The soft rustle of silk and the faint scent of medicinal incense hung in the air like the memory of pain. Liora sat quietly by the edge of her private veranda, a hand resting on her lap, the other clutching a worn scroll she hadn't read in hours. Her mind drifted—not to the pain in her body, not even to the child she had lost—but to her children sleeping safely in the outer court, watched over by the most loyal maidservant she had.
"Have they eaten yet?" she asked without looking up.
Tala, her maid, bowed low. "Yes, my lady. Both young lord and lady were served by First Aunt. They played a little and are now resting."
Liora nodded faintly. She had kept them away ever since the bleeding started. Whatever malice danced in the palace air, it would not reach her son and daughter.
The summons to the Queen had come days before the miscarriage, cloaked in cool civility. The Queen had offered silence more than comfort, a rare gesture of peace after seasons of subtle hostility. And yet, Liora knew well the art of performance—the Queen's eyes had remained cold.
Now, the Queen was nearing childbirth, and murmurs rippled like underground streams through the palace. It was said the baby kicked only lightly, that the astrologers saw no guiding star. Liora listened but never repeated. The court had a way of hanging those who carried words.
A light knock at the entrance stirred her. Lady Hua entered with her usual grace, cloaked in lavender and scented with a restrained sweetness.
"You've gone pale again," Hua remarked gently as she settled beside her.
"The healer says it will pass."
Lady Hua's glance dropped to Liora's lap. "A body heals, but what of the heart?"
Liora did not answer. There was no need.
"The lower concubines watch you," Hua continued after a beat. "Especially since you protected Mei from Lady Chen's maids. That girl nearly lost her child."
Liora's gaze sharpened. "And Mei?"
"Recovering. She prays for you. And she is already yours. Quietly."
"That's not enough. Not yet."
Lady Hua smiled, pleased. "Then take the next ones. The ones who feel forgotten. The ones who have no fathers in court and no brothers in uniform. The ones who only know fear."
Liora's silence was answer enough.
Lady Wen arrived next, Lady Zhen following like a graceful shadow. Wen's presence brought hushed laughter, Zhen's a sense of velvet calm. The four women spoke in low tones about embroidery contests and poetry nights—coded terms for political murmurs, shifting loyalties, and the King's drifting interest.
Then came the message.
A eunuch stepped lightly into the corridor, knelt, and bowed. "Lady Mei sends word. She bleeds again."
Liora stood too quickly. Lady Hua caught her arm.
"Let her physician handle it," she warned.
"I cannot lose another," Liora said, voice like frost. "She carries more than her own child now. She carries a strand of what we're building."
She moved swiftly down the corridor, attendants trailing her like wind-blown petals. The palace had grown colder, its walls holding secrets and its floors remembering every step.
And Liora remembered too. The Queen had smiled too easily. The stars had been too quiet. And magic—forgotten by most—still lived in corners.
She would learn to listen. To command. To protect.
Even from within the whispering veil of silk and sorrow.