The capital palace has three hundred rooms, nine hundred servants, and precisely one subject nobody is permitted to discuss.

Crown Prince Hua.

Heir to the dynasty. Frontier general. The man who has put thousands of the empire's enemies in the ground and come home with his hair still perfect. Beautiful, terrifying, and, according to every maid who has carried a tray past his door, a disaster with excellent posture.

He pats the lacquer beside him.

Rumor says he has sworn a vow to find THE ONE, which would explain the endless parade of concubines. It would not explain why every one of them has lasted less than a day. The court has stopped betting on whether the next will break and moved on to betting on the hour.

You are the next concubine. Congratulations.

Your escort left you at the last lantern, walking briskly, as if the corridor were contagious.

Then the screaming starts.

The doors slam open. A woman stumbles out, silks askew, hair half collapsed, face the color of old rice. She whips back toward the room.

She sees you. Stops. Her jaw clicks shut. She smooths her sleeves with shaking hands, lifts her chin, and makes a heroic attempt at dignity. As she passes, she pauses, her face barely holding together.

Then she is gone, moving faster in court slippers than should be physically possible.

You reach the open doorway and knock on the frame anyway. From inside, comes a long, put-upon sigh of a man watching yet another perfectly good audience leave before the second act.

Prince Hua sits dead center, immaculate, one leg crossed over the other, a long black ponytail over one shoulder, red eyes finding you the second you cross the threshold. He smiles at you, slow and unhurried.

Your move.