CHAPTER 7 - The Palace That Whispers
Fear lives here like air.
It does not shout. It does not announce itself. It lingers in the way servants step aside before you are close enough to touch them. In the way their hands tremble just slightly when they pour tea. In the way no one no one ever meets my eyes for longer than a heartbeat.
I have been here seven days.
Seven days inside walls that swallow laughter and echo footsteps until they sound like warnings.
Seven mornings waking in a room too large for one person and too quiet for comfort.
Seven nights lying awake, listening to distant doors open and close and wondering what kind of decisions are being made without me.
I have not met my future husband.
Not properly.
On my third morning, I stood at the narrow window of my chamber and watched the courtyard below. The sky was pale, the kind of gray that suggests rain but never delivers it. Soldiers gathered around a black horse tall, restless, its muscles shifting under its skin like something barely contained.
Then he appeared.
Not clearly. Not enough for my mind to build a face around.
Just the outline of a man stepping out of shadow. Tall. Broad. Cloak heavy and dark, falling around him like something that belonged to night rather than morning.
The soldiers straightened. Not dramatically there was no salute, no shouted greeting. Just a tightening of posture. A shift in breath.
He mounted the horse in one smooth movement.
The gates opened before he reached them.
And he rode out.
After he left, I noticed something else.
Footprints.
Large. Deep.
Bloody.
They led from the lower corridor across the stone and toward the courtyard where he had mounted. Not smeared. Not chaotic. Each step clear and deliberate, like punctuation.
They were gone by midday.
No one mentioned them.
No one needed to.
So I do what I can to fill the silence.
I read.
The palace library is vast but cold, its shelves rising high enough to brush the vaulted ceiling.
The scent of old paper and dust is the only thing here that feels alive.
Most of the books are heavy with war and law treaties written in ink that likely outlasted the men who signed them.
But tucked between volumes of governance are stories.
Fairy tales.
Romance.
Adventures where the heroine survives not because she is ruthless but because she is loved.
Today, I sit cross-legged in one of the window alcoves, sunlight cutting through the dust like pale ribbons. The stone beneath me is cool through my skirts. I am halfway through a story about a cursed prince who would burn entire armies to save the woman he loves.
I laugh.
It escapes me before I can stop it bright, startled, almost childish.
Elias stiffens immediately.
He stands a few paces away, leaning against a pillar with his arms folded.
His armor is simpler than the others', older, worn into shape by years rather than polished for display.
His hair is streaked with silver at the temples.
His face carries the lines of fifty-three winters and too many battles.
"What is amusing?" he asks, voice dry.
I hold up the book. "You should read this."
His brow lifts slightly. "Should I?"
"Yes," I insist. "It might help you."
"With what?"
"Finding someone."
He stares at me.
"I am not a fan of romance fairy tales," he says.
"That is your first problem," I reply.
He shifts his weight. "Is it?"
"Yes. These books literally tell men what women want."
He sighs softly. "And what do they want?"
I sit up straighter, clearing my throat dramatically. "Brooding. Protective. Morally questionable but secretly soft. Intense. Loyal. The kind of man who would burn the world for the woman he loves."
Elias watches me for a long moment.
"I am fifty-three," he says. "I do not require instruction from a fictional swordsman."
"You are ancient," I reply sweetly.
His eyes narrow. "Ancient."
"Yes. Positively crumbling."
"My joints function perfectly."
"For now."
He shakes his head slightly.
"You are a lonely old man," I continue cheerfully.
"I am not lonely."
"You guard me all day."
"That is my duty."
"You correct my posture. You scold me for walking too slowly. You glare at anyone who stands too close."
"That is also my duty."
I grin. "If you had someone waiting for you, you would not look so permanently unimpressed."
"And why," he asks carefully, "do you assume I have no one?"
I blink. "Because if you did, they would have left."
A pause.
His mouth twitches just barely.
I hug the book to my chest. "These men in stories are perfect. Look at this one he travels across kingdoms, fights through armies, nearly dies three times—"
"And leaves how many dead behind him?" Elias asks.
I falter slightly. "That is not the point."
"It is exactly the point."
He pushes off the pillar and steps closer.
"Every woman thinks she wants one of these men," he says quietly. "The brooding hero. The man who does not care how far he will go to protect her."
"That sounds wonderful," I insist.
"It may seem cute," he continues evenly, "that a man will burn cities and slaughter armies to keep you safe."
I open my mouth to protest, but he continues.
"Until you see the smoke," he says. "Until you hear the screams. Until you realize that the men dying have families too."
The warmth from the window feels less comforting suddenly.
"You may think you want a man who would destroy the world for you," Elias says. "But the day you understand how far he is willing to go the day you see that there is no limit you will not find it romantic."
I shift uncomfortably.
"You will live with it," he continues. "You will wake at night knowing that people died because someone decided you were worth more than their lives."
I stare down at the book in my hands.
"You speak as if you have seen such men," I say quietly.
"I have."
"And?"
"They are not heroes," he replies. "They are storms. And storms do not ask permission before they drown villages."
Silence settles between us.
I shake my head lightly, forcing brightness back into my tone.
"You are overthinking it," I tell him. "It is just a story."
"And this," he gestures subtly around us, "is not."
I roll my eyes. "Men in stories are exaggerated."
"Yes," he says. "And so are tyrants."
The word hangs heavy.
"What does Achilles look like?" I ask suddenly. "Is he tall? Does he brood attractively in corners?"
Elias' jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"I am sorry to inform you," he says carefully, "that the king is far from what your dream man looks like."
"How far?"
"Far enough."
"Is he ugly?"
"That would be... simplistic."
"Terrifying?"
"Yes."
"Does he smile?"
"Rarely."
"And when he does It is not for reasons you would enjoy."
Before I can answer, a voice cuts through the corridor.
Low. Controlled. Commanding.
"Move."
The word is not shouted.
It does not need to be.
It shifts the air.
I freeze mid-breath.
I turn, about to apologize
But Elias moves faster than I have ever seen him move.
His hand closes around my shoulder firm, grounding. He turns me sharply, forcing my gaze downward.
"Do not look," he murmurs.
But I already have.
Only for a fraction of a second.
Boots darkened by something more permanent than mud.
A heavy cloak brushing stone.
The faint metallic scent of iron.
The presence of a man who does not need to announce himself because the world rearranges around him.
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
The footsteps pass.
Measured. Unhurried.
I do not breathe until the sound fades.