Chapter 44-Refusing to Die
I refuse to die.
The thought has become my constant companion over the past two weeks.
It greets me every morning when I open my eyes and every night when sleep refuses to come.
It lingers beside me when I force down food that feels like molten metal in my throat and whispers in my ear whenever my body threatens to betray me again.
I refuse to die.
The poison has already stolen enough from me.
It stole my strength. It stole my appetite. It stole my sleep. It stole my husband's peace of mind. It stole the safety that once lived within these walls and replaced it with fear and suspicion.
But it will not take me.
Not while my child still grows beneath my heart. Not while there are people depending on me. Not while there is work left unfinished. And certainly not while my husband is behaving like the most stubborn man ever born.
The thought almost makes me smile.
Almost.
A sharp burn slides down my throat as I reach for my tea, forcing the smile away immediately. Even breathing wrong can hurt some days. Water burns. Tea burns. Soup burns. Everything burns.
The physicians tell me recovery takes time.
I would like to inform the physicians that recovery is incredibly inconvenient.
Still, I force myself to drink.
I force myself to eat.
I force myself to sleep.
Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
Because every meal I finish is another day my daughter survives. Every cup of tea is another step toward recovery. Every painful swallow is proof that I am still here.
Today is a good day.
Thank the gods.
Good days have become precious.
Rare enough that I treasure them the moment I wake up and realize my body is cooperating.
Bad days are different.
Bad days feel like drowning.
I wake exhausted before I've even opened my eyes.
My hands shake. My vision blurs. My bones ache so deeply it feels as though the poison somehow found its way into the marrow itself.
Sometimes I feel cold despite three blankets and a fire roaring in the hearth.
Sometimes it feels as though something is still inside me, chewing through my strength piece by piece.
The physicians hate when I say that.
Mostly because none of them can explain why it feels true.
The poison should be gone.
At least according to every physician in the empire. Yet every few days my body seems to forget it survived.
I lose progress.
I weaken.
I struggle.
And no one can tell me why.
Which, apparently, is deeply concerning when the patient happens to be the Empress of Elysium.
I glance down at the report spread across my desk and rub tired eyes.
Numbers.
Gods.
There are so many numbers.
Kitchen inventories.
Food consumption.
Budget projections.
Supply requests.
Procurement schedules.
The castle has become significantly more expensive over the last weeks, and I now understand why Achille occasionally looks like he wants to throw ministers out windows.
There are hundreds of mouths to feed inside these walls now.
Hundreds.
Nobles.
Servants.
Guards.
Visiting diplomats.
Scholars.
Merchants.
Physicians.
Every single one of them expects breakfast, lunch, dinner, desserts, and apparently endless snacks in between.
The audacity.
I shake my head and continue reading.
The amount of grain being purchased has nearly doubled. Meat consumption has increased. Fruit imports have increased. Spice imports have increased. Everything has increased.
Which means more money is being spent. More resources are being transported. More people need to oversee distribution. And somehow it all eventually finds its way onto my desk.
I don't mind.
In truth, I enjoy this part of ruling.
Because numbers tell stories.
A growing food budget means more people are living safely within the palace walls. More refugees are being housed. More guards are protecting the empire. More servants have stable employment. A rising expense report often means people are surviving.
I finish reviewing the final page and place it carefully atop another stack before reaching for the next.
The movement makes me pause.
My hand is shaking again.
Only slightly.
Barely noticeable.
Still.
I stare at it for a moment before slowly curling my fingers into a fist.
The sight no longer frightens me. It simply annoys me. I am tired of being weak. Tired of everyone watching me. Tired of being escorted everywhere. Tired of people looking at me like I might shatter if they speak too loudly.
Most of all, I am tired of being confined to these rooms.
Not because they're unpleasant.
The chambers are beautiful.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Safe.
But after two weeks, even the most beautiful cage remains a cage. Technically I am allowed walks.
Brief walks.
The word "brief" is apparently very important. And I am never allowed to take them alone. Usually Elias watches me. The man has somehow transformed into the most overprotective person in the empire. Which is saying something because Achille exists.
If Elias needs sleep, food, or a moment to himself, someone else takes over.
Levi.
Nathaniel.
Veronica.
Sometimes Jacline.
I've developed opinions about all of them.
Levi remains my favorite.
Not because he's responsible. Not because he's wise. Not because he's particularly helpful. Because he talks.
Constantly.
The man cannot remain silent to save his life. He once spent nearly three hours complaining about his ex-wife.
Three hours.
I learned far more about his failed marriage than any queen should ever know.
According to Levi, his wife unfairly abandoned him, took the children, and refuses to answer his letters.
According to literally everyone else, including Levi himself, she left because he slept with her sister and got her pregnant.
When I pointed out that this seemed like a reasonable reason to leave someone, he looked genuinely offended.
"People make mistakes."
"You slept with her sister."
"It only happened once."
I stared at him.
Levi stared back.
Then sighed dramatically.
"Fine. A few times but what happened to forgiveness ." I nearly threw a pillow at him.
Jacline is quieter.
Most of our conversations are short.
Efficient.
Practical.
The woman approaches every interaction like she's completing military paperwork.
Still, I enjoy her company.
Mostly because she occasionally reveals something shocking and then acts as though it is completely normal. Such as casually mentioning her husbands.
Plural.
I nearly choked. Everyone knew Jacline was married. No one informed me she was married to two people. Apparently Elysian law allows multiple spouses provided everyone agrees.
I spent nearly an hour trying to understand why anyone would voluntarily choose such an arrangement.
I still don't understand.
Especially when it comes to my husband.
Absolutely not.
One Achille is already enough work. The man becomes jealous of furniture if I sit beside it too long. And i have absolutely no intention on Sharing him and i know he would never agree to sharing me.
Then there Veronica she remains one of the most fascinating people I have ever met.
And by fascinating, I mean deeply unsettling.
The woman terrifies me.
Not in the way Achille terrifies people. Achille is easy to understand. He is a storm. A battlefield. A sword hanging over someone's neck. His danger is obvious. Visible. Honest.
Veronica is different.
Veronica smiles while discussing things that should make people sick.
The first time I truly understood how frightening she was, we were having lunch together.
A completely normal lunch. At least I thought it was normal.
Veronica sat across from me spreading strawberry jam onto toast while casually discussing interrogation techniques.
Not politics. Not trade routes. Not military strategy.
Interrogation techniques.
The woman was explaining how long certain methods could keep someone conscious while calmly buttering bread.
I nearly lost my appetite. She didn't even notice. Or perhaps she did and simply didn't care. With Veronica, either possibility seemed equally likely. Eventually curiosity overcame common sense and I asked how she knew so much.
Her answer should not have surprised me.
"My ex-husband enjoyed experimenting on the human body." She said it so casually that for a moment I wondered if I had heard her incorrectly. Then she took another bite of toast.
No hesitation.
No discomfort.
No bitterness.
Nothing.
Just simple acceptance.
The kind that only comes from someone who has long ago stopped expecting life to be fair.
"And he needed a semi-willing participant.
" The words sent a chill down my spine. Most people would have looked uncomfortable after saying something like that.
Veronica merely shrugged. "I learned everything from him.
" There was no emotion in her voice. No hatred. No self-pity.
Just fact.
"Every technique. Every method. Every little trick."
Then she smiled.
"Unfortunately for him," she continued, "I discovered I enjoyed it." I had nearly dropped my teacup. Veronica noticed my expression and smiled wider. "
She leaned back in her chair, staring thoughtfully into her tea.
"At some point it stopped being torture and became a challenge." A challenge. The woman described years of abuse as though she were discussing a difficult puzzle. "He kept trying to find my breaking point." The smile never left her face.
"And eventually I became curious whether I actually had one." I remember staring at her across the table and realizing I was speaking to someone fundamentally different from everyone else I had ever met.
What frightened me most wasn't the story itself. It was the absence of horror in her voice. Veronica wasn't reliving trauma. She was remembering an education. A terrible, twisted education, but an education nonetheless.
"I learned every weakness in the human body." She tapped her fingers lightly against the table. "Every limit."
Another smile.
"And use every single one to torture him to killed him as slowly as possible." The words should have sounded cruel. Instead they sounded inevitable. "Unfortunately for me," she continued while sipping her tea, "his pain tolerance wasn't nearly as impressive as mine."
Then she asked if I wanted more tea. As though that conversation had been completely normal. The truly horrifying thing about Veronica is that she isn't always frightening.Most of the time she is surprisingly kind.
Protective.
Patient.
Sometimes even nurturing.
She remembers which foods upset my stomach. She threatens physicians when they annoy me. She brings blankets when she thinks I'm cold. She once spent nearly an hour helping a servant search for a missing wedding ring because the poor woman was crying.
Then the next day she'll casually explain exactly how many bones are in a hand and which ones break easiest.
As though both versions of her can exist comfortably inside the same person.
Perhaps they can.
Nathaniel remains the most difficult person to understand. The man speaks so little that sometimes I forget he's in the room.
Not because he's forgettable.
Quite the opposite.
His silence has weight.
Presence.
He's polite.
Respectful.
Professional.
Yet there is always distance between us.
Not coldness.
Distance.
As though he cannot quite stop seeing me as his queen. I understand.
The door opens.
My heart immediately jumps.
Stupid.
Absolutely stupid.
Because I already know who it isn't. Yet every single time a door opens, some foolish hopeful part of me looks up anyway.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Expecting.
The disappointment arrives almost immediately when Elias walks through the doorway carrying another stack of reports.
I try not to react.
I fail miserably.
His expression softens instantly.
Wonderful.
Now he knows.
"Still waiting?" he asks quietly.
I lower my gaze back to the report.
"No."
A pause.
Then I sigh.
"Yes."
Elias doesn't answer immediately. The silence stretches between us. Heavy. Complicated. Because we both understand. I know why Achille stays away. I understand the fear consuming him. I understand the guilt. The grief.
The terror.
I understand all of it.But understanding does not stop it from hurting.Because while he is grieving the possibility of losing me.."
I am still here.
Still fighting.
Still surviving.
Still refusing to die.
Still forcing myself to eat.
Still forcing myself to work.
Still forcing myself to believe there is a future waiting for us. And some days it feels as though my husband has begun mourning me before I've even left.
The thought sparks irritation.
Good.
I prefer irritation.
It hurts less than sadness. Besides, I already have an entire lecture prepared for him. A magnificent lecture. Possibly the greatest lecture in imperial history.
It includes abandonment.
Communication.
Unnecessary self-sacrifice.
And why grieving your wife before she's actually dead is incredibly rude.
The door opens again. Veronica enters carrying enough paperwork to collapse a small government. Without warning, she drops the entire stack directly onto my desk.
The wood groans.
I stare at the mountain of reports.
Then at Veronica.
Then back at the reports.
"I dislike you."
"I know."
Elias immediately places a carved wooden game board onto the table.
I narrow my eyes.
"What is that?"
"A board game."
"No."
"Yes."
"I have work."
"You've been working for six hours."
"I am the Empress."
Veronica immediately pulls out a chair.
"I'll play."
Elias groans.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're competitive."
Veronica looks genuinely offended. The woman has threatened military commanders over card games.
"That's unfair."
"You once made a seven-year-old cry."
"The child cheated."
"It was seven."
"The child knew exactly what it was doing."