Crown of Carnal Conquest

The first thing I noticed about the Queen's palace was the smell. Not roses or incense or whatever you'd expect from a royal residence. It smelled like wet wool and fear. A thousand bodies packed into corridors designed for a hundred, all of us breathing the same recycled air, sweating through our clothes, waiting for something none of us understood.

I'd been there three days when I found the first door.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.

My name is Marcus, and I never wanted to be here. Nobody did. We'd all been plucked from our lives, from offices and apartments and coffee shops, and dropped into this sprawling stone maze without explanation. One moment I was arguing with my landlord about a leaky faucet. The next I was standing in a marble foyer with two hundred strangers, all of us wearing the same confused expression.

The Queen's guards had rounded us up like cattle. No questions. No resistance. Just a sea of black uniforms and the cold press of rifle barrels against our spines.

That was seventy-two hours ago.

Now I sat on the floor of what used to be a ballroom, my back against a pillar, watching the others mill around like ants in a jar. The chandeliers still hung from the ceiling, crystal teardrops catching the dim light. Someone had tried to pry one loose for a weapon. The guards had made an example of him. I didn't look too closely at what was left.

"You're in my spot."

I looked up. Dick stood over me, his arms crossed, that permanent sneer plastered across his face. His tie was crooked, same as always. A coffee stain decorated his shirt pocket like a badge of honor.

"Your spot," I said.

"I've been sitting here for two days. Everyone knows it." He jabbed his finger at the floor, like the carpet might testify on his behalf. "You can't just waltz in and take what isn't yours."

I didn't move. "There are no spots. There's floor. Sit somewhere else."

"This is exactly the problem with people like you." He adjusted his glasses, smudged to hell, and I wondered if he'd ever cleaned them in his life. "No respect for established systems. No awareness of how things work."

"Things don't work. That's the whole issue."

He made a sound like a teakettle about to boil over. "You think you're clever? You think this is funny? We're trapped in here, and you're making jokes."

"I'm not making jokes. I'm sitting."

"On my spot."

I closed my eyes. Maybe if I pretended he wasn't there, he'd evaporate. No such luck.

"The problem," Dick continued, because he always continued, "is that nobody here has any leadership. No organization. No plan. Everyone's just waiting for someone else to figure it out."

"And you're that someone?"

"I could be. If people would listen." He gestured broadly at the room, at the huddled groups, the crying children, the old man in the corner who hadn't moved in hours. "Look at them. Sheep. All of them. They need direction."

"They need water. Food. A way out."

"Details." He waved his hand like he was swatting a fly. "First you establish hierarchy. Then you solve problems."

I opened my eyes and looked at him properly. Average height, slight paunch, thinning hair combed over with aggressive optimism. The kind of man who'd never been punched in the face but desperately needed it.

"You're not in charge," I said.

"Someone has to be."

"Not you."

His face went red. The finger came out again, jabbing toward my chest. "You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I've accomplished. What I'm capable of."

"I know you've been here three days and haven't done a single useful thing."

That landed. I watched it hit, watched the hurt flash behind his eyes before the anger swallowed it. For a second, I almost felt bad. Then he opened his mouth again.

"At least I'm trying to help. At least I'm not sitting on my ass making snide comments."

"You're standing on your ass making snide comments."

He sputtered. Actually sputtered. I didn't know people did that outside of cartoons.

"You know what? Fine. Keep your spot. See if I care." He turned and stomped off, shoulders rigid, tie flapping. I watched him go, weaving through the crowd, probably looking for someone else to bother.

That was Dick. We'd been at each other's throats since day one, when he'd tried to organize a "committee" and I'd pointed out that committees didn't typically help people escape armed captivity. He hadn't forgiven me.

I didn't care. I had other things on my mind.

Like the door.

I'd spotted it that morning, tucked behind a tapestry near the eastern wall. Not a tapestry. Wait. It was a tapestry, technically. Heavy fabric, faded colors, depicting some ancient battle. But behind it, when I'd leaned against the wall to rest, I'd felt something give. A seam. A hinge.

A way out.

I hadn't told anyone. Not yet. I needed to be sure. And I needed to figure out what was on the other side before I led a stampede of desperate people into God knows what.

So that night, when the guards changed shifts and the ballroom fell into uneasy sleep, I slipped away from my pillar and made for the eastern wall.

The tapestry smelled like dust and old smoke. I pressed my palm against the fabric, felt the outline of the door beneath. It was small. Maybe four feet tall. The kind of door meant for servants, for people who weren't supposed to be seen.

I found the handle and pulled.

The door swung open with a whisper of old wood. Beyond it, a narrow corridor stretched into darkness, lit only by a single torch flickering at the far end. I stepped through and closed the door behind me.

The corridor was cold. My breath fogged in front of my face. I moved toward the torch, boots quiet on the stone, every nerve buzzing.

At the end of the corridor, another door. Larger this time. Ornate. Gold leaf peeling from the frame, but still beautiful in a decaying sort of way.

I reached for the handle.

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice came from behind me. I spun.

She stood in the shadows, tall and pale, her dark hair falling past her shoulders. A silver crown rested on her brow, delicate as frost. Her dress was black, simple, elegant. Her eyes were the color of winter sky.

The Queen.

"I asked you a question," she said. "Or rather, I made a statement. You shouldn't be here. But you are. So now I have a different question."

She stepped closer. The torchlight caught her face, sharp cheekbones, full lips, an expression I couldn't read.

"Who are you?"

I should have been afraid. I was afraid. But something else stirred beneath the fear, something electric and stupid and very much alive.

"Marcus," I said. "I'm nobody."

Her lips curved. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.

"Nobody," she repeated. "How interesting. Nobody found my door."

She circled me, slow, deliberate. I felt her gaze like a hand on my skin.

"The others are still in the ballroom," she said. "Waiting. Wondering. But you're here. Why?"

"I want to leave."

"Leave." She stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could smell her, something floral and dark, night-blooming. "Everyone wants to leave. That's not special."

"Then what is?"

She studied me for a long moment. Then she reached up and touched my face, one finger tracing my jaw.

"The ones who want to leave," she said, "never find the door. The ones who find the door, they want something else. Something they can't name."

Her finger stopped at my chin. Tilted my head up.

"So tell me, Marcus. What do you want?"

I didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. But she smiled anyway, like she'd heard it regardless.

"Good," she said. "You'll do."

She turned and walked back into the shadows. At the edge of the light, she paused.

"The door you came through locks behind you. The one in front of you opens at dawn. If you're still here when the sun rises, I'll give you a task. Complete it, and you earn another. Complete enough, and you earn your freedom."

"And if I fail?"

"You won't fail." She said it like a fact, like gravity. "You're too curious to fail."

Then she was gone. Just the torch and the dark and the door, waiting.

I stood there for a long time, heart pounding, skin still warm where she'd touched me.

Behind me, the first door clicked. Locked.

Ahead of me, the second door waited.

I had until dawn to decide.