Five days after the incident, word arrived from the Royal Physician's Chamber. The dancer had awakened—and she was healing.
The scroll was handed to King Arthro during his morning duties in the Sapphire Throne Room. Though he maintained a calm face before the court, something sharp flickered in his gaze. After finishing the royal hearings, he dismissed the ministers with a curt wave and called for Eunuch Rustom.
"Have the carriage prepared," he said quietly, "to the physician's chamber. Now."
The matter surrounding the barbarian dancer from the Group performance troupe was still under investigation. General Quashin of the Southern Reign personally led the inquiry. Some whispered that the dancer that saved him had been part of the plot. Others argued she had thwarted it—throwing herself between the blade and the king at the final second. If not for her, the king might have lost his right arm, or worse, his life.
A contingent of royal guards, clad in bronze and scarlet, rode with the king's carriage to the infirmary. The scent of herbs and jasmine greeted them at the gate. The physician bowed deeply, aged robes fluttering in the wind.
"Long live Your Highness," he said.
"I trust the patient is well enough to speak?"
"She is weak, but awake. I anticipated your visit and ensured she rests in the finest chamber."
The king followed the physician through marble halls to a sunlit room, serene and quiet. The chamber had been prepared with care. Linen curtains drifted in the breeze, the walls adorned with pale lilies and silk banners. The soft perfume of flowers lingered in the air. It was no ordinary room—it was a healing sanctuary fit for nobility.
And there, upon the bed, lay the dancer.
She was pale, her lips colorless, but her beauty was untouched by illness. Her hair, though undone, fell like a dark waterfall over the pillows. She attempted to rise, struggling to her elbow, pain flickering across her delicate features.
"Fifi shows respect to Your Majesty," she whispered.
"Rest, assure," the king said, raising his hand. "Do not strain yourself."
He moved to sit beside her, his royal robes brushing the carved oak of the chair. For a long moment, he simply observed her. Fragile, wounded… and yet there was something haunting about her presence. A mystery. A fire still glowing beneath the frost of weakness.
"What brings you here, Your Royal Highness?" she asked softly. "I swear—I had no idea a murderer lurked among us." Her tone was sincere, laced with seduction and sorrow in perfect measure.
The king studied her closely. "She is under investigation. If the truth absolves you… you will not only be cleared—you shall be rewarded. You saved your king's life. That cannot be ignored." He leaned closer. "Ask me what you want."
Fifi's breath caught. Her fingers curled over the sheets. "Will my king truly grant me any wish… as you promised?"
"Yes," the king said, though a note of caution lingered in his voice. "As long as it is in my hand to give."
She did not hesitate. "Then make me one of your concubines, Your Highness."
The words lingered in the air, warm and daring.
The king paused. He had expected her to ask for gold, for land, perhaps even safe passage to her homeland. But this? This was different. Dangerous.
His mind pulled away from the warmth of her gaze and toward the cold reality of court politics.
A concubine… from a defeated barbarian troupe?
The High Ministers would not approve. The High Priest would declare omens and signs of ruin. "A barbarian in the royal harem?" they would sneer. "What precedent does that set?"
He imagined the Chancellor's voice, trembling with fury in the throne room: "Your Majesty, this woman is of low birth, a dancer, and from a people who once stood against our banners. She should be punished—not elevated!"
Yet he also imagined his own response—measured and sharp as steel: "She saved the life of your king. If her bloodline makes her unworthy, does that mean your loyalty lies only in bloodlines? She acted when many froze. She risked herself without hesitation. That is honor—regardless of where it came from."
Let them grumble. Let them plot. Arthro was not a king who bowed to whispers.
He looked back at Fifi. Her eyes were steady now, brave in their vulnerability. Perhaps she had expected rejection. Or worse. But still, she had asked.
He smiled slowly.
"If that is your wish," he said, voice low and deliberate, "then I grant it."
Her lips parted in stunned silence.
"On the 5th of April," the king added, "you will enter the harem. You will be one of my concubines."
Deep in his chest, something primal stirred. Not just lust—but the satisfaction of claiming something rare. Untamed. Forbidden. She was not a noblewoman bred for the court. She was a story—a living flame from distant soil.
He would have her.
And if the court opposed it?
They would learn—that the crown bowed to no one.
---
The whispers had spread like wildfire through the stone corridors of the palace. The king is taking a concubine. Maids murmured behind doors, servants exchanged glances in passing, and even the usually composed court officials found themselves drawn into heated discussions. It wasn't simply a matter of royal preference—it was a matter of politics, of loyalty, of blood.
In the grand hall of the court, tension simmered beneath the surface.
"Your Majesty," Chancellor Shansha began, stepping forward. His tone was respectful, yet laced with unease. "It's not that we wish to meddle in your personal matters. But this decision... it concerns the safety of the kingdom itself."
King Arthro sat on the obsidian throne, carved with serpents and lion heads. His face, carved from stone, showed neither offense nor amusement.
The chancellor bowed deeply and stepped back, replaced by Royal Councilor Tartar, a sharp-eyed man known for his unfiltered tongue.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice echoing through the hall, "the dancer who saved you—what proof do we have that she was not working with the assassin? This plot still reeks of hidden hands. How can we trust one who emerged from the same barbaric tribes that sent a man to take your life?"
A murmur of agreement passed through the council. Another noble stood up, adjusting the thick gold chain on his robe.
"Yes, Majesty. She was once a war prisoner, captured from the barbar tribes. Forgive us, but even a rose can conceal thorns."
And then, the hall stirred again as Duke Remaxin stood.
Even in his sixties, the man radiated authority. His hair was streaked with silver, and the years had not dulled his sharp eyes or stiffened his spine ( Father of Ruby and Shithal). After his daughter died in a war It was said he had aged ten years in one night, and yet here he stood, the echo of his legacy blazing like a sword in his gaze.
After clearing his throat, Duke Remaxin's voice thundered through the court. "This time, I stand with the court, Your Majesty. With every man present who values this kingdom's future."
There was no mistaking his tone—measured, clear, and fiercely disapproving. The air thickened like the silence before a storm.
King Arthro's gaze swept slowly across the chamber. He observed every flicker of doubt, every breath withheld. Finally, he stood. When he spoke, his voice was not loud—but it commanded attention.
"It cannot be forgotten," he said coldly. "She saved my life. At the cost of her own safety, she stood between me and death. She did what no one else in this room could do—or chose to do."
Councilor Tartar stepped forward again, relentless. "And what if it was a performance? A well-played trick? A sacrificial act to gain your favor? We cannot ignore the possibility, absurd though it may sound."
Even the Prime Minister, Zusak—who had been silent until now—nodded slowly in agreement. His face remained unreadable, but his assent carried weight.
The murmuring in the chamber grew into a rustle of doubt, like dry leaves stirred by the wind. Then, with calculated grace, the king's chief eunuch, Rustom, stepped beside the throne. He leaned in, whispering into the king's ear.
King Arthro listened, nodded once.
A moment later, the large bronze doors at the end of the chamber creaked open.
General Quashin entered, clad in deep crimson armor, his boots striking the stone like war drums. He bowed low before the throne.
"Long live the king," he said with conviction. "I come bearing the full report, Your Majesty."
All eyes turned toward him. The weight of the moment pressed the air into silence.
Quashin's voice rang clear, each word a blade slicing through suspicion.
"Regarding the assassination attempt—our investigations have concluded that the dancer, Fifi, has no connection to the assassin. The attempt was not political, nor motivated by larger factions. The assassin was acting out of personal vengeance. She lost her family during the war against our forces. It was grief that drove her—grief and hatred."
The court shifted. Eyebrows rose, whispers died mid-breath.
General Quashin continued, "Fifi, on the other hand, risked her life to intervene. If not for her, the blade would have struck true. She acted alone, unprompted, and was gravely injured in the process. We found no ties between her and the attacker—no exchanged letters, no secret meetings. She is guilty only of loyalty."
Silence reigned.
King Arthro stepped forward. The long shadows from the stained-glass windows fell across his shoulders like a cloak. He stared down at his court with a predator's stillness, his smile more chilling than warm.
"Well then," he said, voice edged with triumph, "any objections?"
No one spoke.
"No," came the hushed replies, one after another. A ripple of agreement echoed in unison.
The king's victory was complete, and he knew it. To challenge him now would be to court destruction.
King Arthro had ascended the throne not through diplomacy, but through blood. It was said he had bathed in the ashes of his brothers, enemies and crowned himself with the bones of rivals. He was not a man who forgave rebellion—he was a man who ended it.
And now, he had made his decision.
He would take the dancer, Fifi, as his concubine.
In that moment, the court fell into a hush so deep, it seemed the stone walls themselves dared not breathe.
Only Prime Minister Zusak stirred. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. Perhaps it was real—perhaps it was a trick of the light. Either way, it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
King Arthro's voice, soft but final, rang through the chamber one last time.
"She is under my protection now. Let no one question her loyalty again."
The court bowed.
But under the weight of reverence and fear, many hearts churned. The political board had shifted again, and with it, alliances, secrets, and grudges would find new life.
Outside the palace, the bells tolled thrice.
A new concubine was rising.
And the ghosts of the past whispered through the marble halls, unseen but never forgotten.
---