The Grand Concubine’s bedchamber was a sanctuary of excessive luxury, smelling of expensive musk, burned sandalwood, and the faint, sweet aroma of spiced wine. Silk hangings in shades of crimson and gold draped from the vaulted ceiling, swaying gently in the draft that slipped through the tall, arched windows. It was an room designed for comfort and the quiet plotting of a woman who held the strings of the court. The moonlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting jagged, spider-web patterns across the polished marble floor. Elara lay beneath layers of satin, her breathing rhythmic and shallow, undisturbed by the terrors that had unfolded in the labyrinth gardens only hours before.
The silence of the room was absolute until the soft, wet sound of something being placed on wood echoe
