Marry, Breed, Obey—Or Else...

As soon as she steps inside, the heavy doors groan shut behind her, their sound echoing through the vast, shadowed hall. The air is cool and still, carrying the faint scent of aged wood and something else—something sharp and metallic, like the tang of iron. Jo's boots, scuffed and caked with dirt, scuff against the polished stone floor, and she winces at the noise.

She feels out of place here, a speck of grime in a world of gleaming opulence. Her eyes dart around, taking in the high vaulted ceilings, the flickering torchlight that casts long, wavering shadows, and the intricate tapestries that line the walls.

They depict scenes of battles and triumphs, their threads shimmering with gold and silver. She has no time to admire them, though. A figure emerges from the gloom, silent and swift, like a ghost.

It is an older woman, her face lined with years of stern authority. Her hair is pulled back tightly, streaked with gray, and her eyes are sharp, like shards of obsidian. She crinkles her nose slightly as she looks Jo up and down, her expression one of mild distaste. Jo instinctively straightens her posture, though it does little to improve her appearance.

Her clothes are ragged, her hair tangled, and her face smudged with dirt. She feels the weight of the woman's judgment like a physical blow, but she says nothing. The woman doesn't speak either. Instead, she turns abruptly and begins to walk, her steps brisk and purposeful. She doesn't look back to see if Jo is following.

Jo hesitates for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. She doesn't want to follow, doesn't want to face whatever awaits her at the end of this path.

But she knows she has no choice. She hurries after the woman, her boots slapping against the stone floor. The sound seems too loud in the silence, and she cringes with every step. The older woman leads her through a maze of corridors, each one more dimly lit than the last.

They pass door after door, some slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of richly furnished rooms, but the woman doesn't pause. She moves with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of this place, every hidden passage and secret shortcut.

Jo realizes they are avoiding the main halls, taking a route meant for servants—or perhaps for those who are meant to remain unseen. The thought makes her stomach churn.

She is no one here, less than a servant, and the weight of her insignificance presses down on her like a stone. She tries to keep track of their path, but the twists and turns are too many, and soon she is hopelessly lost. The walls seem to close in around her, the shadows deepening with every step. She feels as though she is being swallowed by the keep itself, consumed by its grandeur and its secrets.

Finally, they arrive at the end of a long, narrow corridor. Two massive oak doors stand before them, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that catch the flickering light of the torches.

Jo's eyes are drawn to the symbol at the center of the doors—a speared sun, deeply etched into the wood. It is the emblem of the Mother's family, a symbol of power and authority that sends a shiver down her spine. These are her chambers.

The chambers of the Emperor's mother, the matriarch of the empire, the most powerful woman in the known world. Jo's breath catches in her throat.

The older woman steps aside, her expression unreadable, and gestures for Jo to enter. For a moment, Jo hesitates, her mind racing with fear and uncertainty. She looks down at her hands, her fingers trembling.

The punishment for theft is the loss of a knuckle—sometimes more, depending on the value of what was stolen. Or, in Jo's case, the value of what she had tried to steal. Her stomach twists at the thought, and she clenches her fists, as if to protect them from the inevitable.

Someone clears their throat beside her, and Jo looks up to see the older woman staring at her, her eyes cold and impatient. The woman nods toward the doors, a silent command, and Jo nods in return, though her cheeks flush with shame and fear.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and shakes out her hands, the motion sending her brown braid tumbling over her shoulder. There is no use delaying the inevitable. Best to get it over with.

She pushes the doors open and steps inside, her heart pounding in her chest. The room is vast and opulent, filled with the soft glow of candlelight and the heady scent of perfumed air. Rich tapestries adorn the walls, their colors vibrant and their patterns intricate, and the floor is covered with thick, luxurious rugs that muffle her footsteps. Jo feels as though she has stepped into another world, a world far removed from the grime and poverty of her own.

She falls into the deepest curtsy she can manage, her eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn't dare look up, doesn't dare risk offending the Emperor's mother with her gaze. The thought of losing her fingers is bad enough; she doesn't need to add insolence to her list of crimes. Her stomach rumbles, a traitorous sound that echoes in the silence, and she flushes with embarrassment. She hasn't eaten in days, but hunger is the least of her worries now.

Soft footsteps approach, and Jo's breath hitches in her throat. The sound is deliberate, unhurried, and it sends a wave of dread through her.

The footsteps stop in front of her, and Jo's eyes are drawn to the fine red shoes that peek out from beneath the flaring skirts of a luxurious gown.

The fabric is rich and heavy, embroidered with gold thread that catches the light, and Jo feels even more out of place in her tattered clothes.

"My lady," Jo says, her voice trembling. "My gracious mother. I'm your humble servant."

"Stand up," the Mother commands, her voice sharp and authoritative. "Let me look at you."