla. When would you like the servants to enter?"

"After breakfast. Let the morning greet me first."

Ares nodded, striding out of the room.

Calla lifted her veil, carefully folding it beside the tray. She raised a spoonful of soup to her lips, blowing softly before tasting. The broth was mild but warm, and with each bite, her body eased. The bread was tender, the fruit cool on her tongue. Her meal, while modest, filled her stomach.

Once finished, she rose and moved to the trunk Ares had carried in. The lock yielded with a soft click. She unpacked slowly—soft garments in muted hues, veils of varying lengths, the small jar of honey the Queen had pressed into her palm before parting. A promise sealed in amber and sweetness.

Coils of rosemary-scented rope unfurled with the faint scent of wilderness, and at the bottom, wrapped in cotton, lay a bow carved from the antlers of a deer, its grip polished smooth. It belonged to a version of her known only to the deepest parts of the forest.

Each item found its place: the clothes and veils tucked into the already full wardrobe, though it held no jewelry; the jar of honey nestled in the far corner of the desk; the rope coiled neatly in a drawer; the bow leaned against the wall beside her bed like a sentinel.

Slipping out of her gown, she pulled on one made of soft, breathable fabric meant for sleep. She circled the room slowly, breath deepening as she extinguished the candles one by one.

The flame on the final wick flickered twice before going out. She hummed softly as she lifted the veil, removing it in the safety of the dark. Her fingers folded with practiced care, placing it gently on the desk.

Light filtered through the balcony doors. Wisteria perfumed the room as she slid beneath the cream sheets, letting the soft mattress cradle her.

Outside her quarters, Ares kept vigil.