Date: The 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Grand Throne Room, Imperial Palace.
The music had died, but the silence was louder.
King Darius descended the obsidian steps of the dais. Thud. Thud. Thud. His heavy boots struck the stone with a rhythmic, predatory cadence that echoed in the vaulted ceiling.
He was not a man walking to meet a lover; he was a buyer walking through a market, inspecting the livestock.
The five girls stood in a line, heads bowed, hearts pounding.
"The Second Test," the Eunuch whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Beauty."
Darius stopped at the far left. He stood before Lady Elin. She was trembling, her chest heaving in her red silk dress. Darius looked at her for a second, then wrinkled his nose.
"Too soft," he muttered. "She will age poorly."
He moved on.
He stood before Riya.
Aanya, standing two spots away, saw Riya squeeze her eyes shut, bracing for judgment. Riya had practiced her curtsy for months. She had bought the blue dress with the family's last savings before the Alchemist arrived. She was pretty. She was young.
Darius didn't even stop.
He walked past Riya as if she were a piece of furniture. He didn't insult her; he did something far worse. He ignored her. Riya's eyes snapped open, a look of devastated confusion shattering her face. To be hated is one thing; to be invisible is a death sentence for a noblewoman.
Darius moved to Lady Lysa. The Duke's daughter beamed, tilting her chin up to show her neck. She was undeniably beautiful—golden, radiant, and flushed with life.
Darius looked at her. He reached out and touched a lock of her golden hair.
"Standard," Darius yawned. "I have three wives with hair like corn silk. You are pretty, child. But you are common."
Lysa's smile froze. Her golden world crumbled in a single sentence.
Then, Darius took the final step.
He stood before Aanya.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. In the back of the hall, squeezed among the minor nobles, Kael and Elara gripped each other's hands until their fingernails drew blood. This was the moment. The gamble of five hundred gold coins.
Aanya stared at the King's boots. They were black leather, splattered with a speck of mud near the toe.
Look up, a voice in her head commanded. The Ice Queen does not look at feet.
Aanya slowly raised her gaze. She locked eyes with the Emperor.
He was close. Terrifyingly close.
He invaded her personal space, stepping inward until his chest was inches from her nose. Aanya could smell him. He smelled of rich, dark wine, old parchment, and something metallic—like the scent of a sword that had just been cleaned.
It was the breath of a dragon.
"You..." Darius whispered. The sound rumbled deep in his throat.
He leaned in. He wasn't looking at her eyes anymore. He was staring directly at her right cheek.
Aanya's heart stopped beating. The blood in her veins turned to ice.
He sees it, she thought, panic clawing at her throat. He sees the texture. He sees the line where the resin meets the skin near the ear. He smells the sulfur.
The heat from the fireplaces was still oppressive. Under the mask, the itch was a screaming, violent thing. The sweat she had managed to hide was pooling behind her ears.
Darius narrowed his eyes. He tilted his head, inspecting the curve of her jaw with the intensity of a jeweler looking for a crack in a diamond.
"Incredible," he murmured.
He raised his hand.
Aanya flinched internally, though her body remained rigid. His hand was large, scarred from battles in his youth, adorned with heavy rings of ruby and onyx.
He reached out.
Don't touch it, Aanya screamed in her mind. Please, by the Gods, don't touch it.
If he pressed too hard, the resin would dent. It was soft from the heat. If he rubbed it, it might pill like wet dough. If his ring caught the edge, it would rip the entire face off.
The King's thumb brushed against her right cheek.
Time stretched into an eternity.
Aanya waited for the recoil. She waited for him to shout, "Trickery!" She waited for the guards to drag her away.
But Darius didn't recoil. He stroked the cheek. Once. Twice.
His skin was rough, calloused. Her "skin" was smooth. Unnaturally smooth.
Human skin has texture. It has pores, tiny hairs, microscopic bumps, and the warmth of blood flowing beneath.
The resin had none of that. It was as smooth as polished glass. It was cooler than the rest of her body because there was no blood flow inside it. It was friction-less.
Darius paused. His thumb rested on the fake flesh.
Aanya held her breath, her lungs burning.
Then, a slow, wonder-struck smile spread across the Emperor's face.
"Flawless," he whispered.
He pulled his hand back and looked at his own thumb, as if expecting to find gold dust on it. Then he looked back at Aanya with a hunger that made her stomach churn.
"I have touched a thousand women," Darius announced, his voice carrying to the back of the silent hall. "Their skin is rough. It is oily. It is warm with the sweat of mortality."
He gestured to Aanya as if she were a vase he had just bought.
"But this one... she is not flesh. She is porcelain."
He leaned in again, his lips brushing her ear.
"You do not have pores, my dear," he murmured. "You are as smooth as the marble statues in the garden. You are purity given form."
Aanya felt the world tilt.
He didn't like her because she was beautiful. He liked her because she felt fake.
He was a collector. He collected rare swords, exotic animals, and golden statues. And now, he had found a woman who felt like a statue. He didn't want a wife to hold; he wanted a doll to put on a shelf. He wanted something that wouldn't sweat, wouldn't age, and wouldn't bleed.
He had fallen in love with the mask.
"What is your name, creature?" Darius asked.
"Aanya," she whispered. "Of House Kael."
"Aanya," he tasted the name. "No. That is too common."
He reached out and traced the line of her jaw again, his ring clicking softly against the hardened resin.
"I shall call you The White Jade."
He turned his back on her, facing the court. He threw his arms open.
"The search is over!" Darius roared. "I have found her! The Flower of Aethelgard!"
The room exploded. Trumpets blasted. Nobles began to clap, a thunderous wave of noise.
In the back, Kael and Elara were sobbing, clutching each other in a frenzy of greed. They had done it. They had sold the lie.
But Aanya stood frozen in the center of the storm.
She touched her own cheek, right where the Emperor's thumb had been. It felt numb.
She realized the horror of her victory.
If he had loved her for her eyes, or her voice, she might have had a chance. But he loved the texture of the lie.
She could never take it off. Not for a night. Not for a moment. If he ever felt her real skin—warm, textured, scarred—he would feel cheated. He would kill her.
She was trapped.
Aanya looked at the cheering crowd. She looked at Riya, who was weeping silently in the shadows, ignored and forgotten.
I am not an Empress, Aanya thought, the coldness of the resin seeping into her soul. I am an item in a collection.
The Dragon had chosen his treasure. And he would never let her go.