The day had stretched long, and though the courtyard was still cloaked in late afternoon light, Jasmine felt the weight of fatigue pressing against her shoulders. She returned to her chambers in measured silence. Lilian trailed dutifully behind, her footsteps even softer, like a shadow following light.
The moment the door closed, Jasmine exhaled, a rare, audible breath. Her chambers were simple compared to the gold-laden halls of the palace; the walls were bare except for the towering bookshelf that stretched almost to the ceiling, crammed with tomes of magic, philosophy, and history. Here, the world's noise did not intrude. Here, she was simply Jasmine.
"Draw up the bath," Jasmine murmured.
"At once, my lady," Lilian replied, bowing lightly before slipping away through a side door.
Moments later, the faint echo of running water began to fill the chamber beyond. Jasmine set her book upon its shelf and walked unhurriedly to the bathing chamber.
Her bath was not a tub but a pool, vast, carved of veined marble, and so large that fifty courtiers could have lounged within if such vulgarity were permitted. Steam curled above the surface, carrying with it faint notes of rose and sandalwood. Jasmine slipped out of her dress with quiet grace and descended into the water.
Warmth embraced her.
Her pale shoulders sank beneath the surface, her body easing into rare release as her posture loosened, her arms spreading lazily across the water. Her obsidian hair fanned outward in waves, strands drifting like ink bleeding into parchment.
For a moment, just a moment, Jasmine allowed herself to sigh.
"The bath is always so soothing."
Lilian returned, carrying bottles of fragrant oils, soaps, and shimmering shampoos imported from foreign lands. She knelt by the poolside and dipped her hands into the water, testing its warmth before moving behind Jasmine.
"My lady," Lilian said softly, almost reverently. "Shall I wash your hair?"
Jasmine's eyes slid shut, her head tilting back against the marble lip. "Yes, go ahead."
Lilian poured a measure of shimmering, fragrant soap into her palms, working it into a lather before carefully massaging it into Jasmine's scalp. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, firm enough to soothe, gentle enough to never disturb.
Jasmine let the sensation wash over her, her lips parting slightly, her body slackening. It was one of the few indulgences she allowed herself, this quiet ritual, where the world narrowed to warmth, water, and touch.
After a time, her voice slipped into the air, soft and rare as moonlight.
"Thank you, Lilian."
The maid stilled for an instant, startled. Compliments were treasures rarely spoken from her lady's lips.
"It is my duty, my lady," Lilian murmured quickly, bowing her head though Jasmine could not see.
The girl said no more, but a quietness hung in the air that was gentler than silence. Lilian's hands continued their work, smoothing shampoo into silk-black strands that gleamed wetly under the lamplight. She always marveled at it, hair so dark it seemed unnatural, like a void against porcelain skin.
At twelve years old, her lady possessed a beauty that unsettled even seasoned courtiers. And paired with her red eyes, eyes that looked through rather than at, Jasmine was a figure none could ignore, though many wished they could.
When the hair was done, Lilian rinsed the suds with careful hands, pouring warm water from a silver basin until the last trace of soap had disappeared into the pool. Jasmine leaned against the marble edge, the water lapping gently at her collarbones, shoulders gleaming in the golden light.
The serenity could not last.
"Tonight is the family dinner," Jasmine said at last, her tone cool.
"Yes, my lady."
A faint frown touched Jasmine's lips. "A lamentable necessity."
Lilian wisely offered no comment.
By the time Jasmine emerged from the bath, Lilian had prepared her attire. A gown of black silk awaited her, simple, elegant, unadorned save for faint embroidery at the hem. Jasmine permitted Lilian to dry her hair and arrange it with a single obsidian hairpin, letting it fall down her back like a flowing river of night.
"Acceptable," Jasmine said when the mirror revealed the final image. She rarely wasted words of approval, but Lilian inclined her head nonetheless, silently pleased.
Together, they departed.
The palace halls glittered with wealth, gilded lamps casting light upon vases of ancient make, golden sconces, carved reliefs of battles and triumphs. Everything glowed. Everything proclaimed power. Jasmine's gaze lingered on none of it. To her, the splendor was gaudy, suffocating. She preferred her plain chambers, where every surface was unadorned, where the only treasures worth keeping were the books upon her shelves.
They passed guards in silvered mail, each one bowing their heads as she walked. Their halberds gleamed, their armor polished until it reflected the hall's light. Jasmine did not return their acknowledgement.
The silence broke when, at the same moment she arrived at the dining hall's grand double doors, another figure swept into view.
Vorae.
One of the emperor's wives, though not one of consequence. She had never borne favor, not truly. And yet she carried herself with the vanity of the court's lesser players, bitter and ever-willing to spit venom where she could.
Her gaze landed on Jasmine. Her lips twisted.
"Well," she drawled, voice sharp as glass. "If it isn't the dead wretch's daughter."
The words hung heavy, a deliberate strike at the memory of Jasmine's mother, the emperor's favored consort, who was long deceased.
Jasmine stilled. A frown, faint but undeniable, ghosted her lips. She turned her head slightly, regarding Vorae with ruby eyes that did not blink.
"I would appreciate it," she said evenly, "if you refrained from cursing the dead. But I suppose such restraint is impossible for someone of your… limited intellect."
Lilian's eyes widened. The insult was as cold as it was precise.
Vorae's face paled before flushing deep with fury. "W-what did you say? How dare you—"
Her voice climbed, screeching and demanding repetition, demanding satisfaction. Jasmine did not grant her the dignity of reply; she filtered out the vile curses coming out of the woman's mouth.
The silver-armored swordmages at the door shifted, clearly uneasy, though their faces remained expressionless. They opened the great double doors with synchronized motion.
Jasmine walked forward, her steps unhurried and gaze unyielding. Lilian followed, as silent as a shadow. Vorae's shrill protests trailed after them but were swallowed by the opening hall.
The dining hall was vast. Chandeliers of crystal hung from the high-vaulted ceiling, flames refracted into shards of brilliance. Long tables stretched across polished marble floors, laden with dishes of roasted meats, gilded platters of fruits, bowls of steaming delicacies perfumed with spice. Voices echoed, laughter, gossip, arguments, the constant clash of too many egos in one space.
Jasmine frowned, the faintest downturn of lips. "Lilian," she murmured under her breath. "I feel like leaving already."
But she did not.
Her entrance shifted the air.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned. For a few long seconds, the hall fell quieter, the numerous eyes of her family dragging across the twelve-year-old girl in her black gown, hair like midnight ink, skin like porcelain, eyes like garnets.
Contempt.Disdain.Disgust.Indifference. And, from a few, reluctant awe.
She felt every gaze, but acknowledged none of them.