CHAPTER 6 - A Kingdom Without Welcome
The carriage stops.
There is no announcement. No trumpet. No rush of movement beyond the door. The wheels cease their grinding against stone, and the sudden stillness rings louder than any fanfare ever could.
I wait.
My hands rest in my lap, fingers laced tightly together, nails pressing crescents into my skin. I listen for footsteps for the shuffle of servants, for the clearing of throats, for the murmured commands that usually accompany the arrival of royalty.
Nothing comes.
The silence stretches until it feels deliberate.
Finally, the door opens.
Cold air spills inside, sharp enough to steal my breath. It carries the scent of stone, iron, and something faintly metallic, old blood washed thin by time. I step down carefully, skirts brushing the edge of the carriage, and lift my gaze.
The courtyard is empty.
Not sparsely occupied.
Not delayed.
Empty.
No servants line the path. No guards stand at attention with polished armor and ceremonial spears. No nobles hover at the edges, pretending indifference while drinking in every detail of a new arrival.
Just stone.
The courtyard is vast and severe, enclosed by walls so high they blot out the sky in places.
The stone beneath my feet is pale and worn smooth, scrubbed to a sterility that feels almost hostile.
There are no flowers. No banners. No symbols of welcome or celebration.
Even the air feels stripped bare, as if warmth itself has been deemed unnecessary.
I turn slowly, taking it in, my heart sinking with each empty corner.
"Is this...?" I begin, then stop, unsure how to finish the question without sounding foolish.
The older guard steps forward from the shadows near the gate.
"Please follow me, Your Grace," he says.
I hesitate, glancing once more around the barren courtyard. "Where are the servants?" I ask. "The guards, the nobles?"
He pauses.
Just long enough for me to notice.
"There are none," he answers.
The words strike harder than I expect.
"None?" I repeat, stupidly.
He turns and begins walking, clearly expecting me to follow. After a heartbeat, I do.
My footsteps echo loudly in the open space, each one sounding too sharp, too exposed. The emptiness presses in on me from all sides, and for the first time since leaving my homeland, I feel the weight of being profoundly alone.
"I apologize," the guard says, not looking back. "If this is not what you expected."
The path leads us through an archway and into the palace proper. The transition is abrupt—the walls close in, tall and narrow, the stone darkening as we move deeper. Torches burn at regular intervals, their flames steady and controlled, casting more shadow than light.
"Why?" I ask quietly. "Is there some delay?"
He almost smiles at that. Almost.
"You are not the first princess to arrive here," he says. "After the second, the king stopped wasting time on theatrics."
My steps falter.
"Theatrics?" I echo.
"Welcoming feasts. Announcements. Decorations," he continues evenly. "It is costly. Time-consuming. And repeating it eight times would be... exhausting."
The number lands like a blow to the chest.
I swallow hard. "Eight princesses," I say.
"Yes."
What happened to them ?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He does not answer.
He does not need to.
We continue through the corridors, and I begin to notice the pattern. There are many guards, but they stand motionless, facing forward, eyes fixed on nothing. They do not glance at me. Do not bow. Do not whisper. It is as if I am not here at all.
The palace feels lived in, but not alive. Every surface is clean, every line sharp, every space purposeful. There is no softness anywhere. No attempt to disguise the age of the stone or the severity of the structure. This is not a home.
It is a fortress that happens to contain rooms.
My skin prickles as we pass another pair of guards. They stand close enough that I could reach out and touch them, but they do not acknowledge me. Not even with the faintest flicker of curiosity.
After the events in the city, the silence feels oppressive.
I gather my courage.
"The guards weren't allowed to speak to me earlier," I say. "Why are you different?"
He slows his pace just slightly.
"They are not allowed to speak to you," he explains. "But you are allowed to speak to anyone you please."
The distinction makes my stomach twist.
"They will not answer," he continues, "because they are under direct orders from the king. They may not address you unless your life is in immediate danger."
I stop walking.
"And you?" I ask.
He turns entirely to face me now. His expression is calm, but there is something weighted behind it, experience, perhaps, or caution sharpened by years of watching others fail.
"I am the captain of the guard," he says. "I am permitted and required to speak to you. My duties would be impossible otherwise."
That honesty steadies me more than kindness would have.
We resume walking, the corridor opening into another vast hall. This one is lined with tall pillars, each carved with symbols I do not recognize. The floor is polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting our shapes at us, small, dark figures swallowed by stone.
"You may see me as a guide," he says after a moment. "Or a confidant. Perhaps even a friend."
The word feels dangerously fragile here.
"You will not find many of those in this kingdom," he adds quietly.
I glance at him. "Why?"
"Because of where you stand," he answers. "And what you represent."
We pass another intersection. "My position?" I ask, though I already sense the answer. "Yes," he says. "It is... unfavorable."
"And yet," he continues, "desired."
I frown. "That sounds like a contradiction."
"It is," he agrees without hesitation. "You are vulnerable. Which makes you valuable."
My pulse quickens.
"Many will seek you out," he says. "They will smile. Offer kindness. Pretend loyalty."
"For what reason?" I ask.
He stops walking.
The silence stretches again, taut and deliberate.
Then he looks at me not unkindly, but with an honesty that leaves no room for illusion. "To use you," he says without hesitation. "Or to replace you."
The words do not echo.
They sink.
They drop straight into my chest and settle there, heavy and unmoving, as if they have always belonged.
I stop walking so abruptly my skirts sway forward on their own momentum.
The corridor stretches ahead long, torchlit, carved from stone that looks older than mercy and for a moment I cannot tell whether the tightness in my lungs is fear or the simple shock of being told the truth without varnish.
"Everyone?" I ask. My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone standing far away. "Everyone here will try to use me?"
He turns toward me fully this time. The torches throw sharp lines across his face, catching on scars that are not ornamental, not placed for effect. They look earned. Kept.
"Yes," he says.
No comfort.
No apology.
The word lands cleanly.
I swallow. My mouth tastes like iron"And you?" I ask. I force myself to hold his gaze. "Are you using me too?"
He does not hesitate.
"Yes."
The honesty is almost physical. It strikes with more force than cruelty ever could.
"I have been using you since the moment you left your kingdom," he continues calmly.
"From the first mile. From the first order issued to the men stationed at your carriage.
" The corridor seems to tilt. I brace my hand against the stone wall without realizing it.
"For what?" I ask, though a part of me already knows the answer will not be gentle.
"To keep myself alive," he says.
The words are so plainly spoken that my mind stumbles over them.
"Alive," I repeat.
"My position exists only because you do," he explains. "Your breath is the reason mine continues."
I study him not as a guard, not as a fixture of this brutal place, but as a man bound to me by something far more dangerous than loyalty.
"I am the Queen's Guard," he says. "One of a very small number chosen to serve women who wear the crown or are meant to wear it."
My heart stutters. "You guard... all queens?"
"All," he confirms. "And all future queens."
Queen.
"And your loyalty?" I ask. "Where does it lie?"
His answer comes without drama.
"Not with the nobles. Not with the court. Not even with the king."
Something in me shifts sharp, disoriented.
"Then with whom?" I whisper.
"With you," he says. "As long as the king allows you to live. Or as long as you choose to."
The corridor feels narrower suddenly, as if the walls have leaned closer to hear my response.
"And if neither of those things remain true?" I ask carefully.
He meets my gaze, unflinching.
"Then I will follow you into whatever comes next."
The words are not spoken as a vow.
They are stated as inevitability.
"Our lives are bound," he continues. "Intertwined in ways that are not romantic, not sentimental, but absolute. As long as you live, I live. My purpose is to keep you breathing long enough to learn how this kingdom works."
"How to survive it," I murmur.
"Yes."
We begin walking again, our footsteps falling into an unconscious rhythm. The sound is strangely intimate in the vastness of stone. "My duty," he says, "is to protect you. To guide you. To teach you which silences matter and which will get you killed. To keep you out of trouble whenever possible."
"And when it isn't possible?" I ask.
"Then I stand between you and whatever has found you," he replies. "Until I cannot stand anymore."
The simplicity of it hurts.
"So my life is in your hands," I say.
"Yes."
"And yours?" I ask, softer now.
"In yours."
The admission presses down on me with the slow weight of inevitability. I think of the blood in the streets. The bowed guards. The city that did not blink when a man died for stepping too close.
"What if," I ask, and my voice shakes despite my effort, "I decide I don't deserve to live in this world?"
He stops walking.
For the first time since I met him, something shifts in his expression not fear, not doubt, but recognition. As if he has heard this question before. As if he has lived inside it.
"Then I will walk with you into the next," he says.
Not for you.
With you.
"Our fates are not stacked one above the other," he continues. "They are braided. If you fall without the king's permission, I fall soon after. Sometimes publicly. Sometimes quietly."
My stomach knots. "The Queen's Guard is a dead man walking," I say.
"Yes."
"How many have there been?" I ask.
"There have been eight women chosen for the position," he answers. "Eight queens or future queens."
"Six guards."
"Why not eight?" I ask, already afraid of the answer.
"Because two guards survived long enough to be reassigned."
"To another queen," I whisper.
He nods.
"And the rest?" I ask.
"They followed their queens into the grave."
The words echo in the corridor like a closing door.
I press my palms together, needing the pressure. "So if I die..."
"Then I likely follow," he finishes.
"And if I live?" I ask.
"Then so do I."
We resume walking, deeper into the palace. The doors we pass grow taller, heavier, carved with scenes I do not linger on battles, trials, executions frozen in stone. History here is not subtle. It does not hide what it values.
"Why were you chosen?" I ask at last. "Why you?"
He exhales slowly, as if the question opens a door he prefers to keep shut.
"Because I have nothing left to lose."
The words are empty in a way that feels old.
"No family," he continues. "No fortune. No name worth preserving. No reputation that can be threatened into obedience."
I look at him and see it clearly now the absence, the way he stands as if he has already stepped halfway out of the world.
"A man with nothing to protect," he says, "fights like a demon."
"And a man with something to lose?" I ask.
"Hesitates," he replies. "Calculates. Withdraws."
His mouth curves into something that might almost be a smile.
"When you have something precious," he adds, "you spend your life avoiding anything that might take it from you. You know how hard it is to rebuild after loss."
"So I should fear you," I murmur.
"Yes," he says. "And trust me."
The contradiction makes my chest ache.
We stop before a set of towering doors, dark wood banded with iron. The air feels heavier here, as if the space beyond them knows I am coming.
"You will hear many promises," he says quietly. "Many offers of friendship."
"To use me," I say.
"Or to replace you," he agrees.
I draw in a steadying breath. "And you?" I ask one last time. "What are you offering?"
He places his hand against the door, pausing before opening it, his voice low and unadorned.
"I offer survival," he says. "As long as survival is possible."
The words settle into the stone around us, into the marrow of the palace itself.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
The doors behind him loom tall and dark, iron-bound and carved with scenes of violence rendered beautiful by time. The torches lining the corridor burn steadily, their flames obedient, as if even fire here understands discipline.
Then he steps closer.
He moves with the quiet certainty of a man who knows exactly how much space he is allowed to take and no more.
"I will protect you from the world," he says.
His voice is low, even, stripped of ceremony.
There is no swelling drama, no attempt to impress.
He speaks as if reciting a function written into his bones.
"I will protect you from the court," he continues.
"From the nobles who bow low and smile sweetly while counting the ways your death might benefit them. "
I swallow hard.
"They will come for you," he says. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. Some will want your favor. Some will want your influence. Others will want your place."
His gaze does not leave mine.
"I will protect you from all of them."
The words should comfort me.
Instead, they terrify me.
"And I will protect you from the king," he says.
My breath stutters in my chest.
The king.
The name alone has already carved itself into my thoughts like a blade. I think of the streets, the blood, the way a man died for crossing a path. I think of silence enforced so completely that even horror is not allowed a voice.
"If a blade is raised against you," the guard says, "it will cut me first."
He steps closer still, until I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint scars crossing his knuckles old injuries, healed badly.
"If poison is poured, it will touch my lips before yours," he continues. "If a crowd turns, if the court rots from within and spills outward, I will place myself between you and it."
His tone does not change.
"As long as I live," he says, "you will not die."
"The day your blood spills," he adds quietly, "mine will follow ."
There is no flourish to the vow. No oath spoken to the gods. No declaration meant to inspire loyalty or devotion.
It is simply a statement of consequence.
I search his face, desperately looking for something—fear, hesitation, even pride but there is nothing. He looks as steady as the stone walls around us, as if this promise is not extraordinary, but expected.
"You speak of death so easily," I whisper.
He does not look away. "Because here, it is easy."
The words slice deeper than cruelty ever could.
"There is only one person I cannot protect you from," he says at last.
My heart begins to pound, slow and heavy. "Who?"
"You," he answers.
The word lands clean and sharp.
"You can survive the court," he continues. "You can survive the king. You can survive a kingdom that devours its queens and calls it tradition." His gaze hardens not cruelly, but with a brutal clarity. "But if you decide you are already dead," he says, "then I cannot save you."
I look away, my throat burning.
"If you choose despair," he continues, "if you choose silence when you should speak, surrender when you should fight then my blade, my body, my life will mean nothing."
Silence stretches between us, taut and merciless.
He reaches to his belt.
The movement is unhurried.
Metal slides softly against leather as he draws a dagger free not swift, not threatening, but deliberate. He turns it once in his hand, examining it briefly, then holds it out to me By the hilt.
The torchlight glances off the metal, revealing a weapon that has been used often and cleaned without reverence. There are no jewels in the pommel, no ornamentation to disguise its purpose. This dagger exists to do one thing well.
"Tell me now," he says quietly. "Are you strong enough to fight this battle?"
My breath comes shallow. My fingers curl uselessly at my sides.
He does not push the dagger toward me. He does not command.
He waits.
"If you are not," he continues, his voice calm, unyielding, "then take this. End it now. Spare me the burden of dragging you through a war you have already lost."