(Almera POV)
I felt it before anyone told me.
Power always moved ahead of language. It disturbed the air first, like a change in pressure before a storm broke. That morning, the harem woke with a different rhythm—one I recognized because I had lived inside quiet wars long enough to know their earliest signs.
Attendants spoke softly where they once spoke plainly. Footsteps slowed near my door, then resumed with care, as though the corridor itself had learned restraint. Schedules arrived neatly folded, ink dry and precise, but the margins felt tighter—compressed by decisions not yet spoken aloud.
No one looked afraid.
And that was worse.
Fear announced itself. What I felt instead was recalibration.
I dressed without calling for assistance, fastening silk and pins with practiced ease. The mirror reflected a woman composed, hair smooth, shoulders squared. It did not show the thin tension curling beneath my ribs, the sense that something had shifted just out of sight.
