Chapter 21 #2
I walked through the room, bile rising in my throat at the painting of Kallias on the wall. Shadows shaded his figure, making him appear smaller, slightly slumped. The mantle on his shoulders sat askew, worn with time. Weakness lingered in his eyes—a silent plea.
That was never the man I knew. What artist would she commission to paint such a blatant lie?
It hung directly across from the door to her receiving room, the first thing anyone would see upon entering.
I worked my jaw, anger flushing my face. He had bedded her out of duty—never shared a bed, yet still he visited her. He endured ridicule from the one person who should have supported him, and she had become just another dagger in his heart.
With a snarl, I seized a chair and dragged it across the room. I was being petty. Foolish. But I would not let it linger in the palace. Not for another instant.
I batted my skirts aside and climbed up.
The frame was dark, tarnished silver, too heavy for me to lift free.
Anger tightened my grip as I dug in with both hands.
It rocked, swayed, then slammed back into the wood when I leaned too far.
I braced myself, one hand on the wall, dragging my weight into it, yanking again.
Heat rushed through me as frustration mounted. With a sharp pull, I wrenched it loose, the hook scraping as it slid free of the nail. The frame crashed into the shelf below it. Something shattered. Then the painting tipped forward and struck the floor face-first.
My triumph lasted a heartbeat.
The door flew open, and Claus stormed in, dagger drawn, body coiled for violence. He froze, eyes flicking from me on the chair to the wreckage, then settling on the fallen portrait.
I stepped down, sniffing, smoothing my skirts. “Send for a servant. I want this burned. You may wait outside.”
He hesitated, studying me as though seeing me anew. The corner of his mouth twitched before he nodded, retreating without a word.
Power stirred in my chest. Foolish, perhaps, but there was something glorious about erasing Eldeiade’s imprint from the palace.
I crossed into the dressing room. Dust-coated racks of gowns sagged beneath neglect. My fingertips skimmed puffed sleeves, traced plunging necklines that dipped far too low.
Had she worn these to taunt Kallias?
My gaze lifted to the walls. As expected, her portraits crowded the space. Any queen with enough vanity would have done the same.
She was beautiful; tall, slender, with curves shaped to draw the eye like a lure.
I stopped before a dimly lit canvas, studying every detail.
Midnight-black hair framed pale skin untouched by sun.
Crimson lips curved with knowing confidence.
High cheekbones and green eyes seemed to mock me, as though she understood the power she held.
I turned and drifted into the bedchamber, unease thrumming beneath my skin.
I didn’t want to be there, thinking about this. Yet my feet carried me forward all the same.
Some cruel, twisted fascination tugged at me, luring me deeper.
Shadows consumed the space, untouched by the receiving room’s dim light. Despair lingered, thick as smoke. My hand shook as I drew back the heavy curtain.
Blankets lay tossed aside, the mattress left bare. Dead plants cluttered the mantle and corners, brittle and dry. No rot clung to the air. Even decay felt deliberate.
The painting above the bed seized me.
My stomach turned, lips parting as horror settled in. I couldn’t look away.
It was her and Kallias. Together. In a way I never wanted to see.
Eldeiade straddled him, black hair spilling down her back, red sheets tangled at her hips, pooling to the floor. Her head tipped, mouth open in a silent, eerie laugh.
And he was—it was him.
I knew those eyes.
Hatred constricted my throat as I moved closer, fingers curling at my neck as breath came shallow.
His face angled aside, gaze blank. The artist had scarred his features, jawline rushed and rough, as though care had been an afterthought. His body lay bare beneath her, hands clenched at his sides.
How could he allow this? Leave it hanging above her bed for servants to see? For him to face each visit?
He had tried for years to sire a child. How many times did he enter this room, seeking life amid so much death? It must’ve been such a relief when Tallon was born. He wouldn’t have needed to endure this any longer.
Something slammed behind me.
I whirled.
Kallias filled the doorway. Cold detachment masked his face as he lifted a fallen frame, brushing dust from the glass. His jaw flexed before he set it upright, turning it toward me.
A young boy smiled out from the canvas. Black hair. Green eyes. A toy horse clutched in small hands.
Tallon.
“I didn’t mean to–” The words tangled in my throat. My fingers dug into the bandages, searching for release. Nothing came. This wasn’t mine to witness. To see him reduced, humiliated by a woman long gone—it felt intrusive. Wrong.
My Kallias was unshakeable. Confident. Untouched by doubt. The man before me offered no softness. Glacier-blue eyes barred every emotion.
“These are your rooms now.” His voice carried no inflection. He didn’t glance at the painting above the bed.
“I shouldn’t have claimed them yet.” Guilt twisted tight as I folded my arms around myself. “I should’ve asked before bringing anyone here.”
“You brought someone here.” Fury cracked through the words, fists clenching at his sides.
Heat flared across my cheeks. “Not this room.”
He drew a slow breath, eyes closing, and I hugged myself tighter, chastened.
“Nienna.” His gaze met mine, struggle flickering beneath restraint. “This palace is yours. I won’t have you fearing where to tread.”
Relief loosened my chest. He wasn’t angry with me.
“Come here.” He stayed rooted in the doorway, the darkness holding him back.
I crossed the distance without thought, and he offered a brittle smile.
“There are things I wish you hadn’t seen,” he said quietly. “But I’m not angry. This is your home. Your domain.” His gaze slid away from the wall. “You’re queen now. Decorate it as you see fit.”
“Even if I clear this room, would you ever want to join me here?” I searched his face.
His eye twitched. “Perhaps. Depends how welcoming it becomes.”
“I want them gone. All of them.” Hatred colored my whisper.
“Then they’ll go to the archives.”
“No. Some will be nothing more than heaps of ash when I’m done with them.”
Relief flickered across his eyes. “Burn whatever you wish.”
I exhaled, then leaned into him. His arms closed around me, firm and steady.
“I can’t understand why you ever let her commission such a thing.”
His body went rigid, fingers biting into my sides. “Don’t assume I allowed anything.” Anger roughened his voice. “No more than I allow you. You’re my queen, my equal. While I lead, I have limited power over you.”
We held each other, and any response I managed remained elusive. This was uncharted territory. I wanted to rage, to curse her name for the pain she’d caused him. But that wouldn’t fix anything.
“I didn’t pose for it,” he murmured. “There’s no scar from the foothills.” He pulled back, a smirk curving his mouth as he brushed my hair aside. “You’d been here only weeks, and you saw more of me than she ever did.”
I grinned, recalling the rough sketch I’d drawn while my mind had wandered. That thick, jagged scar along his chest—the one now crossed by another from my father’s blade—was the detail that marked him as my future father-in-law.
Naked.
“You remember that?”
“It was the first time I really noticed you.” His head tilted. “You weren’t mine. But even so, knowing you remembered my body well enough to sketch it brought a small thrill.”
“I burned that one too.” I laughed. “But your chest was seared into my mind. I never stood a chance.”
He leaned in to kiss me, then veered aside at the last moment. “Feel free to draw me whenever you wish—”
His breath warmed my ear.
“—In whatever position you desire.”