"How fares the search, Wilberforce?"
Ashley's voice, usually a melodic cascade, was now tinged with a brittle, almost desperate anxiety. She sat ramrod straight in a chaise longue placed on the wide, sun-drenched veranda of her Royal Apartments, her gaze fixed on the hazy horizon. The opulent Wicker Imperial Palace, for all its gilt and grandeur, felt like a highly polished cage.
Wilberforce, the Grand Duke, stood beside her, his posture correct and respectful, despite the intimacy of the setting and the fact that he was, technically, her husband.
"Your Highness," he began, his voice deep and measured, "the covert teams have yet to find any positive identification. The trails are cold, scattered over the border provinces. There is no indication that we will find her immediately."
Ashley's face, usually so composed, went drab, all the color draining away beneath the pale makeup. Her sister's whereabouts remained a ghost story, a haunting echo from a tragic incident in their shared childhood. The memory of that guilt was a silent, crushing weight that she had carried alone for years, and it was why, without the knowledge of her elder brother, the Emperor Asher, she had initiated this clandestine search. She was determined to rectify the past, find her sister, and bring her home—not as Princess, but as her family.
"Thank you, Wilberforce. Please, notify me the instant anything surfaces, no matter how insignificant." She managed a fleeting, strained smile before her attention shifted. "And tell me, how is my lovely little tiger? Is our son well?"
Wilberforce was visibly taken aback, his aristocratic reserve momentarily dissolving into a look of tender confusion. He was a man of immense power in the Wicker Empire, a Grand Duke who served the Emperor loyally, yet he also served his wife, Princess Ashley, with a singular, quiet devotion, regardless of the strange and sad circumstances of their union.
He had been forced into marriage with Ashley at the age of fifteen by Emperor Asher's command—a calculated political move that had wounded both their spirits. Despite the lack of romantic choice, Wilberforce had genuinely adored his wife from the start. He consistently treated her as his superior, maintaining a formal respect that bewildered the court and often unnerved Ashley. He always honored her wishes, even the inexplicable one that kept her living in the palace apartments rather than his matrimonial home.
"He's doing well, Your Highness," Wilberforce replied, the formality still in place, "but he misses his mother terribly. He asks for you every evening."
Mary, Ashley's chambermaid, a nervous woman with sharp eyes, served them both jasmine tea on a low, inlaid mother-of-pearl table. Wilberforce continued to scan the lavish apartments, the puzzle of her persistent absence from their home a dull ache in his chest. She was routinely slighted and undermined at the palace—a married woman who remained on her brother's charity—yet no one, not even he, the Grand Duke, could openly protest without incurring the Emperor's lethal wrath.
"When are you coming home, Ashley?" He placed his porcelain cup down with a delicate click, his light gold eyes finally locking onto hers. "Our son misses you. I miss you. I miss my wife."
Ashley gripped her own cup tightly, the heat of the tea irrelevant compared to the heat of his unwavering gaze. Wilberforce was tall, powerfully built, with limestone-pale skin that spoke of northern lineage. His long, carrot-colored hair was tied back in an untidy bun, and his expression was one of dignified, yet profound, longing.
After a long sip, she turned her head, avoiding his eyes, and placed her cup down with unnatural care. "I still have unfinished business here, Wilberforce. Political matters. Palace matters. Please, give me just a little more time."
He let out a deep, defeated sigh, rubbing his temples as if to ward off a headache years in the making. What unfinished business could she possibly have in a place that treated her with such calculated contempt? She was a married woman, yet she chose this isolation over the sanctity of her husband's home and the warmth of her child's embrace.
"However, are you truly going to be all right here?" He reached across the table, his large, capable hand covering hers. The genuine distress in his question was palpable.
Ashley returned the pressure on his hand, her slender fingers attempting to offer comfort and reassurance that she herself did not possess. "I will be well, my Duke. I promise."
She finally gathered the strength to meet his golden gaze, and in her own eyes, the anxiety had been replaced by a startling, uncharacteristic intensity.
"Don't take your gaze off my face, Wilberforce," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I think it's about time I told you the truth about myself. The real truth."
The look on Wilberforce's face changed instantly, the expression of loving anxiety replaced by one of profound shock, as if she had just told him the sky was falling. His brow furrowed, and he stared intently at her face, his eyes darting between her features.
"Your Highness," he stammered, his hand instinctively tightening on hers, "your eyes... there's something wrong with your eyes. They are..."
*************
Irfana, a woman whose beauty had once guaranteed her place at the heart of the Sultan's court, sat in her leather-upholstered bedroom chair, the fading afternoon light bathing her in a melancholic gold. Her infant daughter, a tiny, perfect creature, rested in her arms, and Irfana was gently rocking her, willing her to sleep. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of dried roses and stale worry.
Suddenly, one of her newer, younger chambermaids, a girl named Zeina, burst into the room. She was breathing heavily, a wide, almost manic smile splitting her anxious face. "My Lady! My Lady!" she exclaimed, rushing forward without any regard for decorum.
"Hush! You fool!" Irfana hissed, pressing a protective hand over her baby's small, fluttering chest. "Can you not see that my baby is attempting to sleep? Get control of yourself." She gently patted the infant's back before lifting her weary gaze to the maid who stood panting at the doorway. "What is it? What news possesses you to scream so loudly and disrespectfully?"
Zeina bent over, clutching her knees as she struggled to catch her breath, the remnants of her excited smile still trembling on her lips. "His Majesty has returned to the palace!"
Irfana simply raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "The Sultan returns. He is a busy man. This is hardly news worth disrupting a child's nap for, Zeina."
"But, My Lady," the maid whispered, pushing herself upright, her eyes wide with frantic, thrilling gossip, "He did not return alone. He came back with a woman. She is... magnificent."
Irfana finally felt a cold ripple of unease, though she forced her expression to remain passive. "So what? The Sultan has concubines. He has dozens of them. How is this any of my concern, Zeina? I am Irfana, the mother of his heir."
"She is not a concubine, My Lady," Zeina rushed to correct, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "She is his one and only Queen. The Grand Vizier, Mohammed, announced it himself. Do you not understand what that means for... for everyone?"
The infant in Irfana's arms finally drifted off to sleep. Her mother did not notice. Irfana's head snapped up, her eyes, once filled with maternal exhaustion, now blazing with sudden, stark comprehension.
Queen.
Not consort. Not favourite. Not even Chief Wife. Queen.
It meant the Sultan had formally abolished the old hierarchy. It meant that all of them—Raiha, Irfana, and every other woman who had plotted and sacrificed for a place of influence—were instantly and utterly demoted.
Irfana felt the familiar, crushing sensation of palace walls closing in. The child in her arms—the boy she thought would guarantee her status—was still just an infant. And now, there was a new woman, fully and legally entrenched, with the Sultan's undivided, official attention.
"It means," Irfana said, her voice a desolate whisper, looking at the silent, sleeping form of her daughter, "it means we have all lost."
She set the child down gently in her crib, stood up, and walked toward the window, her silk robe rustling against the stone floor. The familiar, suffocating fear of irrelevance had returned, stronger than ever. The game had just changed. And Irfana knew, with chilling certainty, that the real battle for survival had only just begun.