#cotgr

Intrigue, intrigue and more intrigue.

Dramatic events on par with a soap opera

Revenge, backstabbing, forbidden love, plots and more.

Rise the ranks by outsmarting or eliminating your rivals.

Produce and raise heirs to secure your place.

Influence politics through the emperor or seize power for yourself.

Learn fire magic or join a cult of chaos.

Live a life of leisure and the pursuit of higher education or a life of hedonism.

Inspired by the Sassanid dynasty and Persian mythology.

Shah Khazunef

He is calm, perspective and far less ruthless than his father before him but they share the same cunning nature and intimidating aura. Khazunef has deep brown skin, dark hazel eyes and silky mid length black hair that frames his face perfectly.

Fang

A former slave whose fighting prowess earned him freedom. He has since become a close friend of Khazunef and they regard each other as brothers. He serves as an informal advisor and spy to the shah but shirks any formal duties. Fang is charismatic and extroverted with copper red hair, rose skin and blue eyes.

Persa

Her name means dove and fits her gentle demeanor. She was raised a princess in a land of mountains and snow that was conquered by Shah Arzad. Upon the fall of her city and murder of her family, she was brought to the capital to serve in the palace. She has honey blonde hair, dark brown eyes and alabaster skin.

Ignasia

Ignasia is a fire priestess and staunch follower of the faith. Although born a noble, she gave up all claims and titles to serve in the fire temples as a guardian of the eternal flame. Ignasia has dark hair, darker eyes and a regal, reserved bearing.

Valide Zarayan

She is the ruthless and ambitious mother of Khazunef, originally a distrusted foreigner who rose to great power in the court of Shah Arzad. She rules over the harem like her own little kingdom and holds influence over her son.

Shahbanu Yaris

The wife of Khazunef and shahbanu of the realm. Yaris wed the emperor when he was 17 and she 26 in an alliance that strengthened the empire and influences it to this day.

Vizier Rubien

The grand vizier and advisor to the Emperor who Khazunef considers a father figure. Rubien is fiercely intelligent, loyal and wise. He remains dedicated to his work and helping the Emperor rule justly.

Averus

Averus is a high priest and soothsayer of the court. His advice is sought by all and a bad word about you from his lips can sully your reputation and relationships beyond repair.

Consort Iltani

Former consort and favorite of Shah Arzad. Her name is whispered like a curse, and her influence spreads far wide even though the valide has her currently imprisoned within the palace.

This story is for mature audiences, please proceed with discretion! Story will contain violence, drugs, alcohol, death, suicide, infanticide, harm to animals, miscarriages, abuse and sexual themes.

You stand in a line like a prized horse at auction, head bowed in proper deference as the shah makes his way down the row of girls, preening for his attention. You can feel the weight of his presence even before he reaches you, like the heaviness in the air before a storm. The silk rope around your ankle feels impossibly conspicuous, despite Orgion's attempts to arrange your skirts to hide it.

The soft whisper of expensive robes against marble grows closer. Then silence. You can see the edge of his shadow falling across the floor before your feet, can sense his stillness as he pauses.

"Why is this one bound?"

His voice is quieter than you'd expected, touched with something that might be curiosity or might be disapproval. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, though every instinct screams at you to look up, to see the face of the man who now owns your fate.

You hear Orgion clear his throat delicately. "Ah, your majesty... there have been some... difficulties with compliance." The chief eunuch's usual unctuous tone has taken on a nervous edge. "Two attempts at... unauthorized departure, thus far."

"Two?" There is definitely curiosity now, and something else – a hint of amusement? "In less than a week?"

"The first was during her initial examination, your majesty. She... ah... managed to evade the guards and make it as far as the outer courtyard before she was intercepted."

"And the second?"

"Yesterday morning. She had somehow acquired a set of servant's robes and very nearly made it to the kitchens. If one of the cooks hadn't recognized her..."

You fight to keep your face neutral, though your cheeks burn at having your failures laid bare. You hadn't even made it to the actual palace gates. Some great escape artist you're turning out to be.

"Look at me."

The command is soft but unmistakable. You hesitate for a heartbeat, then slowly raise your head.

The shah is younger than you'd expected, though his eyes hold a weight that goes beyond his years. They're an unusual color – not quite brown, not quite gold, but something in between that seems to shift in the light filtering through the high windows. His face is all elegant angles, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw that speaks of his foreign blood. But it's his expression that catches you off guard – not anger or offense at your defiance, but something that looks almost like recognition.

"Interesting," he says softly, more to himself than to you. Then, to Orgion: "Remove the rope."

"Your majesty?" The chief eunuch's voice rises slightly in alarm. He gaze bounces from you to the shah. "I must advise against—"

"Remove it." There is steel beneath the quiet now. "We are not savages, to keep our women in bonds."

"As you wish, your majesty." Orgion gestures sharply to one of the attending servants, who hurries forward to untie the silk cord.

You feel the rope fall away from your ankle, but you don't dare move. He is still watching you with that strange, measuring look.

"Tell me," he says, "what would you have done if you'd made it to the gates?"

The question catches you by surprise. You should lie, you know – make up some story about missing your family, play the part of the frightened girl who just wants to go home. But something in those unusual eyes compels honesty.

"I would have run," you say simply. "As far and as fast as I could."

A spark of something that might be approval flickers across his face. "And now?"

"Now?" You meet his gaze squarely. "I suppose I'll have to find other ways to escape."

Orgion makes a strangled sound of outrage. "Your majesty, you see how intractable she is! Perhaps if we were to—"

"Enough." Kaz's voice cut through the eunuch's protests like a blade. He turns to face Orgion fully, and though his tone remains quiet, there is no mistaking the anger beneath it. "Let me be very clear. These women are not animals to be leashed and caged. They are members of my household, and they will be treated with the dignity their position demands." His eyes flick to the discarded rope. "If I ever see another concubine bound like a common criminal, you will answer to me personally. Do I make myself understood?"

Orgion's face has gone pale. He bows so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. "Yes, your majesty. Of course, your majesty. I only thought—"

"You thought wrong." Kaz's gaze sweeps the room, taking in the other officials and attendants. "The same goes for all of you. These women are under my protection. Remember that."

He studies you for a moment longer, then the corner of his mouth curves up slightly. "You might want to avoid the kitchens in the future. The head cook has an unusually good memory for faces."

The garden air was thick with the scent of roses and the sound of clashing sticks as Arman reenacted the Battle of Seven Rivers, using a fallen branch as his sword. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, dark hair falling in his eyes as he spun and thrust, fighting imaginary enemies.

"And then Shah Saminsar charged through the river!" He splashed through one of the decorative pools, much to your quiet amusement. "The enemy never expected anyone to cross in full armor! But grandfather's grandfather wasn't afraid of anything!"

Cyrus sat cross-legged on a marble bench, watching his brother's performance with a mix of envy and disdain. He'd tried playing these games before, but he always ended up winded and coughing and he disliked how it made you worry. Better to watch and remember the details Arman invariably got wrong, he thought.

"That's not how the story goes," he pointed out. "The chronicles say he had special boats made of—"

"You're ruining it!" Arman brandished his stick-sword. "Besides, my way is better. More exciting." He paused mid-thrust, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

"What about your father, Mother?" Arman asked suddenly, his expression bright with curiosity. "Did he fight in any great battles? Did he fight Shah Saminsar?"

The question hung in the air like suspended glass, fragile and dangerous. Your hands stilled in their embroidery as memories you usually kept carefully locked away began to surface.

"My father," you began slowly, "was a potter. He made the most beautiful vases you've ever seen, with designs so delicate they looked like they might float off the clay."

Both boys were watching you now, sensing something significant in your tone.

"What happened to him?" Cyrus asked softly, his keen eyes studying your face.

You took a deep breath. They were old enough now, you decided. They deserved to know. "He died when raiders came to our village.a"

Arman let the branch-sword fall, his playful demeanor vanishing. "Raiders?"

"They came at dawn," you continued, voice distant with memory. "I remember the smell of smoke, the screaming... My father tried to protect us, but..." you swallowed hard. "They killed the men who resisted. They took the rest of us as captives. I was brought to the capital and sold as a slave."

Silence fell heavily in the gardens.

"A slave?" Arman's voice cracked. "But... but that's impossible! You're not... you're not like them!" His mind flashed to the laborers he'd seen in the streets, bent and dirty and broken. Nothing like his beautiful mother who smelled of roses and knew how to make even the shah smile.

Cyrus said nothing, but his mind was racing, pieces falling into place like tiles in a mosaic. The whispers he sometimes caught in corners, the way certain nobles looked at them when they thought no one was watching. Slave blood, they said. His fingers clenched in his lap.

"Is that why the other consorts look down on us?" Cyrus asked.

"Cyrus," Arman protested, but you held up a hand.

"Yes," you admitted. "Many believe that common blood taints the royal line. That I was unworthy to bear the shah's children."

"They're wrong!" Arman declared fiercely, jumping to his feet. "You're worth ten of them! A hundred!" Cyrus nodded in agreement.

"It doesn't matter what they think," Cyrus said quietly, though his eyes blazed with a cold fury that reminded you startlingly of his father. "We are who we are. The blood of kings and the blood of craftsmen - perhaps that makes us stronger than either alone."

You felt tears prick at your eyes as you looked at your sons. They were taking this better than you had dared to hope.

"Does it..." Cyrus hesitated, then continued, "Does it hurt very much? To remember?"

"Sometimes."

"Don't cry, Mother!" Arman rushed to your side, nearly tripping over his own feet in his distress. "I'll kill them! I'll kill all of them who hurt you! When I'm bigger, I'll—"

Your tears turned to choked laughter as you caught him in your arms. "My fierce protector. Always ready to fight the world's wrongs with your sword."

"It's not funny!" Arman's own eyes were wet now. "They hurt you! They took you from your family!"

"If they hadn't," Cyrus said suddenly, his voice very small, "we wouldn't exist."

You reached out your other arm and Cyrus came to you, burying his face in your shoulder. You held them both close, these sons of hers who carried the blood of slaves and shahs in their veins.

"Listen to me, both of you," you said softly. "What happened to me was wrong. But it did not make me less. Remember that – no matter what anyone whispers, no matter what names they call you behind closed doors. You are the sons of my strength, not my shame."

Arman nodded fiercely against your chest. But Cyrus pulled back slightly, his young face troubled.

"Is that why I'm not strong like Arman?" he asked. "Because of... because we're..."

"No." Your voice turned sharp. "You are exactly who you were meant to be. Both of you."

"Soraya, your posture," you murmured, barely moving your lips as you adjusted your daughter's silk sleeve. The great hall buzzed with conversation and the sweet notes of the court musicians, but all you could focus on was the way Soraya's shoulders kept slouching in defiance of years of training.

"Mother, I'm dying of boredom," Soraya whispered back, straightening briefly before slumping again. Her eyes kept straying to the door as if plotting an escape. "I should be with Cyrus. He's all alone in that stuffy room, in pain and bored to tears..."

"Your brother has three physicians attending him and more books than the imperial library. What he needs is rest, not you hovering over him like a mother hen." But your own thoughts drifted to your younger son, wondering if his fever had broken yet.

Across the room, Arman's laughter boomed over the refined murmur of conversation. He was trading war stories with a group of young officers, his cup of wine sloshing dangerously as he gestured. Soraya watched him with naked envy.

"At least someone's enjoying himself," she muttered.

"General Dastan seems to be enjoying the evening as well," you observed carefully, noting how the man's eyes kept finding your table. The Hero of the Northern Campaign, they called him. The Scourge of the Steppes. The man who'd saved the empire's borders through cunning and steel. He cut an impressive figure in his formal military attire. At thirty-two, he was in his prime – battle-tested but not war-worn, his dark good looks unmarred by the campaigns that had made his name.

Soraya's lip curled. "He can enjoy it somewhere else. I don't like the way he stares."

"He's a good match," you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "Intelligent, successful, with strong support among the border provinces—"

"Mother, please." Soraya's fingers twisted in her lap. "I'd rather join the priesthood. I've already picked out my temple."

"You've been threatening that since you were twelve."

"Well, maybe this time I mean it."

You sighed. "I just want—"

"I know what you want." Soraya's voice softened. "But I can't be the perfect princess you're trying to make me into. I wish..." She glanced at Arman again. "I wish Cyrus were here. He'd tell me exactly how many battles Dastan actually lost, and how many of his victories were just good luck and better weather."

Despite yourself , you smiled. "Your brother does have an uncanny memory for other people's failures."

"It's not fair that he gets to skip this because of a fever. He probably isn't even that sick. I bet he's in his room reading those new scrolls from—"

"My, my, what dreadful posture."

The voice cut through your conversation like a blade. Consort Zina, one of prince Parvis’ concubines, settled onto a nearby cushion with practiced grace, resplendent in jewels that couldn't quite disguise the years etched around her eyes. Despite being aunt by marriage to the shah, she carried herself as though she were the empress herself. A younger woman hovered at her shoulder, wearing the latest court fashion and an expression of carefully crafted concern.

"Really, you grace," Zina continued, her tone dripping with false sympathy, "I would have thought you'd taught your daughter better. Though I suppose we can't all have the advantage of proper breeding."

Soraya’s eyes flashed with rage while your face remained perfectly composed, though your fingers tightened on your cup. "Your concern is noted, Consort Zina."

"And where is your younger son?" the younger woman chimed in, clearly eager to curry favor. "Surely an imperial prince understands the importance of state functions? Or perhaps he finds himself... above such duties?"

Soraya's head snapped up. "My brother is ill."

You squeezed your daughter’s hand in warning before turning to face the haughty noble. "Prince Cyrus is indisposed," you said coolly. "As I'm sure you've heard, Lady...?"

The woman flushed at the deliberate slight. "Lady Mercen."

"Ah yes. New to court, aren't you?"

"Now, now," Zina said, lifting her cup to her lips. "No need to be sharp, y/n. We're all concerned for the proper appearance of the imperial family. After all, these children reflect on all of us, even those of... humbler origins."

Soraya went very still. When she spoke, her voice could have frozen flame.

"Consort Zina. You're addressing an imperial consort and the mother of two princes." Her smile was razor-sharp. "How many sons have you given the imperial house again? I forget. Is it... none?"

"Soraya." Your voice cracked like a whip. "You will leave. Now."

"Mother—"

"Now."

You raised your hand slightly, and a servant materialized at Soraya's elbow. Your daughter rose, trembling with fury but trained too well to make a scene. As she was led away, you turned back to Zina, who sat with her mouth still open in shock.

"My daughter speaks out of turn," you said softly, "but she is young, and protective of her family. I trust you understand." You lifted her cup in a subtle mockery of a toast. "After all, we can't all have the advantage of proper breeding."

The musicians played on, and somewhere in the hall, Arman's laughter rang out again. You caught sight of General Dastan watching your daughter's retreat with an expression of mixed alarm and fascination.