Chapter 13 The Woman Who Would Not Die
I groan as I sink deeper into the throne, the sound lost beneath music and laughter and the relentless rustle of silk.
The chair is ancient oak darkened by centuries of use, its arms worn smooth by rulers who sat straighter than I do now, who believed posture alone could command obedience.
Gold filigree curls along its edges, polished to a shine meant to blind.
It is a throne designed to be admired from afar, not endured from within.
Tonight, it feels like a cage.
The ballroom stretches endlessly around me, transformed from a place of dancing into a living, breathing theater of ambition.
Chandeliers blaze overhead, scattering light across jewels and goblets and eyes that never stop moving.
Music swells and dips in practiced waves.
Perfume hangs thick in the air, rose, amber, something sharper beneath it, like metal.
They come in clusters.
Nobles trip over themselves to reach the dais, bows too deep, smiles too wide, voices trembling with eagerness they mistake for loyalty.
"Your Majesty, the glow of the crown suits you perfectly—"
"The realm has never been steadier—"
"Your wisdom already rivals your father's—"
I nod. I smile. I murmur approval where required.
Inside, my patience frays thread by thread.
Every compliment is a transaction. Every word is weighed. They are not here to celebrate me; they are here to position themselves. To be seen. To be remembered. To be counted among those closest to power when the tide inevitably turns.
I feel like prey surrounded by peacocks, all feathers and noise and sharp little eyes.
And still, none of them is the problem.
My gaze slides, betraying me, across the room.
She stands several steps below the dais, perfectly placed within the crowd yet untouched by it. My sister laughs softly at something a countess whispers into her ear. The sound is light. Easy. As if the world had never demanded anything of her.
She looks radiant.
Silk, the color of summer wine, drapes her frame, fabric I once chose, once gifted. Jewels glint at her throat and wrists, tokens of affection, of guilt, of love misplaced. Her hair is styled just so, loose enough to appear effortless, precise enough to speak of care.
Alive.
Painfully, infuriatingly alive.
My jaw tightens until it aches.
Because every single attempt to rid the kingdom of her has failed.
Not quietly.
Not subtly.
But spectacularly, almost mockingly.
The first attempt had been delicate.
A crowded corridor during the afternoon procession, bodies pressed close, laughter echoing off stone walls. A calculated nudge. Just enough force to send her stumbling toward the fifth-floor balcony railing.
She tripped.
She screamed.
Time slowed the way it does when you expect bone to shatter and blood to bloom.
Instead, she landed neatly—perfectly—in the arms of a visiting duke who had, for reasons that still defy logic, stepped forward at precisely the right moment.
The crowd gasped.
Then applauded.
The duke bowed, flushed and heroic. My sister blushed, laughing breathlessly as if she hadn't nearly died.
They praised him.
I had smiled until my face hurt.
The second attempt was quieter.
A maid. Loyal. Paid generously. The poison was carefully diluted, slow-acting, meant to mimic illness rather than cause harm. Several drinks were prepared. A dozen goblets lay out for the evening.
I watched from the dais as my sister approached the table.
She tripped again.
The goblets tipped. Wine splashed across the marble floor, staining white stone crimson. She laughed, apologizing profusely as servants rushed to clean the mess.
She never took a sip.
Not one.
The third attempt was chaos incarnate.
A spooked horse during a public procession is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and deadly. It thundered through the street, hooves striking sparks from stone.
It missed her by an inch.
I felt the wind of it.
She didn't flinch.
The horse veered at the last second, crashing into a vendor's stall instead. Crates splintered. Fruit flew. No injuries. No consequences.
The fourth was food—seasoned carefully.
The fifth, an assassin disguised as a servant, blade hidden in linen, timing precise.
The sixth—
I lost count.
Every time, something intervened.
A spilled cup.
A door opened too soon.
A blade deflected by a bracelet I didn't even remember giving her.
It was as if the world itself bent around her, nudging fate out of the way whenever death drew too close.
I lean forward slightly, fingers curling around the armrest, my knuckles whitening as I stare at her now.
Is she reading my mind?
The thought creeps in, unwelcome and sharp.
Does she know?
Does she sense it the way animals sense storms before they break? Is there something wrong with her? Something unnatural?
Magic?
A blessing?
A curse?
How does someone survive this many near-deaths without so much as a bruise?
I tap my fingers against the armrest, the rhythm sharp, staccato, betraying my irritation.
At this point, it would be easier and cleaner to stab her myself.
The thought arrives calm and complete, like a solved equation.
One blade. One moment. No spilled drinks. No misfired horses. No miraculous rescues or divine timing.
Just steel and certainty.
I exhale slowly through my nose, schooling my expression as another noble approaches, bowing far too deeply.
"Your Majesty," he simpers, breath heavy with wine, "it is an honor merely to breathe the same air—"
"Please," I say, waving him away with thin patience. "Go... breathe elsewhere."
He scurries, nearly colliding with another eager courtier.
My sister looks up then.
Her eyes meet mine across the room.
She smiles.
Sweet. Warm. Trusting.
My stomach twists violently.
That smile once disarmed me. Once, she convinced me she meant no harm. Once, she made me give her everything.
Either the gods are protecting her
Or mocking me.
I lean back, letting the music wash over me, letting the noise dull the edge of my thoughts. But memory doesn't fade so easily.
In another life, she smiled at me like that while handing me a goblet.
In another life, I drank.
In another life, I died slowly and painfully while she held my hand.
I force myself to breathe.
Control. Restraint. Precision.
This is not a problem to be solved with rage. Rage is loud. Rage leaves fingerprints. Rage gives the crown something to punish.
I need patience.
Still, surviving her may prove harder than killing her.
The music swells. Laughter rises. The ballroom spins on, blissfully ignorant of how close it is to shattering.
And as I sit there crowned, composed, calculating, I realize something chilling:
The woman who would not die may be more dangerous than the one who already has.
And for the first time since my return, I am not certain which of us the gods intend to keep alive.