Ashraf||The Gift of the Concubine

The litter swayed to a final halt upon the polished flagstones of the palace courtyard, and Ashraf drew a slow breath through parted lips, tasting road dust and foreign air. Weeks of jostling over uneven paths had left his spine stiff and his mood carefully guarded, but he permitted none of that discomfort to show as he pushed aside the heavy curtain. Behind him, his small retinue assembled with quiet efficiency: three musicians clutching cases of inlaid wood, his tailor with a bundle of carefully wrapped silks, the nutritionist who had overseen his meals since Orana, and the lone servant who had attended to his needs on the road. All of them looked tired but alert, eyes wide as they took in the sheer scale of the imperial palace rising around them like a monument to unreachable power.

A staff member emerged from the towering entrance—a soberly dressed steward with a neat beard and a face that was slightly snobby. The steward bowed with the crispness of routine.

"Follow me, if you will. The imperial household welcomes the envoy from Orana."

Ashraf inclined his head gracefully, the heavy gold at his throat barely chiming. He had expected to be herded into an antechamber or perhaps directly into a dungeon; kindness from conquerors was rare. The steward led them through halls of pale marble veined with gold. His retinue murmured amongst themselves, but Ashraf walked in silence, memorizing turns and distances. Just in case.

The suite they were shown to swallowed his expectations whole. It was vast, larger than his chambers back in King Zoran’s harem, with windows thrown open to beautiful gardens. A bed wide enough for three dominated one corner, draped in fabrics that shimmered like water, while a low table bore fruits and chilled wine.

"These are your chambers," the steward said, stepping aside to let Ashraf’s servant place the travel chest near the wardrobe. “Their Imperial Majesty has assigned a dedicated member of the palace staff to see to your needs. They will attend you shortly."

Ashraf turned, one brow rising with genuine surprise. In Zoran’s court, he had been a prized object, certainly, but objects were not given space to breathe before being presented.

"I am honored by the generosity," he said. "But I must ask—why have I not been taken straight to see the sovereign? I was sent to serve them, after all. It is unusual to delay an audience."

The steward did not seem offended by the question. "The decision was made to give you a chance to clean up and relax from the road first," he replied evenly, and gestured toward a screened alcove where steam curled upward in lazy, inviting ribbons. "Their Imperial Majesty is aware of your arrival. The bath is prepared. Take your time."

Ashraf held the steward’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he bowed again, deeper this time, and when he straightened, his smile was less practiced.

"That is most kind. Please convey my deep appreciation."

Alone save for his own people, Ashraf shed the dust-caked layers of travel. He sank into the steaming water with a barely audible sigh, the heat unknotting muscles that had been clenched for weeks. He scrubbed the road from his skin with methodical care, working perfumed oils into his scalp and through the lengths of his hair until the air around him smelled of cardamom and cedar. The water lapped at his torso, and he allowed himself, just for a moment, to close his eyes and hope that the ruler of this empire might be nothing like Zoran.

When he emerged, his skin glowed and his hair hung damp and heavy down his back. He moved to the wardrobe with purpose, selecting his finest dance outfit: the long black skirt that moved like liquid shadow, the heavy gold jewelry that would mark every step with music. His chest remained bare save for the layered necklaces that fell against his pectorals and collarbones. He adjusted the gold chainmail yashmak over his lower face, leaving only his dark eyes visible, framed by kohl. In the bronze mirror, he looked every inch the precious gift he was supposed to be.

His musicians had dressed with similar care, tuning their instruments with skilled hands.

When the palace servant arrived to escort them, Ashraf walked at the fore, barefoot upon the cool marble, the chime of his anklets announcing his approach long before he reached the throne room doors. They swung open.

The throne room was immense, the ceiling lost in shadow above braziers that cast a warm, flickering glow. Ashraf did not let his eyes stray to the dais; he knew better than to stare too boldly before permission was given. Instead, he signaled his musicians subtly, and the first notes of a slow, undulating rhythm filled the room.

Then Ashraf danced.

He spun into the center of the hall with a showman’s flare, arms lifting, wrists articulating ancient shapes. The black skirt flared and clung by turns, revealing the powerful lines of his legs, the shift of his hips deliberate and hypnotic. Every movement of his torso, was calculated to mesmerize and to prove that Orana had sent its very best. Sweat began to gleam on his bare shoulders as the tempo built, his body becoming a language of praise and submission and burning pride. He moved closer to the throne with each rotation, until finally the music crested and fell away, leaving only the sound of his breath and the faint ringing of jewelry.

He dropped to his knees in one controlled sweep and pressed his forehead to the floor.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he said formally. "I am Ashraf, once of Orana, now wholly yours. I pledge my loyalty, my craft, and my body to your service. Command me as you will."

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