(Romolus POV)
From the upper gallery, the harem looked serene.
Silk can do that—soften edges, hide fractures, make order appear effortless. From a distance, one might believe harmony ruled these corridors, that beauty alone kept the balance.
From where I stood, I saw the strain.
Almera crossed the courtyard below with measured steps, her posture precise despite the faint stiffness in her shoulders. She wore the ceremonial colors required of a favored consort today—too many layers for the heat, too many expectations sewn into the seams. She bowed when required, smiled when necessary, and did not once falter enough to invite intervention.
But she was tired.
I saw it in the careful way she paced her breath. In the split second longer she took to rise from a kneel. In the way her hands steadied themselves before she allowed anyone to notice.
She did not look toward the gallery.
She knew better.
