Chapter 7 Careless Tongues
The hall does not change.
That is the cruelty of it.
The marble is still pale and immaculate, polished so finely it reflects the ceiling's gold-leaf arches and the flicker of torchlight along the walls.
The tapestries still hang in their proper places, battles frozen mid-charge, crowns raised in triumph, queens rendered forever serene in thread and silk.
The palace smells the same, too: wax and flowers and old stone warmed by the sun.
I have walked this corridor before.
In my first life, I walked it with hope tucked foolishly beneath my ribs. My hands were folded neatly at my waist, posture drilled into me by tutors who said gentleness inspired loyalty. I smiled when the servants laughed behind me. I mistook familiarity for affection, comfort for devotion.
I believed kindness was a shield.
It was not.
Now I walk with my hands loose at my sides, spine straight, gaze forward. My guards move in measured silence behind me, their presence unmistakable. The palace no longer feels welcoming; it feels like a structure that knows it is being measured for weakness.
The maids trail behind us, whispering.
The sound crawls up my spine not because it surprises me, but because I remember it exactly. The gods have given me memory with merciless precision. Even their cadence is the same.
"—She's sweet," one of them says, her tone indulgent.
"Too sweet." Another snorts. "Sweet queens don't last. They get used."
A third voice joins in, sharper, emboldened by agreement. "She'll be a puppet. Just watch. The prince consort will have her dancing on strings."
They laugh softly, pleased.
My steps do not falter.
"She'll be a toy," another adds, careless and cruel. "A pretty little plaything for treaties. A whore with a crown is still a whore."
Something inside me settles into a stillness so complete it is almost calm.
"And her father?" a voice continues, contempt dripping from every syllable. "Useless bastard. Weak. Incompetent. He taught her nothing except how to smile and bow."
The words are not new.
They are ghosts.
I recognize one voice instantly. I do not need to turn around. In my past life, that same maid stood before the court with tears trembling on her lashes and swore she had seen me plotting treason. Her voice shook convincingly. She spoke my name as it pained her.
She was believed.
I was not.
What strikes me most is not the filth they spew.
It is that they do not stop.
They see me. They see the guards. And still they keep talking, as if I am nothing more than a rumor passing through my own palace.
They do not fear the crown.
They do not respect it.
They think it's decorative. Performative. A thing that smiles and forgives and forgets.
I slow my steps.
The guards match me without command.
The maids continue, unaware or uncaring.
I stop.
Instead of turning, instead of snapping, instead of shouting, I sit.
A stone bench rests beneath a tapestry depicting an ancient coronation, the moment a long-dead queen accepted her crown and her chains in the same breath. I lower myself onto it with deliberate calm, crossing one leg over the other, folding my hands loosely in my lap.
Silence crashes into the corridor.
Not immediately. Not all at once.
The maids keep talking for a few heartbeats longer. Long enough to prove how safe they believe themselves to be.
Then one of them notices.
Her voice falters mid-word.
Another turns too quickly and nearly stumbles.
The sound dies.
I look at them.
I watch them.
Fear blooms in stages: first, confusion; then, a dawning realization; then, the slow horror of understanding that this moment will not be softened.
"Go on," I say lightly. "You were speaking so freely."
No one speaks.
I tilt my head, studying them as one might study insects beneath glass. "A moment ago, you were courageous."
One maid swallows. Another's knees tremble visibly.
"Please," one whispers. "Your Grace—"
I raise a finger.
She stops at once.
"I did not invite apologies," I say. "I invited conversation."
They stare at me now, eyes wide, breathing shallow.
"Where did your courage go?" I ask. "You were careless with your words a second ago. I find it curious that you cannot repeat them."
Silence.
It stretches, thin and brittle.
It irritates me not explosively, not blindly, but with a sharp, precise edge.
I stand.
The movement alone makes them flinch as if struck.
"I dislike cowards," I say evenly. "If you do not dare to repeat your thoughts aloud, you should never speak them at all."
One of them—the one I remember—steps forward instinctively, hands shaking. "We didn't mean—"
I move before she finishes.
Steel flashes in my hand, clean and sudden.
I drive the dagger down with deliberate force, pinning her hand to the bench cushions, only stopping at the hard stone beneath. The impact rings through the corridor like a struck bell.
Her scream tears free, raw and uncontrolled, shattering the fragile quiet.
The others collapse to their knees, sobbing, hands flying to mouths, bodies recoiling.
I do not raise my voice.
I lean closer to the woman pinned beneath my blade, my face inches from hers. Her breath comes in ragged bursts, pain and terror twisting her features.
"Keep talking," I say quietly. "Before I make you talk."
She babbles apologies, words tumbling over each other in desperate panic.
"I do not want apologies," I snap, the edge finally cutting through my calm. "I want the conversation."
I straighten and turn my gaze on the others. "Say it," I command. "All of it."
They shake violently.
"Say it," I repeat. "You called me a whore. A puppet. A toy. Have the courage to own your words."
No one speaks.
My patience ends not in fire, but in ice.
"If you do not dare to speak your thoughts out loud, i will make sure you can never speak them again."
I turn to my guard. "Remove her tongue."
The command is quiet.
Final.
The guard obeys without hesitation.
The corridor fills with screams and sobbing. I remain where I am, unmoving, eyes fixed ahead. This is not rage. This is an instruction.
When it is done, silence returns—heavy and absolute. Blood stains the marble, obscene against white stone. The maid is dragged away, broken, leaving behind fear so thick it feels alive.
I face the remaining servants.
"The tongue is a small thing," I say evenly, "but what enormous damage it can do."
They bow low, desperate, foreheads pressed to stone.
"To disagree with a ruler is not a crime," I continue. "Debate strengthens a kingdom. Dissent sharpens it."
I pause, letting the truth settle.
"But disrespect," I add, "degradation, humiliation, these rot the foundation from within."
My gaze sweeps over them slowly.
"You forgot who the crown belongs to," I say. "You forgot what happens when power is mistaken for kindness."
The words do not echo.
They settle heavy and final, like ash drifting after a fire has burned itself out. For a breathless moment, the corridor seems to hold still around them. Somewhere far away, a door closes. The palace exhales.
The remaining maids collapse forward as if the floor has suddenly claimed them. Foreheads strike marble. Fingers splay against cold stone. Their sobs spill out in a desperate, broken chorus of apologies layered atop one another, vows of loyalty stitched together from panic and fear.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty—"
"We didn't mean it—"
"Please—please—"
I watch them without expression.
In my first life, this would have been the moment my resolve faltered.
I would have felt the familiar tightening in my chest, the instinct to soothe, to reassure, to fix what discomfort had exposed.
I would have told myself that fear was lesson enough, that humiliation could substitute for discipline.
That mercy, once shown, would be remembered.
I know better now.
I take a step forward. The whisper of my shoes against marble cuts through their pleading, sharp as a blade sliding free of its sheath.
"I could take you with her," I say calmly, gesturing not looking toward the dark smear on the floor where blood is drying into the stone.
The sobbing stutters.
"I could have your tongues removed," I continue, voice even, "and ensure you never poison another room with careless words."
One maid lets out a thin, broken sound, half sob, half gasp, as if her lungs have forgotten how to draw air. Another presses her palms flat to the floor, shoulders shaking violently.
I let the silence stretch.
"But," I say at last, tilting my head slightly, "I am feeling... lenient."
The change is immediate.
Hope flares in their eyes like sparks catching dry tinder. Relief washes across their faces in uneven waves, disbelief first, then gratitude so intense it borders on worship.
"Oh—thank you," one gasps.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," another cries, words tumbling out too fast, too loud. "Thank you for your mercy."
They bow lower, deeper, some pressing their lips to the stone as if reverence alone might save them. One reaches forward instinctively, stopping herself just short of touching the hem of my dress.
I allow it.
For three seconds.
"Ten lashes each," I say.
The words fall cleanly, without emphasis, without heat.
The corridor goes dead silent.
One maid lifts her head slowly, disbelief etched into every line of her face. Another's mouth opens, then closes again, as if her mind refuses to accept what her ears have delivered.
"T–ten?" someone whispers.
I regard her calmly. "Yes."
"But you said—" another begins, panic cracking her voice.
"I said leniency," I interrupt, my tone unchanging. "I did not say forgiveness."
Understanding crashes over them in slow motion. The gratitude drains from their faces, replaced by horror so stark it is almost childlike. Tears spill freely now, tracing pale lines down flushed cheeks.
"Your Majesty," one pleads, voice breaking, "please—"
I step closer.
She falls silent instantly.
"Would you prefer to lose your tongue?" I ask quietly.
The question is not a threat. It is an option.
Their gazes flick, unbidden, to the place where their companion was dragged away, where blood still stains the marble, bright against white. The memory is too fresh. Too loud.
I wait.
They do not make me wait long.
"No," they say almost together, voices hoarse. "No, Your Majesty."
They lower their head again, deeper this time, slower. The movement carries weight now. Acceptance. Calculation.
"Ten lashes will suffice," one of them whispers, swallowing hard.
I nod once.
"See that it does."
The guards step forward at once, efficient and impassive. Hands close around arms, not rough, not gentle. Professional. The maids are helped to their feet and led away, still crying, still shaking, but alive. Whole. Painfully aware that this, too, is mercy.
As they disappear down the corridor, their sobs fade into the stone until the palace swallows them completely.
I remain where I am.
The corridor feels altered now, charged and tightened, as if the walls themselves are listening. Servants who had lingered at the edges have vanished. Doors that once stood open are quietly closed.
Fear is slowly spreading.
I turn slightly toward the captain of my guard and lower my voice.
"Make sure their wounds are tended by the court physicians when it's done," I murmur. "Immediately."
He inclines his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"And instruct the guards," I add, my gaze steady, "not to remove skin when they strike."
A pause, brief and respectful.
"I want them punished," I continue, "not broken."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
That is the line.
Cruelty is simple.
Excess is lazy.
Restraint is power.
I watch the captain depart, then lift my gaze to the tapestry above me, the ancient coronation stitched in gold and crimson. The queen depicted there kneels to receive her crown, expression serene, posture perfect. The artist captured devotion beautifully.
They never capture the cost.
I wonder how long it took before her kindness was mistaken for weakness. How many whispers echoed behind her back before they reached the blade?
It will not happen again.
I straighten, smoothing my hands once over the fabric of my dress. The palace hums around me, subdued now, attentive in a way it has not been for years.
From this day forward, the rules are clear.
Mercy is not absent.
It is measured.
Controlled.
Earned.
And I alone will decide who deserves it.