“Why all the commotion in the palace?” said Ariadne, settling into the saddle as the Arabian horse advanced with proud steps across the garden inside the harem. It could easily have galloped from one end to the other; the harem area was vast and allowed for many activities with ease.

  The animal gleamed under the morning sun, its jet-black mane like ink and its eyes alert; creatures like this were coveted by distant kingdoms, and not without reason.

  Riding beside her was Cyrus. He held himself with a different grace than before: straighter, more measured. Ever since he began receiving stricter military training, his bearing had changed. The distracted lightness of the child was gone; now every gesture seemed calculated, every glance firm, as though he were hearing invisible orders even in the silence.

  Ariadne still hadn’t noticed certain subtle movements in her own body—too faint to draw attention—, just a slightly different balance when turning the reins, a contained softness that didn’t yet seem out of place.

  “My birthday is coming up next week,” Cyrus replied calmly. “My mother has ordered food brought from Mesopotamia and even from Qin. Caravans will arrive with spices from India, exotic meats from Transoxiana, fruits preserved in dark honey, wines sealed with imperial wax. She’s also brought treasures… and ordered hundreds of blacksmiths and artisans to hurry with the gifts.”

  As he spoke, the royal palace rose in the distance like a mountain carved by human hands: columns covered in reliefs, banners fluttering with ancient symbols, and a constant coming and going of servants, soldiers, and scribes. The sound of hammers echoed from the inner courtyards; the smell of hot metal mingled with incense and dust—even though the harem had been designed to be immune to outside noise and to serve as a paradise of rest for its inhabitants and for the Shah when he visited its walls.

  “Oh, right…” Ariadne frowned, thoughtful. “I’ll turn nine in… about a month?”

  She looked at her own small hands still gripping the reins. Nine years old. Still normal, she told herself. She wasn’t a woman yet; she was the boy, the skinny one—she had to remind herself. Normal meant being thrilled at mastering martial arts, wielding a scimitar and falchion skillfully, being able to hold a lance properly.

  “Normal—I’m a boy, I’m a man who’ll go back to being a boy,” she repeated under her breath.

  Cyrus nodded, though his gaze drifted for a moment toward the outer wall, where guards were practicing formations under the sun. The rhythm of shields clashing marked the city’s tempo.

  “Very soon you’ll be a boy again. We just have to figure out how to turn you into a man and save the world. Any ideas?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea,” Ariadne sighed. Several theories were swirling in her head, but none felt solid enough to say out loud—at least not until she investigated more thoroughly. She had already lost reading time because she had focused on amplifying her combat skills. It was great to be able to fight.

  As they rode forward, her attention shifted to her sister. She noticed her looking restless, her face slightly flushed, her movements restrained, as if she didn’t know where to put her hands. Ever since she started wearing that delicate head jewelry—a fine gold chain with a green gem—she seemed different, more self-conscious, more nervous. Ariadne assumed she was just feeling unwell or tired; the palace unsettled everyone.

  She decided not to press, just curiosity. Before she could say anything, a servant called them from a distance, waving a light cloth as a signal. They changed direction and followed the indication.

  They stopped in front of the Crown Prince’s pavilion, a building set apart from the main palace by inner gardens and low fountains. The activity there was even greater: maidservants coming and going, assistants carrying chests, scribes murmuring lists, the prince’s eunuchs watching every step with silent attention.

  With help, they dismounted. They still lacked the height and strength to do it gracefully, which made them feel clumsy amid so much adult bustle. The reins were taken, the horses led away, and they were quickly guided inside.

  The air changed as they passed through the heavy curtains: warmer, thick with sweet scents and resins.

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  There was Zara.

  She reclined in a wide basin of pale stone filled with milk perfumed with floral essences. She rested naturally, like someone who doesn’t need to impose to be obeyed. Her black hair fell damp over the edges, and her blue eyes—clear, attentive—lifted when she noticed the children’s presence. Her skin, fair but sun-kissed, spoke of mixed ancestry: European and Mesopotamian, no doubt.

  Beautiful, yes, but above all confident.

  Zara wasn’t just a woman of the palace: she was someone accustomed to being watched, to measuring words and silences, to observing, analyzing, and deciding in an instant—extremely astute.

  “You’re late,” she said with a faint smile, no reproach. “The day waits for no one… not even princes. Besides, my prince has let too many days pass without deciding on his official attire.”

  Zara rose calmly, more theatrical than hurried. There was never haste in her; never had been. Her bearing was that of a woman used to the world waiting for her.

  She was beautiful in a mature, dangerous way. Not the fragile beauty of the young court ladies, but that of someone who had survived intrigues, childbirths, wars, and silences. Her face seemed frozen in a serenity around her mid-thirties, though no one in the palace ever spoke ages aloud. Her gaze and blue eyes were firm, aware, amused.

  From the other side of the pavilion, the prince turned his head with a speed unbecoming of his lineage—more than once he had the good sense not to burn his retinas seeing his mother naked.

  “Mother…” he murmured, partially covering his face with his sleeve. “We’ve talked about this.” He had the body of an eight-year-old, but his mind was far more adult, and this had been traumatic.

  Zara raised an eyebrow, amused.

  “About what? About a queen having to be respectful of royal pupils’ sensitivity? Your father has never complained,” she replied with soft irony. “I’ve complied. See? Fabric. Lots of fabric.” She was wearing jeweled panties and bra.

  Ariadne noticed how the prince took a deep breath, as if counting to ten to keep from fainting from embarrassment and to confirm his mother wouldn’t become a trauma. Once he saw she was actually clothed, he relaxed.

  “No one wants to see their mother…” he began, lowering his gaze even further.

  “You will rule one day,” she interrupted sweetly but sharply. “And when you do, you’ll learn that discomfort is also a lesson you must carry.”

  She approached and placed two fingers under his chin, forcing him to look at her for just a second. Only that long.

  “Relax,” she said with satirical calm, like someone who has already decided the ending of the play. “You won’t be traumatized today. Not yet. Today I need your complete docility.”

  She clapped once—sharp, authoritative—and that was the signal.

  Immediately the room came alive. A sea of court ladies, assistants, and wardrobe mistresses emerged from behind linen curtains and carved screens. Their steps were quick but precise. Arms laden with fabrics cascaded: translucent silks, heavy brocades, gauzes dyed in impossible pigments, gold threads that caught the lamplight.

  They surrounded him.

  Some measured, others re-measured. Expert hands marked with chalk, pinned with needles, murmured among themselves in a technical, ancient language. Fabric brushed skin again and again, testing textures, weights, drapes. Each garment was presented, withdrawn, compared, discarded. The queen gave precise orders while the girls did their duty and the prince’s face turned to pure annoyance.

  “Too stiff…”

  “No, that shade dulls his figure…”

  “Here, more fitted. Let him learn to breathe inside the suit.”

  She watched in silence, seated with elegance, enjoying the process like a queen waiting for an artist to demonstrate the techniques that make him graceful. There was no hurry.

  “Remember,” she added at the end, with a faint, almost kind smile. “Clothes aren’t to cover you. They’re so everyone knows who you are—and remember, they aren’t to honor others. These clothes are to honor yourself. You are a prince.”

  Ariadne was smiling.

  Not a big smile, but that small, satisfied one that appears only when something strange and glorious happens: seeing Prince Cyrus with genuine annoyance on his face. He was usually somewhere between bored and cynical—today it was pure misery…!!!

  With that small victory, at least she didn’t feel so bad about being a girl or ending up as a woman because of that idiot. So she decided to slip away. Maybe she should go home, she thought. Some fruit juice, a couple of books about kings. And above all—no fabrics.

  She didn’t take three steps.

  “Do you presume you can escape so easily?” She felt the queen’s murderous intent.

  Ariadne froze. She closed her eyes for a second. Ah. Of course not. She had forgotten that woman was formidable.

  She turned her head very slowly.

  “You’re the prince’s friend,” the queen continued, in a voice so sweet it was suspicious, “and I absolutely refuse to let you demean His Royal Highness by leaving the room as if this were… a casual visit.”

  Ariadne blinked.

  “I just—”

  She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Behind the queen, as if an invisible sluice had opened, another squadron of maidservants and seamstresses emerged. More. Many more. Too many. Some carried rolls of fabric larger than themselves; others held measuring tapes like ceremonial weapons. All of them looked at her like prey.

  Ariadne saw them… and went pale.

  “Mother,” Cyrus murmured, now wearing yet another royal garment in the search for the perfect one, “it really isn’t necessary—”

  “Oh, yes it is,” the queen replied without looking at him. “Absolutely necessary.”

  Ariadne raised an eyebrow.

  “Your Majesty… isn’t it unnecessary? I can just stay far away.”

  The queen smiled. “Be quiet and cooperate.”

  The maidservants advanced in unison.