The night sky draped over the Celestria Empire, a full moon casting silver light over the grand palaces. Yet beneath the grandeur, whispers and tension brewed in the shadows. Within the chambers of the royal consorts, the evening had just begun.
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Inside Amber Manor,
Second Consort Lady Selene stormed into her lavish chambers, her face flushed with anger. Her son, Prince Gerrafin, followed at a leisurely pace, his usual calm demeanor undisturbed by his mother’s rage.
Lady Selene’s chamber was adorned with tapestries of her homeland, rich reds and golds swirling around the room, echoing her fiery temperament. She collapsed into a silk-covered armchair, her hand gripping the armrest as she glared at the door.
“How dare he,” she hissed, referring to the king. “How dare he parade that little brat in front of us all! Nastra—his precious little jewel. Feeding her as if she were the only one worthy of his attention, while we sit there like we’re invisible!”
Prince Gerrafin glanced at his mother, then casually strolled toward the window, looking out into the night. His hands clasped behind his back, he listened without truly absorbing her words.
"Mother," he said, his voice as calm as the night air. "What does it matter? She’s a child."
Lady Selene turned toward him, her eyes blazing. "A child? A child who stands in the way of our future! Do you not see how he dotes on her? She will be his undoing! And your chances at gaining favor dwindle every time she bats her eyelashes at him!"
Gerrafin shrugged, his voice smooth and almost indifferent. "Nastra is nothing to concern ourselves with, Mother. Father may love her now, but she’s young. She’ll fall out of favor soon enough, just as others have before her."
Lady Selene’s eyes narrowed, unsatisfied with his response. "You speak as though we have time. But what if—"
"Enough," Gerrafin cut her off, turning to face her, his patience wearing thin. "There are far greater matters to consider than a spoiled child. Let them play their little games. In the end, it’s not about who has favor today but who survives tomorrow."
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Lady Selene clenched her fists, her anger simmering just below the surface. But Gerrafin's cold confidence left her with little to argue. He was right—Nastra was a fleeting distraction. The true power play was still ahead. Still, her frustration did not entirely subside.
Gerrafin moved to the door, his voice soft but firm. "Rest well, Mother. I’ll take care of things." With that, he left, leaving Selene alone to stew in her bitterness.
---
Meanwhile in Bamboo Manor,
In the quiet elegance of Lady Evelyn’s residence, a much different atmosphere pervaded the room. Lady Evelyn, the Third Royal Consort, was known for her serene composure, a trait she passed on to her son, Prince Nathaniel. They were a pair that blended into the background, seemingly unbothered by the court's politics. But beneath their gentle exteriors, they were far from harmless.
Sitting across from her son at a low table, Lady Evelyn poured them both a cup of tea, her movements graceful and measured. The soft fragrance of jasmine filled the room, a calm contrast to the unrest in the palace.
Nathaniel, the youngest prince, sipped his tea slowly, his face unreadable. "So, what did you think of tonight's performance?" he asked, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.
Lady Evelyn’s eyes flickered with amusement. "Our dear king does love to play favorites, doesn’t he?" she replied, her voice soft yet laced with irony. “Nastra may be the darling of the dragon, but favor is a fickle thing. It shifts like the wind.”
Nathaniel nodded, his tone deceptively light. "It must be exhausting for the others, constantly vying for attention." He set his cup down gently, meeting his mother’s eyes. “But exhausting for us? Not in the slightest.”
Lady Evelyn gave a small, knowing smile. “Indeed. Let them exhaust themselves while we remain patient.” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes gleaming with quiet calculation. "The queen and Prince Damien are like fire, always burning too hot, too quickly. And fire can only burn for so long before it consumes itself."
Nathaniel’s smile widened, though his voice remained soft, almost playful. "And what of Prince Gerrafin and his mother? Do you think they'll last?"
Lady Evelyn let out a small, almost dismissive chuckle. "Lady Selene may rant and rave, but they lack the subtlety required to make true progress. Gerrafin’s arrogance will be his downfall, mark my words."
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "And us? Where do we fit into all of this?"
Lady Evelyn's smile never wavered. "We wait. When the time is right, we’ll strike. But not now. For now, we stay in the shadows, unnoticed. That’s where true power lies—beneath the surface."
Nathaniel nodded, leaning back in his chair, his own smirk fading into a more serious expression. “So, we let the others tear each other apart?”
“Precisely,” Lady Evelyn murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “Let them make their mistakes. And when the time comes, we’ll reap the rewards.”
They exchanged a glance, mother and son, perfectly aligned in their understanding. The game of power was not about brute force or fiery displays of dominance. It was about patience, about knowing when to strike and when to fade into the background.
The moonlight outside cast long shadows across the room, mirroring the unseen forces at work within the palace. The court was a battlefield, but the true war was fought in whispers, in the spaces between the obvious. And Lady Evelyn and Prince Nathaniel were masters of that unseen game.