Chapter 11 The Price of Mercy
The candles have burned low by the time I realize I have not moved.
Wax spills over the brass holders and pools along the edges of my desk, hardened into pale, misshapen rivers that mirror the thoughts circling endlessly in my mind.
The air smells of smoke and parchment, ink and iron.
Somewhere beyond the thick stone walls of my office, the palace settles into its nightly hush, guards changing posts, servants retreating into shadows, doors closing softly as if the world itself has learned to tread carefully around me.
I sit alone.
And all I can think about is how to break my marriage treaty before it becomes my execution again.
The contract lies open before me, its vellum pages worn smooth from my fingers tracing the same cruel lines over and over. The language is beautiful, as traps often are: elegant, precise, merciless. Every clause is layered with contingency, every promise reinforced with consequence.
My parents signed this with hope.
With faith.
With the belief that alliances are built on shared futures rather than hidden knives.
They believed Alexander would be a partner.
They believed my sister would remain loyal.
They believed love, or at least honor, would be enough.
They were wrong.
The treaty is nearly impossible to break unilaterally. Any attempt to dissolve it without cause would be interpreted as an insult not just to Alexander, but to his entire house. And insult, in the language of kings, is simply another word for permission.
Permission for war.
Borders would harden. Alliances would fracture. Blood would spill not because the realm demanded it, but because pride always does.
Unless.
Unless Alexander himself is exposed as disloyal to the crown.
Unless the severing becomes mutual.
Clean. Public. Respectable.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, the wood creaking softly beneath me. The image of Alexander rises his careful smile, his measured words, the way his gaze always lingers a second too long when power is mentioned.
I do not know when he turned against me.
Or if he ever stood with me at all.
Perhaps betrayal was always the plan. Maybe I was meant to be a stepping-stone queen in name, an obstacle in practice. Or maybe someone whispered poison into his ear over time, feeding his ambition until loyalty tasted bitter by comparison.
Someone patient.
Someone resentful.
Someone who shares my blood.
My jaw tightens as memory drags itself forward, sharp and vivid as a blade across skin.
In my first life, it happened on my wedding day.
The palace was drowning in light. Music filled every hall, laughter echoing off marble walls polished to perfection. Flowers spilled from balconies and arches, their petals crushed beneath dancing feet. Gold shimmered everywhere: crowns, goblets, embroidery, so much wealth it felt obscene.
My sister stood radiant beside me.
Beloved. Admired. Untouchable.
When she lifted her glass to toast our union, no one questioned it. Why would they? She was my sister. The crowd adored her. Even I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest at the sight of her pride.
I drank.
The poison bloomed slowly, insidiously, deliberately. At first, it was heat, a sharp burn curling through my veins. Then came the cold. The creeping numbness. The way my limbs began to betray me, piece by piece.
I remember the room tilting.
The music warping.
The dawning horror as realization slammed into me far too late.
She cried for me then.
Held my hand.
Whispered prayers.
Watched me die.
In my second life, I stood at my execution, lips split, spine straight despite the chains biting into my wrists. I remember scanning the crowd and seeing her again, composed, dry-eyed, untouched.
I remember truly wondering what I had ever done to deserve such hatred.
Because in every life before this one, I gave her everything.
Land.
Gold.
A title she did not earn.
Protection she did not deserve.
I went to war for her honor. Bled for her comfort. Shielded her from consequences when whispers grew sharp and ugly.
I loved her.
And still—she chose my death.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster like constellations mapped by forgotten kings. Somewhere above me, generations of rulers once knelt and prayed for mercy, for wisdom, for peace.
I will pray for none of it.
Now I know the truth.
This is no longer a story of love or forgiveness.
It is survival.
Kill or be killed.
Rule or be ruled.
Fear or be feared.
The words no longer frighten me. They steady me.
I straighten in my chair, fingers pressing flat against the desk, grounding myself in the present. In this life. In this case, the gods have cruelly and generously given me.
My thoughts return to my sister.
My baby sister.
The knot in my chest tightens painfully. She was small once. Soft. She used to curl into my side at night, convinced the world could not touch her if I were near. I used to brush her hair back and promise I would always protect her.
I meant it.
I still do.
That is the problem.
I think of ways to remove her without staining my hands. Ways that would not shatter my parents' hearts. Exile to a distant estate. A carefully arranged marriage that binds her ambition elsewhere. Confinement behind silk walls where her reach cannot find a blade or a cup.
But every path ends the same way.
She will not stop.
She will wait.
She will smile.
And one day, she will poison another glass.
I exhale slowly, the sound barely more than a breath.
For one of us to live, the other must die.
The truth is cold. Final. Unforgiving.
I turn my gaze back to the treaty.
And my mind to Alexander.
What would happen if I simply killed him?
The thought arrives fully formed, disturbingly calm.
An accident, perhaps. A fall from a horse. A hunting mishap deep in the forest. A sudden illness that no physician can explain. Men die all the time. Kings especially.
Without Alexander, the treaty collapses. His family would mourn, rage, demand answers, but without a groom, without a living claim, their justification for war would strengthen. Grief is powerful, but it lacks structure. It fractures.
It would be... efficient.
I do not recoil from the thought.
That is how I know I have changed.
Once, the idea would have sickened me. Now, it feels like a strategy.
I am not cruel for considering it.
I am prepared.
Still, preparation does not erase consequences. Killing Alexander would ripple outward, destabilize alliances, invite suspicion, and set a precedent. It would solve one problem and create three more.
I need precision.
I need proof.
I need Alexander to damn himself.
I close the contract slowly and stack it neatly with the others. The candle beside me flickers, then steadies, its flame bending but refusing to go out.