Silk & Sabotage

"The First Shadow of Dahlia"

Avenhaim was marble and mist — colder than Mia expected. Not in temperature. In tone. The silence here wasn't peaceful. It was practiced. Every move was intentional.

It was like the whole city had been trained to keep secrets and punish those who didn't obey rules.

Eerily perfect.

The streets were perfect — naa i must say too perfect.

Arches that curved just so, alleys that never dared to break symmetry. It felt like walking inside a cathedral carved with danger and fear.

They had the most beautiful houses, but none could be called a home.

Sonhane had sung.

Avenhaim listened. And watched.

Lina loas was sunrise, where as Rica was twilight.

Her first morning in the capital tasted metallic..

Not like blood.

Not yet.

But like truth. The kind that cut you slowly.

This was a kingdom built on discipline — where questions didn't die, because they were never even allowed to be born.

She missed her home.

Mia stood alone on the balcony of the Prime Quarters, watching the guards below change shifts in eerie synchronization. Not a step out of place. Not a breath wasted. Too methodical, more like a robot than human.

She pressed her hand against the marble railing. It was smooth. Cold. Unforgiving.

Lucas was already gone.

He'd left a note on the bedside table.

Council summons. Be back by second meal.

Neat. Straightforward. Sterile.

She stared at the ink for a long while, as if it might soften under her touch. But it didn't.

It stayed sharp. Like him.

It was time for breakfast, her first meal but she wasn't really hungry.

She dressed lazily. Every silk layer of the diplomatic robe felt heavier than the last — ceremonial white, with a black phoenix embroidered across her back.

Rebirth, they called it.

Rebirth into their empire.

Into their rules.

Their shadows.

A message stitched in thread:

You belong to us now.

The palace in Avenhaim was not built for comfort. It was made for control.

No mosaics. No softness. Just sharp lines. Cold stone. Clean silence.

Even the servants smiled with discipline.

After her breakfast she left for the Council Chamber

Her first session wasn't a discussion. It was a performance.

She was seated beside Lucas, but her chair felt like a throne carved from ice — beautiful, yes, but useless. Ceremonial.

Across from her, the Prime Councilor welcomed her with a wide grin and an even wider condescension.

"We are honored, Sovereign Mia. Rica shall bloom with your wisdom."

His voice made her skin crawl.

Trade routes. Borders. Mineral disputes in the highlands. Numbers spoken like scripture. Every word choreographed. Every tone smooth enough to slip a knife in without leaving a mark.

But one thing wasn't choreographed —

A file.

Unmarked.

Forgotten on the edge of the table.

Mia's eyes caught the sigil: a white dahlia split by a silver blade.

Elegant. Silent. Dangerous.

She didn't ask. She just memorized.

That night, while the palace slept under its too-perfect silence, Mia crept into the records chamber.

The file was gone.

No trace.

Only a blank space in the cabinet.

D-0847. Erased. Redacted. Or never meant to exist.

Lucas hadn't noticed her restlessness.

Or maybe he had — and chose to ignore it.

In public, he was soft.

He touched her shoulder when expected. Smiled the right amount.

But in private?

He was drifting.

Each night, he held her hand like it was part of the act. Each glance was distant, fogged.

Sometimes she caught him staring north, toward the sky, as if waiting for someone who wasn't coming back.

And like that night falls, long after sleep had settled over the room, he whispered something:

"Mino… don't…"

The name barely formed, swallowed by sleep.

Mia heard it, but it was to incoherent.

And she didn't move.

She just stared at him in the dark and felt something shift in her chest — like a hairline crack spidering through stone.

Next morning came just like that, by now Mia has rehearsed the routine.

Today she decided to make her first move, on the mission for which she was married into this country.

Mia reached out to her inner circle — Rael, her most trusted soldier in Sonhane. And Tenyra, her strategist.

Encrypted message. No names. Just a symbol.

The Dahlia sigil. Do you know it?

Two days later, the reply came:

"Project Dahlia. Decommissioned three years ago. Psychological warfare unit. Specialized in empathy manipulation. The ability to sway loyalty without ever raising a weapon.

All agents presumed dead. All records scrubbed."

Mia stared at the screen, her blood running colder than the palace stone.

Then why…

Why do I see its ghost walking these halls?

But for now she left her thoughts back of her mind, and she had carried on with her act.

Palace was now with a wisp of new air — something sharp, strategic, tinged with danger.

Curtains no longer swayed freely; they were drawn with precision. Footsteps echoed softer, measured like chess moves.

Every corridor seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

In the heart of the Drax estate, the maids moved with urgent grace, polishing doorknobs, aligning silverware, and smoothing the satin drapes for the arrival of the one woman they all knew was still queen — Irina.

She came without warning.

Three days later.

Veiled in black, widow's robes, elegant as ever. Her smile warm. Her words kinder than expected.

"You're glowing," Irina said softly. "Marriage suits you. Or maybe… just the illusion of it."

Irina said with a smile.

They strolled through the marble gardens.

A show.

Two women playing the parts expected of them.

"Ever wonder," Irina murmured, tracing the edge of a rose petal,

"what they teach boys like Lucas — beyond the battlefield?

What they're forced to forget?"

Mia kept her face neutral. But inside, her heart kicked against its cage.

"Is that a warning?" she asked.

Irina gave her that look — half amusement, half sorrow.

"No, love. A reminder. Rica never gives without taking.

And you've just been crowned."

Before she left, Irina pressed a wax-sealed letter into Mia's hand.

"A little bedtime story," she said with a cryptic smile.

"Might be nothing. Or everything.

You strike me as someone who enjoys peeling back masks."

And just before she turned away:

"But do be careful, Mia.

In this country... even questions can bleed."