The western hallway of the Gold Land palace stretched long and narrow, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of the Ashanti ancestors. Torches flickered in their bronze sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the golden threads shimmer like living flame. It was an isolated corridor, one rarely frequented by servants or ministers—a place where whispers could be exchanged without fear of eavesdropping ears.
Cynthia Sichom stood perfectly still, her elegant frame draped in robes of deepest emerald threaded with gold. Her beauty was undeniable—the kind that had ensnared a king and reshaped a kingdom. Yet in this moment, away from prying eyes, something harder glinted in her frosty pupils as she watched a figure approach from the far end of the hall.
Notable Camara moved with the careful steps of a man who knew he walked on dangerous ground. He was plain-looking, the sort of middle-aged man who could disappear in a crowd—an asset for someone in his position. His simple robes marked him as a government official of modest rank, but the fear etched on his face revealed he served a far more dangerous master.
"My lady," Camara bowed deeply, his voice trembling slightly.
"Camara." Cynthia's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, yet it carried an edge that could cut glass. "Five days have passed since our last meeting. I grow impatient for updates."
"Forgiveness, my lady. The palace has been in such turmoil that moving without suspicion—"
"I did not summon you for excuses." Cynthia's smile remained perfectly pleasant, never reaching her eyes. "Do you have news from the north? Any whispers among the ministers? Any word from our associates?"
Camara swallowed, choosing his words with extreme care. "Nothing concrete, my lady. The king's men continue their search through Botankeu and beyond, but the forest is vast. If the princess crossed into Ankh territory..." He left the implication hanging.
"And the mercenaries? The ones hired through your discretion?"
"No word, my lady. Not a single one returned to report." Camara's fingers twisted together nervously. "The last message indicated they had cornered the target near the border. After that..." He fell silent.
Cynthia's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Six trained killers. Six. Against one pampered princess and her escort." She turned away, gazing at a tapestry depicting a great hunt. "Either they succeeded and were intercepted, or someone interfered."
"My lady, there are rumors—travelers speak of bodies found in the forest. Mercenaries dressed in black, killed by blade work of exceptional skill."
Cynthia whirled back to face him, her frosty pupils blazing. "And you are only mentioning this now?"
"The rumors are unconfirmed, my lady! Mere tavern talk from merchants. I did not wish to trouble you with unverified—"
"Everything troubles me, fool." Cynthia's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Every whisper, every rumor, every shadow. That is how one maintains power—by knowing all, suspecting all." She stepped closer to him. "If those bodies were indeed our mercenaries, then the princess may yet live. Do you comprehend what that means?"
"Yes, my lady." Camara's voice was barely audible.
"What of Rose? Is she maintaining her position at court?"
A flicker of relief crossed Camara's features at the change of subject. "Your daughter excels, my lady. The ministers trust her completely. She has positioned herself as sympathetic to all concerns, threatening to none. Several have begun confiding in her about the king's state of mind."
"Good. That girl understands the value of patience." Pride flickered briefly in Cynthia's eyes before the cold calculation returned. "Continue your observations. Report to me every four days. Use the usual signals if you discover anything urgent." She reached into her robes and produced a small leather pouch. "Your compensation."
Camara accepted the pouch with a bow, feeling the weight of gold coins within. "My loyalty is yours, my lady. Always."
"See that it remains so." Cynthia's smile was warm now, almost maternal. "You have served me well, Camara. Do not give me reason to doubt that service."
The threat hung in the air like smoke. Camara bowed again and retreated down the hallway, his footsteps echoing softly until silence reclaimed the corridor. Cynthia stood alone for a moment, her beautiful face a mask of calculation, before turning toward the royal quarters.
.......
Morning light streamed through the palace corridors as Cynthia made her way through the eastern wing. In her hands, she carried a basket of honeyed dates and dried fruits—small gifts for the palace staff who worked tirelessly to maintain the royal household's splendor.
Three young maids stood nervously as she approached, their heads bowed in respect. They were barely past girlhood, daughters of craftsmen, elevated to palace service only recently.
"Please, raise your heads," Cynthia said warmly. "I am not so grand that I cannot look you in the eyes."
The girls obeyed hesitantly, their eyes wide with awe and fear.
"What are your names?" Cynthia's smile was radiant.
"I am Fanta, my lady," the tallest whispered.
"Mariama, my lady," said the second.
"Ama, my lady," the youngest managed.
"Beautiful names." Cynthia reached into her basket and withdrew three small pouches of dates. "These are for you. A token of appreciation for your hard work." She handed each girl a pouch, her fingers brushing theirs gently. "Tell me, how are you finding palace life? Are your quarters comfortable? Is the head housekeeper treating you well?"
The girls exchanged glances, clearly shocked that someone of Cynthia's status would care.
"It is wonderful, my lady," Fanta stammered. "Better than we dreamed."
"Good. But if you ever face difficulties—if anyone treats you poorly—you must come to me. Do you understand?" Cynthia's voice was firm but kind. "Every person in this palace deserves respect, from the king himself to the youngest maid. That is what I believe."
"Thank you, my lady," Mariama breathed. "You are so kind."
"Kindness costs nothing but returns everything." Cynthia patted each girl's hand warmly. "Now, back to your duties. And remember—my door is open to you."
The maids bowed deeply as Cynthia glided away, their whispered blessings following her. She knew exactly what would happen next: they would tell their friends, who would tell their families, who would spread the word throughout the capital. Lady Cynthia Sichom—so beautiful, so kind, so generous even to the lowest servants.
It was an investment, carefully calculated. The common people's love made her indispensable. Ministers might whisper doubts in shadows, but how could they oppose someone beloved by the masses?
By midday, half the palace staff had been touched by her generosity. By evening, the stories would reach the markets.
It was exhausting, maintaining this facade. But necessary.