The afternoon sun sank low behind the lattice windows, its gold spilling across my chamber walls. I was still lost in my thoughts — of the Queen's eyes, of the Prince's warmth, of everything that was shifting inside me — when the door creaked open.
Bahati stepped in, carrying a small tray. The moment the scent reached me, my heart nearly stopped.
"Shai," I whispered.
Not the spiced, perfumed brew they made here — no. This was our shai, from Tan. The pomegranate kind. Tart, sweet, and warm like home.
My eyes burned. "Oh, Bahati… how did you—"
She smiled softly, kneeling before me. "It was your favorite, back in Tan."
But then, her smile faltered. Her eyes dimmed. "Tan is no longer what you used to love, my princess," she said quietly. "It's… different now."
The grief in her voice cracked something in me. I reached down and lifted her face, my fingers brushing her cheek. For a moment, I felt a surge — something electric, warm, and deep. Not from memory, not from emotion — something else.
She gasped, pulling back slightly. "What was that?"
I blinked, unsure. "What do you mean?"
She stared at me, eyes wide. "As soon as I entered your chambers, I smelled roses. Strong, pure… mixed with spices. The air was thick with it — intoxicating, almost divine."
My lips parted, but no words came.
She took a step closer, studying me as if I were something otherworldly. "And then I saw you." Her voice trembled. "You've changed, my princess. You don't even look real."
I didn't know how to answer. My reflection in the golden mirror still haunted me — that stranger's beauty, that impossible glow.
"And there's something else," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "A voice. As soon as I entered, I heard it — a soft hum, like a song. It said sweet things to me. It was… comforting."
A chill ran down my spine. "A voice?" I asked.
She nodded. "It's faint now, but it's there."
I patted the bed beside me, the white silk catching the fading light. "Come here," I said softly.
She obeyed, setting the tray down. The scent of pomegranate filled the air between us.
I told her everything — the golden flower, the dream, the Queen in the bathhouse, the way my eyes burned gold each morning.
She listened in silence, her hands clasped tightly, her eyes wide with awe instead of fear.
When I finished, she exhaled sharply, pressing her hands to her lips. "Oh, heavens…" she breathed. "The Flower of Rejuvenation. Kulikan."
Her voice shook with wonder. "It's said to grow only in the hearts of the purest and most beautiful souls — a gift from the Great Creator himself."
She looked at me then — not as a servant, not even as a friend — but as if she were seeing something sacred.
And for the first time since I found that golden bloom, I felt something that wasn't fear.
I felt seen.
"I truly don't understand," I said quietly, staring into the cup of shai between my hands. The liquid shimmered like red glass in the light. "Then how is it that it felt real?"
Bahati's gaze held steady, her tone soft but certain. "It was real. Every four hundred years, the Great Creator chooses a soul — one radiant enough to hold the spark of renewal. That soul is gifted a golden flower. Its touch awakens what lies beyond flesh. It is rejuvenation made visible."
Her words felt heavy, ancient. They filled the room like incense.
I shook my head. "That's impossible."
She smiled sadly. "Oh, but it was once our truth. Before the fall of Tan, before we worshipped smaller gods and forgot the first one who made us. We were children of the Creator once — luminous, unbroken. But we traded eternity for pride."
Her eyes glistened as she spoke, like she was remembering something she had never lived but somehow carried in her bones.
A chill ran through me. "Bahati… you're too young to know all this."
She didn't answer at first. She only looked at me — really looked at me — as if seeing through my fear, my disbelief, the fragile human edges of me that hadn't yet faded.
Then she said quietly, "There are many things you may never understand, my princess… and never will."
The room went still. The light dimmed.
My heart sank. But I was curious.
"So what does it really do?" I asked. My voice came out softer than I meant — like a whisper slipping between us.
Bahati lowered her gaze. "It depends on the soul that bears it," she said. "The golden flower amplifies what already lives inside. It can heal or it can destroy. It gives life — or it takes it."
I felt the air in the room shift. The faint hum I hadn't noticed before — the one that sometimes followed me — grew louder, like a breath against the back of my neck.
"Hmmm…" I murmured, pretending calm, though my pulse had begun to race.
Bahati's eyes lifted to mine, dark and knowing. "But every bearer of the flower is judged," she continued. "When the time comes, the Great Creator weighs the soul — what it became, what it did with the gift. And there is no hiding from that judgment."
Her words hit me like cold water.
My eyes widened. "Ah…"
The shai trembled in my hands. Somewhere beyond the window, thunder rumbled — soft, distant, like a warning carried across the sky.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
———————————————————-
Dinner came quietly, like a summons I couldn't ignore.
I chose my attire carefully — deep green sari robes threaded with gold, the kind that caught the light like moving fire. I wasn't sure why I spent so long dressing tonight, why my pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Prince Khalid again. Perhaps it was the only comfort left in this palace of whispers and eyes.
The White Dining Hall glowed in candlelight. Marble floors gleamed beneath the chandeliers; carved falcons watched from the walls, wings half spread as if waiting to take flight. The air shimmered with spice and roasted lamb.
Then he appeared.
Prince Khalid entered in shades of grey and silver — quiet elegance. He looked worn, the day heavy on his shoulders, but his presence filled the room all the same. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the warm tone of his skin, and for a moment, my thoughts betrayed me.
He saw me almost instantly. His gaze softened. "You look lovely tonight," he said, cutting into his food without ceremony.
I smiled faintly. "Thank you, my lord."
"I like that you're settling into court life," he continued. "Our wedding will be soon. The Emperor will set a date."
The words tasted bittersweet. The Emperor. His older brother. The one whose shadow stretched over us all.
It stung that even our marriage was his to dictate. Still, I managed a polite smile. "Yes, my Prince."
He nodded, then set his utensils down. "There's another matter."
Something in his tone tightened the air between us.
"The Emperor knows about your… powers."
My breath caught. "How?"
He didn't meet my eyes. "He knows everything. That's all you need to know."
I frowned. "You told him?"
"No." His gaze flicked up, weary. "He felt it. The palace hums differently when you're near. Even the guards sense it."
I fell silent. The weight of it pressed on my chest.
"He's concerned," Khalid went on. "He believes you should be trained. Properly."
"Then you can teach me," I said quickly, leaning forward. "You understand me better than anyone."
He hesitated — his expression soft, almost tender. "He insists on doing it himself."
The words landed like a blow.
"What?" I said, my voice sharp. "Your brother? Why would he—"
"He argues that I don't have the gift," Khalid interrupted, voice low. "He fears it's dangerous for me to interfere."
"I don't care," I snapped. "I'm not going to him."
He stood, pushing his chair back slowly. "Yes, you are."
"I said no!"
His voice stayed calm, but there was finality in it. "It's not a request, Iana. The Emperor's command is law."
I rose to my feet, the silk of my robes whispering against the marble. "Why are you doing this to me?"
He looked at me — truly looked — and in that glance was sorrow, frustration, and something that almost felt like apology.
"It's not me," he said quietly. "It's the Ivory Palace. And in this place… even princes obey."
Then he turned and walked away, silver trailing behind him like mist.
The music played on.
The falcon statue stared from the far end of the hall.
And I sat alone at the endless white table — realizing, perhaps for the first time, that even love here came at a price.