Mariane kept cutting with that almost surgical precision, the scissors making a soft snick-snick as dark locks fell onto the sheet draped over Ariadna’s shoulders.

  Every fifteen days it was the same: the girl arrived with a face that said just do it, she sat down without too much protest, and Mariane began her work. Mariane knew it: the resistance remained firm and direct, but she would use that very resistance as a weapon.

  The cut was still short, very short… but not as short as it had been five months earlier. Just a few millimeters longer each time. Enough so no one would notice it all at once. Enough so that, when the moment came, the difference between “boy with short hair” and “girl with textured graduated cut” would blend together gradually.

  Mariane cast a quick glance at Ariadna’s trousers. The brown fabric of the uniform was already starting to cling and fit in ways it hadn’t before. The body hadn’t truly shrunk yet, but it was already giving signals. The shirt too was fitting closer, less loose.

  “Lift your chin just a little, sweetheart,” Mariane murmured, her voice calm.

  Ariadna obeyed, but the movement was restrained, almost delicate, as though she feared any sudden gesture might give her away. She no longer scratched the back of her neck roughly, no longer sat with her legs spread so wide, no longer leaned back throwing all her weight against the chair the way she used to when Mariane first met her. The masculine gestures still appeared often… but they came out clumsy, forced, unnatural.

  Mariane smiled to herself as she gathered another lock between her fingers.

  The frog was still in the pot. The water was lukewarm. And it was rising, slowly, almost tenderly.

  She thought about the stunning beauty Ariadna would have at fifteen or sixteen. There was plenty of time. Ariadna’s martial talent was something to be patiently polished.

  She cut a little more. Just a little.

  With a discreet gesture she sent away the servants waiting in the hallway. They made no sound; they simply bowed their heads, vanished, and began their work.

  For weeks they had been doing this: they had scanned every centimeter of Ariadna’s room — wardrobe, drawers, under the bed, even the bottom of the trunk where she kept her old masculine clothes. Everything had been meticulously recorded with magic: exact sizes, degree of fabric wear, seams beginning to give way.

  Special fabrics were used, treated with magical enchantments, designed not only to clothe but to slowly reconfigure the body and presence of their student. Every fiber carried subtle spells: constant location charms, passive defenses, skin protection, body regulation, and long-term health assurance. Ariadna noticed nothing, and that was the plan.

  That reminded her that Ariadna and Roxana had their own personal cooks, specialists in alchemical and perfectly balanced diets. The food they received at all hours was no accident: it was controlled and supervised by the power of the harem, tailored to their bodies, their training, and their emotional states.

  There were also more servants, guards, slaves, assistants outside the harem who had begun to work around them. Without realizing it, the girls found themselves protected, observed, trained, and naturally integrated into the harem.

  Some, like Roxana, were especially willing. That thought came to her clearly: Roxana possessed a natural gift for following orders, an almost instinctive inclination to obey, learn, and adapt without resistance.

  She finished cutting Ariadna’s hair with precise, almost ritual movements, leveling strands, softening edges, making sure every hair fell exactly where it should. It wasn’t just a trim: the cut followed subtle patterns designed to accompany natural growth rather than stop it. Mariane was good with any lethal object.

  “Perfect,” the girl said, satisfied, unaware that her hair, almost imperceptibly, was already a tiny bit longer.

  For today’s cut, the hair had been allowed to grow half a centimeter more — a minimal, calculated difference, just enough to mark a transition without raising suspicion. The same technique had been used on Mariane herself; now her hair was long and flowed with the air.

  Ariadna left naturally, ready to spend time with the prince, talking about books, looking at maps, studying ancient treatises. That quiet, constant closeness had its effect. Having her beside him, the prince felt more motivated, more focused, and that inspiration carried straight into the training yard.

  Now he trained with greater effort and discipline in the art of the sword. He had always been said to possess raw talent, but that talent was finally beginning to grow, take shape, and be refined with every session.

  That was why the duels between him and Ariadna had become something worth watching: fast exchanges, clashes of scimitars full of intention, strategy, and mutual trust. They were no longer simple training sessions; they were combats that revealed synchronization, anticipation, and a shared understanding of the battlefield.

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  Anyone who saw them could sense it easily: in the future, the two of them could become a truly lethal pair — not only because of their individual strength, but because their talents seemed to amplify each other.

  .

  The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the open training field, raising waves of heat that distorted the horizon. Roxana, with her red hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks from sweat, breathed hard but controlled. Her green eyes shone with that mixture of exhaustion and determination that had already become part of her charm.

  She had left behind the simplicity of former days. Now every movement seemed calculated, yet fluid, like a predator.

  In front of her, four elite guard eunuchs — tall, muscular, trained never to hesitate — surrounded her in a half-moon formation. Armed with short reinforced batons and light hardened-leather shields, they tried to corner her.

  Roxana gave a crooked smile. That relaxed smile said: they were the ones in trouble.

  The first one attacked with a fast downward strike. She spun on her left heel, let the baton graze her shoulder, and in the same motion delivered a low kick to the side of the eunuch’s knee. She wasn’t trying to break it — just unbalance him. The man stumbled half a step.

  Before he could recover, Roxana had already retreated three long steps, smooth, never losing her breathing rhythm. She drew an arrow from the quiver at her hip, aimed with feline reflexes in less than a heartbeat, and fired. The projectile struck with a dull thud against the padded chest piece, right over the heart. Signal of defeat. The man raised his hand in surrender and stepped aside, cursing under his breath.

  The other three seized the moment to close the distance.

  She didn’t panic.

  She slid the bow onto her back in a movement that was almost instinct now, let the momentum carry her backward, and rolled over her right shoulder. When she rose, she already had the training dagger in her left hand and her right palm open, ready to deflect.

  The second eunuch came with a series of short, heavy strikes. Roxana danced between them: high parry, forearm against forearm, hip twist, circular kick to the thigh that forced him to drop his guard for an instant. She took advantage of that blink to step inside his guard, grabbed one arm, and executed a throw that sent him flat on his back in the dust.

  Before he could get up, Roxana had already stepped back, recovering the bow. Two almost simultaneous arrows: one to the chest, one to the thigh of the third eunuch coming from the left flank. Both stopped, gasping.

  Only the fourth remained. The biggest. The most patient.

  He didn’t rush her. He walked slowly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for Roxana to lose patience.

  But Roxana had become a lethal warrior.

  She allowed herself a short, almost amused laugh as she wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “You gonna keep waiting for your balls to drop, or are you finally gonna come at me, big guy?”

  The eunuch smiled for the first time.

  And then he attacked.

  It was a brutal flurry. Roxana took two hard blocks that made her arms tremble, but she kept distance. She retreated, spun, faked a shot with the empty bow just to force him to raise the shield… and in that moment of high coverage, she swept his supporting leg with a low kick. The kick, though well delivered, hurt her too.

  The giant dropped to his knees.

  Before he could rise, Roxana already had an arrow pointed between his eyes from five meters away. The tip trembled. Her hands hurt. Her legs had burned through too much energy on those movements.

  Silence.

  She fired.

  An easy shot… and she missed. Her hands were shaking too much.

  Then Mariane’s calm, cold voice came from the edge of the field, where she had been watching the entire time with arms crossed and that unreadable expression.

  “Enough.”

  Roxana slowly lowered the bow, lungs burning. She turned toward her teacher with a tired half-smile.

  “So? How many flaws did you find today?”

  Mariane walked toward her with measured steps, her gaze traveling over every inch of Roxana’s sweaty, bruised body as though reading a battlefield map.

  “Several,” she said at last. “You still overextend your right shoulder when you shoot while moving defensively. It costs you half a heartbeat to recover your sight line afterward. Right now your body is barely answering you. You lack endurance and you still need to train the technique.”

  Roxana let out an amused snort, though it was clear she was mentally taking notes.

  “At least you didn’t have to give me a twenty-minute lecture about my incompetence. Progress?”

  Mariane raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t get cocky. With those flaws properly exploited, you’d be dead several times today.” She paused, and for the first time in the entire session her voice softened just slightly. “But… you’ve improved. A lot.”

  “I brought you a little gift,” Mariane said with a serene smile, extending her hand to offer a delicate forehead diadem of deep emerald green.

  Roxana took it between her fingers, intrigued, slowly turning it to admire the fine golden embroidery that twined around a central teardrop-shaped gem. The metal felt cold, and she had no doubt it had been made for a purpose far beyond making her look prettier.

  “What does it do?” she asked, with that familiar mixture of curiosity and suspicion that always colored her voice when something new entered her routine. “Will it keep me horny all day? Or make me follow orders like a good obedient girl?”

  Mariane didn’t answer right away.

  “Put it on.”

  Roxana hesitated for a second, but the trusting nature that made her stand out among the others pushed her forward. She carefully placed the diadem on her head, adjusting it just above the hairline so the gem rested exactly in the center of her forehead, like a sleeping third eye.

  At first, nothing happened.

  Then… a subtle warmth began to spread from the point of contact, as though the gem were absorbing the heat of her skin and returning it transformed into something deeper. Roxana frowned slightly, feeling a tingling that ran down her spine.

  And then it activated.

  It wasn’t a sudden blow, but a slow, delicate wave. Her cheeks flushed with a deep blush — not raw arousal, but an ancient, profound, almost childish shame. Like so many haughty European nobles who had arrived at the harem years before — proud, certain of their superiority — Roxana suddenly felt her inner defenses cracking.

  She instinctively brought a hand to her chest, as though trying to cover herself, even though she wore only her tight, sweat-soaked training clothes. Her green eyes opened a little wider, and for the first time in a very long while, she lowered her gaze.

  It wasn’t forced submission.

  It was something more refined.

  It was shame.