Queen of the Forbidden Palace

She set upon me like fire. The curve of her spine aching for more. A lunar spirit in wild, throbbing throes. She lies calm and motionless in her cage. Her feet—bare and smooth held little indications of the chains that kept her bound to her post. She donned the most expensive linens, dyed—bright emerald green, tantric black and lively blue. Where most of the King’s women draped themselves in thick, floor-length gowns of muted gloom—Samaria ensured all eyes found their way to her, and before today she’d never thought of looking at any other man.

She knew the power she held, her sun-kissed skin had a milky glow; she was like the sun and the moon all wrapped up in one celestial being. Stars dripping in precious jewels amid a rose-colored sky; sheer, see-through-robes and gold-dipped tassels. Samaria was otherworldly, intoxicating, captivating. She held the eyes of both the King and his men, Asim included.

“You’re not a princess yet,” a snide whisper hissed from off in the corner amidst more snickers and idle chatter.

Samaria smiled, unbothered. The rumor mills were at it again, and today she floated on clouds unseen by the rest of the world.

The new-King would soon pick the woman he would marry. Would that new life be as beautiful as it seemed from the tops of their collective quarters?

The life of a royal wasn’t all it chopped up to be—or so she’d heard. The soon-to-be Queen would still have to share her husband. Unfortunate rules for the chosen Queen—death was the reward for seeking outside affection, Samaria knew this all too well. As the Kings main consort and confidant, she was also unable to meddle. Instead her only interaction with another man was to lay in wait for her favorite guard to summon her down, seeking secret tunnels and unlit alcoves to hold their garden trysts—but today, the sun faded into a humid spark, nothing had happened yet. She watched the courtyard below for any sign—no movement from either palace—his or hers.

Samaria ignored the angry pit in her stomach—she was, after-all, the new-Kings personal favorite. She wondered if he would notice his guard’s extra affection or lingering eyes. There were only so many steps between her palace and his. He’d even ordained a separate series of guards and maids to make sure her traipses about the palaces were kept in strict confidence and well-documented.

She did nothing without the King’s knowledge; Samaria knew she was playing with fire but couldn’t help herself. Asim’s lure was just as strong and mighty as her own, even moreso than that of the Kings. When they connected the troubles of the world drifted away. He was her escape, her confidant, her provider; her one true love.

Samaria was days away from her whole life changing, she couldn’t bring bad honor to her name. She’d hoped Asim would understand, at least until all this blew over. They couldn’t chance someone seeing them, the risks were just far too high.

The sound of birds fluttering past interrupted her thoughts.

The palace doors opened with a bang as the sound of metal-capped boots clang against the stone steps. A gaggle of guards—the Kings men—were walking through, shoulder to shoulder, shields and spears in tow.

There was no sign of Asim—or the King for that matter; maybe they were waiting.

Samaria’s blue-green eyes bordered gray when set against the skies. She had no reason to worry. Her long, ravenous hair added to her allure, the guards collected her, rudely ripping her veiled curtains back as they demanded her presence in the Kings chambers. It wasn’t the usual quiet call she’d grown accustomed to.

Samaria sat back, her head held high as she gave her best smile. She hailed from a long line of beautiful women—mothers, sisters, aunts, and cousins who had been the Kings closest advisors over the last hundred years. Today was no different.

Confined to live in a palace with hundreds of other women—Samaria was the favorite. Nothing would change that. She was exalted above all others. Set to a strict regimen she did little else, it meant the others got jealous, ostracized her and played cruel jokes. Samara wasn’t bothered. Several moments with the King would alleviate any question or burden he may have. He was a gentle, kind man who asked little of her in his presence. She knew she could sway him to whatever way she wished.

Idle Chatter.

Samaria was plucked from her pillows. She hated when such fuss was made during these trying times.

She was dragged past idle rows of well-dressed women who talked just out of earshot outside her bed chambers—a gilded gazebo with layers of intricate beaded curtains—just sheer enough for privacy but not sheer enough to shield her. Samara often lie awake at night listening to the latest set of rumors.

Her stomach steeled where her eyes wept.

Something was wrong.