The Death of a Tyrant's Concubine

CHAPTER 04 - Canary pie

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Tonight was the most humiliating night of my first life.

I stood before the towering double doors that guarded the entrance to the banquet hall. Its steely patterns were so polished, fragments of my reflection glinted before me. The walls of the corridor, carved from the dark grey stone of the surrounding mountains, loomed ominously. Twisted vines coiled around the pillars, their thorns casting jagged shadows that danced in the flickering torchlight.

My maids fussed over my gown, their hands trembling for a while now.

As per tradition, each new concubine's arrival was marked by a welcoming banquet. By the end of the night, the woman would be assigned her rank, sealing her fate within the emperor's harem. For most, it would be the last night they spent with him before fading into obscurity among the lower ranks.

"Princess, are you certain about the dress?" one of the older maids asked cautiously. "You may not be familiar with our customs yet..."

"I'm sure," I replied, dismissing her for the umpteenth time that evening.

I knew the eyes behind those doors were eagerly awaiting the color of my gown.

Technically, any hue besides white could be worn by an unranked concubine. Once her position was assigned, her garments would reflect her station. Most women chose colors that straddled the middle ground, while others simply wore what suited them best.

In my first life, I had naively donned black at my banquet. That shade was reserved for the three Nightshade concubines who ranked just beneath that of empress. As the only concubine to hold the title of Princess, I thought it would be a given.

Yet that night, I was named Clover.

It was a position reserved for the bottom twenty concubines. So insultingly low that we had to wear green — the same colour of servants and sentries.

The doors creaked open, and a warm draft brought with it stringed music.

"Introducing Princess Raine Stjorme of Drakfjord," a bellowing voice sang from within.

As I stepped into the hall, the lively chatter of the guests fell into a stunned silence.

Every person in the court — all the esteemed guests, the councilmen, the royal guards, and the remaining 99 concubines, all turned to gawk at me. Even the music faltered for a heartbeat before tentatively resuming its uneasy ambiance.

The hall was gilded in silver and stone, with dark pillars spiraling upward to meet a mirrored ceiling draped in cascading ivy and shimmering chandeliers. Tables of varnished thornwood gleamed, their ebony surfaces reflecting the flickering candlelight.

As I strode toward the table at the far end, a faint smirk tugged at my lips.

My gown, a green so light it was nearly white, clung delicately to my form. Sheer sleeves floated off my shoulders as thin as mist. The fabric gathered at my hips in a corset before flowing to the floor and trailing far behind me like morning fog. In contrast to the material's softness, silver embellishments adorned the gown, glinting like daggers in the warm glow. And atop my head, my tiara was as sharp as thorns, enhanced by the glowing storm-forged gems that pulsed with an ethereal light.

I wore the color of the lowest rank.

Yet not a soul could dare look down upon me.

At the far end of the hall, atop the black marble steps, Emperor Sylvos lounged in his large thornwood chair. He sat by a table reserved solely for us. The closer I moved toward him, the higher the ranks of the concubines became. I passed tables of girls in green, then blue, pink, purple, orange, red, gold, and finally the table closest to ours was reserved for three women in black — the Nightshade concubines.