AURORA

A GIFT TO THE SERPENT'S LIAR

---

The journey to Kingdom Everest had felt like stepping into a dream stitched from gold and ice. From the valley floor, Aurora had gazed upward in awe—the great fortress rose out of the mountain itself, its towers crowned with frost, its banners snapping in the wind. But the closer she came, the more the dream felt like a trap.

By the time the guards escorted her through the heavy gates, she understood why people whispered about Everest in the same breath as they did the word untouchable. Inside, the air was colder, thinner, heavy with the weight of rules and unseen eyes.

They wound through marble corridors lit by tall windows and torches, their boots clanging in unison. Aurora kept her eyes low until one guard stopped and pressed a folded note into her palm. The wax seal bore the King’s mark—its edges jagged, like it had been closed in haste.

She broke the seal. The ink gleamed, sharp, and deliberate: A gift for my lady.

The golden doors before her swung open, and Aurora stepped into a chamber thick with perfume. Cushions of crimson velvet lay scattered across the floor, and at the center—half-draped in shimmering silk—lounged the King’s concubine.

Her beauty was undeniable, but it was the kind that warned rather than invited. High cheekbones shadowed by kohl, lips the color of ripe berries, and eyes that caught the light like cold steel.

“Well,” the concubine said slowly, her gaze travelling from Aurora’s bare feet to her bowed head. “A pretty thing indeed.”

Her smile was soft, but her mind was already weaving thoughts as dark as her hair: Too pretty. The kind of face that makes men forget themselves. The kind that should be bruised, not worshipped.

She waved a hand lazily, as if dismissing a servant, but her eyes never left Aurora’s. She will not last here. The shine will fade once the cold settles in her bones. Perhaps I’ll see to it myself.

The concubine leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “Tell me, little dove—have you ever served in a great house?”

Aurora shook her head, her voice small. “No, my lady.”

Perfect, the concubine thought. New clay is easiest to shape… or to shatter.

Without waiting for more, she reached for a quill and a sheet of parchment, the tip scratching against the page as she wrote. Each word was sweet in tone but laced with venom: a letter to Madam Shelton, brimming with false gratitude for such a “delicate and obedient” gift.

When she sealed the letter, she did not look at Aurora. “Take her to the servants’ quarters,” she ordered. “She begins her new life today.”

As the guards led Aurora away, the concubine’s gaze followed her like a blade. Yes… let her sweep the floors and scrub the pots. Let her skin c***k and her beauty wilt. The King will not look twice at her when she smells of smoke and sweat.

She leaned back, smiling faintly to herself. And if he does? Well… accidents happen.

The doors closed behind Aurora, and with them, the light from the chamber dimmed. The scent of perfume lingered in her mind, sharp as poison, as she stepped toward the servants’ wing—toward a life she had not chosen, under a roof where beauty was less a blessing than a death sentence.

---

The servants’ wing was a world apart from the glittering halls Aurora had just left. The corridors narrowed, the polished marble giving way to stone worn smooth by countless feet. The air smelled of woodsmoke and boiled cabbage, with faint traces of damp wool.

Two maids led her down the passage, whispering in voices just low enough to keep her from hearing the words but not the tone—curiosity laced with judgment.

The quarters themselves were cramped rooms stacked along a single hall, each door ajar to reveal narrow cots, tin washbasins, and plain wooden chests. The largest space, the servants’ hall, was bustling with activity. A cook shouted orders over the clang of pots. A boy ran past carrying a pile of linen twice his height. Nobody stopped to greet her.

The older of the two maids gestured to a cot shoved into a corner near the drafty window. “This is yours,” she said briskly. “Don’t expect privacy. Don’t expect rest, either. Mornings start before the sun.”

Aurora nodded, clutching her small bundle of belongings.

“You’ll be on laundry duty until the Mistress decides otherwise,” the younger maid added, glancing at Aurora’s face for a beat too long. “Best not to draw attention to yourself.”

It was advice given with the air of someone who knew it was already too late.

In the concubine’s chambers, the woman herself was reclining once more, her letter to Madam Shelton sealed and sent. She imagined Aurora hunched over a washtub, the icy water biting at her hands. Yes, she thought, let the cold take her softness first. Then the rough work will do the rest.

Back in the servants’ hall, a bell rang—sharp, metallic, commanding. A hush fell. The older maid seized Aurora’s arm. “The Mistress is inspecting the wing. Stand straight, don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Aurora obeyed, heart pounding.

When the doors swung open, the concubine appeared—not in silk now, but in a deep green robe trimmed with fur, her beauty sharpened by the absence of softness. She strolled down the line of servants, eyes appraising, pausing just long enough before Aurora to let the silence twist.

“This one,” she said at last, with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “We’ll see if she works as well as she looks.”

And just like that, she was gone—her perfume lingering, her words like a hook in Aurora’s chest. The other servants were already moving again, but Aurora remained still for a moment, feeling the weight of what had just been spoken.

That night, she lay in her narrow cot, pressed between two other girls who had fallen asleep quickly after the day’s labour. The steady rhythm of their breathing should have been a comfort, but Aurora’s mind wouldn’t be quiet. She stared up at the dark wooden beams above, her heart aching with a mix of fear and disbelief.

It was as if her old life had vanished in a single step through the palace doors. The fine air of Everest had turned heavy and cold. Her body was here, in the servants’ quarters, but her thoughts were still back in the concubine’s chamber, trapped under that gaze—sharp, measuring, and hungry to destroy.

She clutched the thin blanket tighter, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the other bodies nearby. Tomorrow would bring laundry duty, new faces, and no mercy. She knew she had to be careful, to move quietly, to survive—but the image of the concubine’s smile kept returning, curling like smoke in her mind.

Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it was uneasy, filled with dreams of icy water, torn silks, and eyes watching her from the shadows.

---