Concubine of the Crown

Chapter 1: Spoils of War Present Day, New York, USA, July 2025 Today was supposed to be my day off at Whitmore Gallery. “Double overtime pay,” Maria consoled me, shoving a champagne tray into my hands. “Come on, Hedda. One night.” I glared at her and smile. “My day off is not for sale, Maria.” “Says the woman whose rent is due on the 1st,” she shot back at me. “Smile! Donors will top you.” My name is Hedda Anastasia Konrad. I just turned twenty five, I'm at Art History degree postgraduate student and I work part-time as a professional museum mop. And today, Sunday, I was working the Beauchamp War Exhibit gala. I hated everything about it. The rich people and their fake smiles, with the way they called war aesthetic beauty. Then the gallery director pulled the curtain. “Lady Serin of Beauchamp. 1816. Lost for 200 years.” The whole room gasped. I almost dropped the tray, because the woman in the painting looked exactly like me. We had the same grey eyes, same scar on my eyebrow, same mouth that was pretty even when I frowned. “What the hell,” I whispered. “Don’t,” Maria hissed. “People are looking.” But they were already looking, at me. Then at the painting, and then back at me. “Creepy,” someone said. “Did you plan this?” I didn’t plan anything. I just wanted to go home, I wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place. By nine pm, the donors were gone and the lights dimmed. “Final check,” I lied to the guard. I needed to see her again. Gallery three was empty, just me and Lady Serin under a spotlight. 1816. Beauchamp. Died at 10. I'm twenty five years old. “Okay,” I said to the painting. “What’s your deal?” I reached out and touched the frame. It was cold, the lights flickered. Then died. The air suddenly went heavy, it smelled like smoke and rain. “Hello?” I call out in the dark There was complete darkness, then light. Not the usual bright white light of the gallery, no. Gas lamps, gold walls. People screaming. Things crashing. “MY LADY!” Someone slammed into me and dragged me down. Glass exploded above us. I looked at my hands. I was not in my Whitmore uniform. I was wearing silk, pale blue silk with dark Gloves, there were pins in my hair. A ring with a K weighed on my finger. House Konrad. Gunfire exploded outside, horses and people shouting. “The treaty broke!” she helped me rise up, she was a maid. “Beauchamp is in the palace! They’re taking noble girls! As tribute!” Tribute. The doors burst open. Soldiers with black coats and bayonets. And behind them, a man on a horse in the hallway. He jumped down. Tall with black uniform and a sword at his hip. His face was carved from stone. The room went dead quiet. “General,” a soldier said. “Lady Hedda Konrad, the last one.” The General’s grey eyes cut to me. He looked at me like I was already dead. “Lady Konrad,” he said. Voice low. Rough. “Walk.” “I’m not...” A gun fired into the ceiling. “Walk,” he repeated. “Or be dragged half-alive.” I chose to walk. Outside was worse, carriages with bars. Horses and fire. Girls tied to posts, crying. The Colonel mounted his horse, and then looked at me. “In.” The carriage was a wooden box, he got in after me and locked the door. We rolled. For a long time, he said nothing. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Crownspire,” he said. “Capital of Beauchamp.” “And then what?” His eyes lifted. “The King won the war. Per treaty, Valeris sends daughters to the Royal Palace.” He paused. “Concubines, to secure peace.” The word hit me like ice. Concubines. Not wives or guests, property for the King’s bed. I laughed bitterly. “Cool. I had plans.” The General didn’t laugh. “I’m General Gunther Sven,” he said. “The King’s Hound.” Ah! The Hound. The one they sent to collect the spoils. “Do you enjoy this job?” I asked. He didn’t answer. The carriage stopped, we seemed to be in Crownspire. Filled with black walls, torches and people. Thousands of people. “Valeris w***e!” “Look at the tribute!” “Send her back!” The door opened. The General got out and held out his hands. I took it fearfully. Spit hit my cheek. In one move, he stepped in front of me with his hand on his sword, and the crowd shut up. A herald shouted: “By order of King Frederick! Lady Hedda Konrad is taken as tribute! To be trained in the Royal Concubine Quarters! For His Majesty’s pleasure!” Pleasure. The gates slammed shut behind us. Inside it were pink walls, perfume that scented like fear with girls in pale blue. A woman in black grabbed my chin. “You are not a lady anymore,” she hissed. “You are property, you will dance, you will kneel. In three months the King chooses his favorite.” “Try to survive.” The General was already leaving. But at the doorway, he paused and looked back and walked back to me, everyone cleared his path like they feared me. He pulled me off the ground and straightened the hem of my dress. There is a nasty scar that ran from the back of his ear to under his chin. "In this place." He started. "You cannot trust anyone, not the women, not the men, not the rich, not the poor, Beauchamp is not kind to foreigners, least of all the fallen Valeris." "Can I trust you?" I asked. "You cannot trust anyone, especially me. I'll have your maid brought for you." And then he was gone. I stared at the pink walls, at the other scared girls, and at the ring on my finger. This wasn’t New York. This wasn’t 2025. This was 1816 and I was no longer my own. I was no longer free. I was the King’s tribute.