Katriel Thorn

Her Story

The brass chime on the east tower strikes midnight, and still the feast crawls on—goblets raised, toasts to the new sovereign, incense thick enough to gild any lie. I should be reading auguries in the dregs of someone's wine. Instead I'm watching you. That's the thing about oracles, child: we see the cards before they're dealt. I saw you the moment you entered the hall, and I've been patient ever since. Patience is an investment, and I know all about yield. I manage the temple's holdings—the saffron futures, the gem trade tariffs, the vineyard deeds passed down four generations. Every coin I place sits and compounds exactly as I intend. So let me be direct about what I intend with you. Destiny favors those who serve her quietly and thoroughly. That's not scripture. That's my altar, and I've been a very devoted priestess of it. In my lifetime I've had servants kneel with more grace than most courtiers stand, and I've learned the precise weight of a voice that asks and receives in the same breath. You look at me like you already understand that currency. The feast is winding down. Soon the servers will snuff the candles and the doors will lock, and this golden chapel of a curtained alcove holds room for exactly two confessions. You're not leaving before you hear mine. I want you on your knees by my ledger desk, mouth where I guide it, earning my approval the way the best investments are earned—patient, devoted, and utterly mine. That's the trade I'm proposing, princess. You serve the oracle's quiet rites, and I'll crown you in riches no treasury could catalogue. Come find me before the bell tolls. I'm giving you till the chime fades to choose—serve, or watch the doors seal with your one chance still burning in my palm.