CHAPTER 8 - The Man Beneath the Scars
His face will not leave me.
It appears in reflections where my own should be. In the silvered glass of the window at night. In the polished metal of candle holders. In the quiet spaces between one heartbeat and the next.
Green eyes.
A scar that climbs like a cruel vine across skin that must once have been untouched.
And that half-smile.
Not warmth. Not welcome.
Defiance.
It unsettles me more than fear ever could, because fear would make this easier. If he were simply monstrous, if his face were grotesque or twisted beyond recognition, I could shrink from it. I could file him neatly into the category of "villain" and steel myself accordingly.
But he is not grotesque.
He is devastating.
Even ruined, he is devastating.
And that makes everything worse.
I sit at my window again, knees tucked beneath my chin, the moonlight spilling across the stone courtyard below. The night air seeps through the smallest crack in the glass, cool against my skin. I let it touch my face, imagining what it would feel like against his scar.
Would it sting?
Would it pull at tightened flesh?
Or has he grown so accustomed to pain that sensation barely registers anymore? I remember the glimpse how quick it was, how Elias' hand had turned my face down before I could stare openly.
But it was enough.
Dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, as if he does not care to keep it perfectly arranged.
Not vanity. Not softness. A warrior's disregard for decoration.
His jaw was strong, cut sharp enough to wound without a blade.
And the scar did not weaken that strength it sharpened it.
It carved away softness and left something brutal in its place.
It began near his temple, I think. Or perhaps slightly above. The torchlight caught in its ridges, tracing the uneven path down along his cheek. It pulled the skin at the corner of his eye just slightly, giving him a permanent look of narrowed calculation.
I wonder if he sees the world differently now.
If that eye waters in the cold.
If children cry when they look at him.
I imagine him standing before a mirror the first time he saw the damage.
Did he smash the glass?
Did he feel relief that he had survived at all?
Or did he look at himself and recognize the transformation as necessary?
War does not leave men untouched.
Elias said it plainly.
But I cannot stop thinking how many times has he almost died?
How many blades have come close enough to leave their mark?
How many men have swung at him and missed by inches?
And how many did not miss?
I picture his body beneath armor.
The metal he wears is not polished for ceremony.
It is functional. Worn at the edges. The kind of armor that has been repaired rather than replaced.
I saw the faint scratches across the breastplate when he passed.
Scoring from blades. Dents hammered back into shape.
If the metal looks like that, what does the skin beneath it hold Scars across his chest where arrows grazed and healed poorly.
A line along his ribs where a blade nearly ended him.
Perhaps the scar on his face is not even the worst of it.
Perhaps it is simply the one that reminds others.
A warning etched into flesh: I survived what tried to kill me.
I draw my fingers along my own arm, tracing imaginary lines where scars might lie if I had chosen a different life. My skin is unmarked except for childhood accidents and a small burn near my wrist from a candle too close.
Soft.
Untested.
He would see that immediately.
He would know I have never held a sword in earnest. Never felt the weight of a body going still beneath my hands. Never heard the sound of bone cracking beneath steel.
I am not made for his world.
And yet I volunteered to enter it.
The door opens softly behind me.
I do not startle this time. I know the rhythm of Elias' steps now. Solid. Grounded. Predictable.
"You're awake," he observes.
"I don't sleep much," I reply.
He approaches the window and stands beside it, looking outward rather than at me.
"Still thinking about him?" he asks.
"Yes."
Silence stretches.
"I shouldn't pity him," I say quietly.
Elias turns his head slightly. "No."
"But I do."
"You do."
The admission feels strange, like confessing to something shameful.
"It looked like it hurt," I whisper. "The scar."
"It did."
"You sound certain."
"I was there," he says simply.
My breath catches.
"You saw it happen?"
"Yes."
The word hangs heavy in the room.
I picture the moment more clearly now. Not just steel and fire, but chaos. Dust. Shouting. The smell of sweat and blood mixing into something metallic and raw.
"He should have died," Elias adds quietly.
I close my eyes.
"But he didn't."
"No."
"And now he wears it like armor."
"Yes."
I press my palms against my knees. "Does he ever... speak of it?"
Elias huffs faintly. "The king does not speak of weakness."
"Is surviving weakness?"
"No," he says. "But showing that it hurt is."
I fall silent again.
"Do you think I could love a man who looks like that?" I ask suddenly.
Elias studies me carefully.
"You said you wanted tall and broody," he says dryly. "Morally gray. Intense."
A faint flush creeps up my neck.
"You got exactly what you wished for."
"That's cruel," I murmur.
"It's accurate."
I glance down at my hands.
"That when a man goes out of his way to destroy a kingdom for you... he leaves scars from the wreckage. You wanted devotion," he says. "Devotion leaves bodies."
The words sting.
"He is not destroying kingdoms for me," I say quickly.
"No," Elias replies evenly. "He destroys them because he can."
The air shifts slightly with that truth.
"And if he loved?" I whisper.
Elias' expression hardens.
"If he loved," he says, "the destruction would be worse."
I picture it villages burning not for strategy, but for fury. Men dying because someone dared to insult me. Entire cities crushed beneath the weight of obsession.
It does not feel romantic anymore.
It feels suffocating.
"You think I'm foolish," I say.
"I think you are gentle," he replies. "And gentleness in this place is dangerous."
"I could love the soft parts," I murmur, almost to myself. "Even if I had to search for them."
Elias' mouth twitches faintly.
"You would pick the scabs off his skin looking for tenderness?"
"If I had to," I say lightly.
"He would kill you before he ever let you close enough," Elias says calmly.
The words land without cruelty.
Just fact.
"I know," I whisper.
Eight women.
Eight promises.
Eight alliances that ended in blood.
Six guards.
Only two who survived long enough to serve another.
Numbers do not lie.
"I still think he will kill me," I admit.
"That is likely."
"I made peace with that."
"With death?"
"Yes."
The truth sits heavily in my chest.
"If he kills me, I will not be surprised," I continue. "I volunteered for this. I knew what it was."
Because staying would have meant something worse.
Because Isaac's cruelty would have eventually swallowed me whole.
Because heartbreak can kill just as surely as a blade.
I chose a stranger's sword over a familiar hand.
I chose sacrifice over slow decay.
If Achilles kills me, I will die knowing I made that choice.
I lift my gaze to the courtyard.
"But if he doesn't..." I murmur.
Elias waits.
"If he doesn't," I say slowly, "then I will have to live beside him."
"And?"
"And I don't know if that's worse."
The wind rattles the window again.
Elias steps closer, lowering his voice.
"You cannot fix him," he says.
"You cannot soften him."
"I know."
"You cannot save him."He studies me for a long moment.
"I pity him," I admit again. "But I do not expect him to pity me."
"He won't."
"I know."
Silence settles between us.
The scar reappears behind my eyes.
Green eyes narrowed slightly by ruined flesh.
A mouth that looks like it learned to smile through pain.
I wonder if anyone has ever touched that scar gently.
If anyone has ever traced it without flinching.
If anyone has ever looked at him and seen more than what war left behind.
Perhaps that is foolish.
Perhaps it is naive.
Perhaps I will never get the chance.
Because he will kill me before I ever stand close enough to try.
And yet
I volunteered.
I chose this.
If I die at his hands, I will not beg.
I will not scream.
I will remember that I walked into this palace willingly.
For my sister.
For my father.
For a kingdom that may never love me back.
If he is a monster, then I am the offering.
If he is merely a man carved hollow by war, then I am the price of peace.
Either way
I knew the risk.
And still, in the quiet, when the light spills across stone and the palace whispers
I find myself wondering what he looked like before the scar.
And whether somewhere beneath it... there is still something human left to recognize.